Glittering Commentari 7, Knotty Boy

Knotty Boy submitted some deep comments probing a delicate subject.

The post Mothership Has Landed is about ufo’s and what would happen if they landed in a gay ghetto and started analy probing the boys. Here are a few of his favorite comments.

FYI alien probings are responsible for 2% of the birthrate here in NJ. But we like to keep that especially quiet around our interesting offspring!

It would be at least more appreciated than when some uptight republicans got probed. What an image. I wonder if the aliens have those complaint cards like in the fast food restaurants….would you rate your probing as Very good, good, fair, poor or very poor….

Im wondering two things…
Are anal probing privileges extended to LEGAL aliens?
How much are flights to Wyoming these days?

Can us hags get anal probed too? I’ll bring the pills, sunglasses and spacesuits. We’ll all get probed and then have cocktails together on the mothership. Wooo!
Bees Knees

Oooh, I see the next big concept in reality TV! “Science Non Fiction meets Queer as Folk”.

I’ve always held the belief that The Aliens had somehow got a hold of a Torso magazine and focused on the term, “Hungry Bottom”. It’s only a theory.

I think they stopped the anal probing after my run in with them. Appearantly “Get IT! Get IT! Go Daddy Go!” translates into something terrifying in their language? They didn’t even call later

I posted them all, for their revealing perspectives. I think my favorite is the last, by Pat. What about you?

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Tell Tell, These Bells

Tell tell, these bells ring in clamorous mimes,
golden light ripening dusk’s rhymes.

Their wavy peals knock senseless all will
with intoxicating smells. Sweet frilly trills of

velvet curl ’round minds weak thoughts.
Trumpets blare orange, their mute shots

grip deeply, but mildly, spreading moments apart.
Move not a muscle! You only think you start.

Alien udders, teats, voluptuous, alluring
spew marvelous gas, earthward procuring.

Honey, clover, sweet oil scented plasma
fumes night’s clicking air with hypnotic miasma.

Take their milk, succor its careless troth
of sun, summer’s blare distilled for the moth

whose wings, hummingbird style, blur eerily
as it darts near these towering tubes, haunting warily.

These chants of vertical cornos, aiming skyward ho
blast off, pushing earth and you, flyward, singing so.

These cantalope colored carillons urge time away
to let your mind wander, let love to love stray.

The grand, momentous, earthward hanging trumpets of Brugmansia are blooming ecstatically and prolifically on an eight foot potted plant I have in my back yard. There are now 26 huge flowers flopping carelessly down from the tree like form. (which started as a 1 foot stump in June) This nightshade family plant is also related to Datura, whose up facing trumpets carry hallucinogenic oils, giving them mystical powers over human minds.

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Great Comments 6, Ms. Bees Knees

Ms Bees Knees has graced me with honey from her swarm of queens! But honey, this stuff can make you pucker! She buzzed me with a comment string from a post called Homos Love Me, Even the Dead Ones, which I don’t doubt for a second, considering the racket at her hive.

I’ve taken the liberty of choosing the most feline quotes of the string, but if you want to see the whole thing, fly over to her hive and look for yourself. Be warned, it’s sticky over there, and you may get stung.

The post describes a visit to a bogus psychic where a ghost of a “homosexual” visits her…

I’m so jealous! No dead relatives ever come to visit me when I take a trip to The Psychic Center. Hmmm…I think it’s because I don’t actually have very many dead relatives. Maybe I should kill a few.
[…]if I die before you, I’ll be the one sitting behind you in the corner, black boa, sapphires in my tiara, belting out the Hungarian national anthem. Oh, and bouncing Knotty Boy on my left knee. and petting Mrs. Astor [alexis] with my right.
Baby Daddy:
Ms Bees Knees! Yes, all homos are pretty big fans of yours. And for the record: you are a comment whore! […]
Kissyfur remarked:
Oh, you thilly creature. That was a good one![…]you’re in an alter up there like Margaret Cho, and you girls grew up in cities very close to one another…you being haunted by gay ghosts would be hilarious because every Poltergeist would have a dramatic flair[…]
[…]Yes, Madame Bees, my world still revolves around your blog…which satellites your magnificent head and tiara. Don’t diss the psychotic… What? You said psychic!? Oh…ok. Well, don’t diss them either! I would have lllloved to have been there during that psychic’s crash-and-burn..MWAHHAHA! ….
[…]What is up with Martha? She’s worried that you have been left out of HER life? Only lavender lady is worthy of thought. Can you ring her up tonight?
Ms. Bees Knees:
Alexis: What have I told you about drinking too much champagne in the afternoon? Now I must make excuses for you not showing up at the sewing circle…again!
How DARE you, Ms. Bees, accuse me of drinking in the afternoon…The fact that I even think to read your column before passing out in the local DAR tea room attests to my admiration for you. Therefore, before I put this glass of champagne down and try to think of where I live, I will stand up to your impertinance.[…]
And Knotty Boy:
Obviously this twat was a charlatan and was just using you as a test subject for her interview for the “Psychic Friends Network”. What, no Paul Lynde, no Tm Cruise, no F. Murray Abraham? God honey, I can even see these marshmallows floating around your faghagginess! Yes I know that some of whom I mentioned aren’t dead yet. It’s the thought that counts.
Ah, Knottyboy, who WOULDN’T want a visit from Paul Lynde, just hope it is the wonderful vision of him in drag from some old Doris Day movie. Oh, and keep your paws off Mikevil!

Well, it seems the hive is swarming with honey(cocks)combs who “stick” around way after cocktail hour! Pollen everywhere!

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The Source

i bend
to stretch
tight hamstrings,
yoga breathing
deep, cored
waves, committed.
your hand floats
above my
naked globules,
unsunned white,
pressing humid air
to your palm’s stare.
the blond hairs bristle
with electric city
beginnings, endings, poems,
stormy at first,
stirring down to1880 logcabin
laps of gentle
consent, warmth,
and finally
desire for connection,
fuel of transference.

my breathing deepens,
windy, pomegranate scented
rings to be
shared, anointed.
we weave stringed loops
into cat’s cradles,
bridges across
desserts of thirst.
thirsty creeks
flow into
larger and more
insistent undertows.
crashing, breaths
draw you into
me, down to bone, to
implacable source.
message to
answer to message.
your gift to
my givance.
our river, our odyssey.

salvaging divine
beads of innocence,
we sew sumptuous hoops of
priapic demons,
ecstatic circles of fire.
we join hollow desire
with its own lava.
Niagara falls, deafening,
roars savage
as fused water and earth,
slag over waterfall
into the Great River,
steamy transformance-
peak emergence
in the curtain dance.
original signals of
original redemption
bring us to
a hidden palace,
guarded by fear, whose
barbed gates
open into
a garden of grace.