K. Silem Mohammad

from Sonnagrams

Author’s note: Each Sonnagram, including its title, is an anagram of a standard modern-spelling version of one of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, containing exactly the same letters in the same distribution as the original. The title is composed last, using whatever letters are left over once I’ve assembled a working sonnet in iambic pentameter with an Elizabethan rhyme scheme.


WWW (I Heil My, My, My Hitler; I Heel My Whiny Cur; I Wrap My Rueful Vulva in My Limp, Unholy Fur)

You few non-nude and many naked elk,
Who, in your ludic pastures over yon,
Fear not the mad Behemoth’s flailing whelk
That abrogates our fretful Helicon:

You indolent nude teens who always flee
Redactions of a crude antithesis:
The symmetry of progress yet must be
The progress of a symmetry (like this).

If ponies value nudity, they do
As Puritans do patriotic rap;
You hear this said, and know it to be true,
As if it were a boner in your lap.

For nudity is only true in porn;
For why was Woodrow Wilson ever born?


[Sonnet 16 (“But wherefore do not you a mightier way”)]

How Few Unravel Homer! Hear Them: “Hunt, Raw Honor, Huh! Heel, Bare Valor, Heel! Huh!”

Anonymous in Bethlehem I lie,
A cryogenic Minotaur cadet:
Three gentlemanly vultures get me high
And gaily comb my germfree alphabet.

Mutated eyeless clones use neutron strobes
They’ve mounted on their deer head handlebars
To recombat the evil homophobes
Who tainted all their homonyms with SARS.

Alliterative turtles of Monroe
Lack literary luck: film at eleven.
The lilies of the valley do not sow;
And neither do they go to pussy heaven.

New operas bloom hugely into flame
When your urethra screams my Christian name.


[Sonnet 81 (“Or I shall live your epitaph to make”)]

Yon Ovary, a Quote You Know, a Nun on “E,” a Porny Toe (Boys Will Be X-Rated)

In Mussolini’s tangerine Corvette,
I throw up foul pituitary rum:
He taunts me if I get his thyroid wet;
He digs that I’m nineteen, uncut, and dumb.

In eerie female reservoirs of bran,
The tender-breasted poets broil their mush:
They call me Daddy-O and Papa-San;
They give me honey, which is why I blush.

The pretty down of maidenhead is good;
The pelt of historicity is rough:
I far prefer the fur of womanhood
To Bigfoot’s go-to-meeting dryer fluff.

Now neither fox nor hound to hunt will go—
Bird dog above, nor prairie dog below.


[Sonnet 83 (“I never saw that you did painting need”)]

OMG, Dog Pee!

Don’t screw around with darkling yellow finches:
Their feathers harbor deadly poison quills,
There’s bird flu in their tiny talons’ pinches,
And bad saliva dribbles from their bills.

If you escape the Scylla of their antlers,
As well as the Charybdis of their hooves,
You yet must dodge the anti-guy Dismantlers,
That whup the ass of every dude that moves:

We’re talking fifty-five-foot-tall vaginas,
With wicked fangs and terrible disdain
For evil men in both the Carolinas
Who diss their furry magnitude in vain.

Can any bums pump gum at “Champ” le Beau?
De dee, de dee, de dee, de dee, de doe.


[Sonnet 153 (“Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep”)]

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