Poetic Treatise of Iambics, Pentameters, Nuns, Monks, and Kitchen Fluids (Of Which I Am Not)

I've been thinking a lot about iambic pentameter recently. Such thing that I have come to despise recently.

iambic pentameter does not sound like a poetic writing device.

the iambic refers to the poetic foot of an unstressed syllable that is followed by a stressed syllable.

the pentameter, I am reliably informed refers to the line of a verse that consists of five metrical feet, or iambs.

Who is stressing these syllables out? Please let the syllables become rested syllabled, unstressed and mindful.

Anyway—

iambic pentameter sounds like the newest bestest Olympic discipline for the middle distance runner brigade

of which I am not

iambic pentameter suggests we sing-song our lines of stanzas so that they flow like the nostril of a fellow with a running cold

of which I am not

iambic pentameter looks like lambic pentameter and sounds like iambic pentameter, but what is iambic pentameter if not life itself

of which, you know the rest

only the goodliest and the best

use the pentameter for their poetic wonderments

it makes me wonder what the poetic masters meant

when they singsong their lyrics like some gargled confused monk too high on kitchen fluids to notice the nuns are escaping

nuns escaping you say? why are they escaping and why are nuns and monks cavorting around together in a monastery, sing

sing

only the goodliest and the best

of which I am not

I was never a monk, I swear, swear I swear I was never a nun, or a nun shacked up with a monk huffing kitchen fluids

of which, you get the picture

kitchen fluids are? You well ask, but are you up for the task of holding your vomit as I describe kitchen fluids?

there was once a monk of notary fame charged with impregnating a stagnant wench of a nun, who had a penchant for fluids

fluids of a kitchen variety not common garden variety, you understand

of which I am not

of itch I am not, your honour, said the honourable gentleman on the right to the honourable gentleman on the left as he regaled his tale of woe, nun, kitchen fluids and tragedy, and monks

to a room of dishonourable chicken owners, but also other monks, dressed head to toe in Dresden Oils like catheters waiting to implode on contact

That's a simile that's hard to scrape off the brain's interior Malteser-texture

of witch I am not

you see your honour, sometime ago, I was invited to spend time with a friend of a friend, a man of the noble cloth of servitude to the lord

I saw it as an opportunity to spend time with like minded men interested in nothing but stale wine and cheese and of servitude to the lord

of winch I am knot

but when I arrived post haste to my sanctuary from the modern confines of kitchen fluids addictions and nuns with needy wombs

I found myself wandering lone as a cloud on a hot tin roof through the monastery looking for kitchen fluids in the catacombs

when I happened upon a most peculiar sight, or eyeful of delight, depending on whether you are one of the many nun and monk romantic fiction fandom

off wytch I am knot

and so we stretch forward in time like an embittered middle distance runner, trying to compete the Highland Lambic Pentameter

And here you find me your honour, defending myself, against the man of the cloth with the woman with cloth in tatters

I stand accused of recording for my own personal enjoyment at a later time, the events that unravelled into a sexual tete a tete faster than you can say iambic pentameter backwards

of which I am not

I, your honour, am a man of simple pleasures, a man who likes his eye's crossed and his tea milk with sugar, but the milk is only added after five minutes of brewing, and I was forever tainted by my experience at the monastery in question and I vehemently admit to nothing but enjoying a moment of happiness with a nun.

I wish to recuse myself of wrongdoing and chase the night away with the robbers of sanity themselves, the lambic and iambic, the pentameter and quartameter, the cheese with the wine.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: This is my second entry into The International Ghost Society's Best Bad Poetry Competition. They are looking for poetry that is so bad you kinda need to be some kinda genius to write it. That's more or less their words. More information can be found following the link.

Here is my first entry:

I have one more to sort out and I will be sharing it here too, as the competition is not very strict on whether the poems are previously published or not.