BAD JOYCE ESSAY 2016 winning essay by
who for this great rubbish receives a $50 book voucher for Collected Works Bookshop
My soap and slather
He’s talking bare silly in the fool,
His dawning serene,
The stormy daughter, gently folding them both, kool
Tripping my boggled bed every couple of rest tokes,
Again and again
Washing his gin pin light pegs
Wander what for?
Rust out of screech, rapturing the pillage,
In my crone hum rhymes, poor fretful kind,
Cheese cones, cheese pegs
Go stronger, rustle.
This is my sad, who gave me the most mixes and muddles,
Grooving grapes, lazy,
Wander what for? I feel like frying, atoned,
Baby, I’m aswayed once tarted,
The sergeants blood of fears,
Wood hover slow, the all steady cheap fool,
Sad has flown, the fun sway rafter spoonforks with Sad, Maid and Mee,
Forking, corking, larfing, the fleets of Chew,
At Sings Floss cranberry, I reed “Rubbish” by Thinsbird,
and think of my sad, Slax, his tight spankerthief, in my hag.
He’s been fed tree queers and a path,
and I still kiss him every say.
He was bored in Munching Sadsack,
a Germ, who was whipped to Melbum in 1938,
on the “Done Hear Her”, witch sanded in Lay.
He was the fiddle mild of tree yids,
A colder other and brittle twister.
A four by two, Slax, had crack, twirly hare and woo pies.
He was a tractor on the page;
When fessed up in shout twits, he hooked like a Holyrood factor.
As a stung curl, I used to go hacks cage and wash him mess.
My sad factored in severed blows, sum of witch were, “Piddler on the Hoof”
Spatula” and “Bum Flow Your Corn”.
Twas many fears aglow, when my soap and lather,
met my strangle and smother,
on a kind crate.
He was a ransom fan, a devil pebble,
Hoo met my thumb, MAD (Meshuggene, Angst, Deutsche)
at there trends face.
MAD was betting Cheezel’s fable for poor,
not sewing who was bumming for hunch.
The sauce had salted, Slax compered,
I’m rowing to tarry blue and crumply set jail to Nylon.
A muzzled and complexed MAD, fry sheet permly on the hound,
was left to thunder her suture.
Did he squeak from a tray? Or was he a tractor in the skys?
Did he squeak from his cart? To be slack spoon as tossable.
We are all snappy, that Slax bid bum slack,
And crowd to sway, they’ve keen to feather for over pixie ears
With touch dove, eye suppose a coast to MAD and Slax,
Guzzle brov and queers,
Dip dip do say,
Dip dip do say.