The Flame Sausage

(0.01/10)

by Beau Dashington

(book assigned by Peartree)

Editor’s note: Beau was ‘aught to read some verse, but “I know not” he cursed and cursed, but seeing coitus in each word, he excitedly sprayed his man curd.

Whereas I know little on the subject of poetry, I do know that poems are never about what they seem to be on the surface. They’re always using metaphors and similes and whatnot. Dr Seuss’ famous erotic romp Hop on Pop was actually about a daddy bear, and bunch of cubs that were going to pop all over him. Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven was, of course, one of the most widely read pieces of anti-Semitism in American history. And, so, I guess it’s about time the Piece of Shit Book Club™ got around to doing some poetry. And the poetry that I have been assigned? None other than The Gallery of Pigeons, by Theo Marzials. Now, sure, you’ve never heard of the guy. Neither had I. He looks like this.

The term “dandy” jumps to mind.

And why, you might ask, are we reviewing a book by this gentleman? Well, mostly because some people say that he wrote some of the worst poems in the history of the English language. And after having read the book, I have to say that I think this may be true. He was born in the late 19th century and spent his time in the British Museum, irritating the shit out of people who had come there to do research by reading his poetry to them. That’s a true story. Apparently, he was addicted to eating beets and smothering himself with chloroform (also true). Here is the worst offender, often noted as the worst poem in history:

Plop. I died, then I plopped myself. I flopped in my plop, etc.

It’s not very good, is it? But there is most certainly worse material on offer here in this book. I picked out two of the worst poems, each of which run for about 50 pages (honestly, that’s true). I’m going to transliterate them for you into plain English, and the result is… well… kind of gross. The poems in this book are basically about the authors disgusting sex fetishes.

The title poem, “Gallery of Pigeons,” is about the time the author caught crabs from a prostitute. Basically, he sees some chick walking along the street. She’s clearly a ‘lady of the night’. He pays her thrupence to give her a golden shower. After he pisses on her, some other guy pisses on her as well. It’s not clear if he also paid tuppence since she was already wet at the time. She talks him into banging, and they go for it. The second dude, it turns out, is gay and doesn’t want to get involved in a threesome with a waterlogged wench, so he leaves. The narrator talks about how he wants to bang her, and if you are nice to her she’ll let you into her “gallery”, which is just old-timey slang for a vagine. But he realizes after banging, that her gallery is full of “pigeons” (read: crabs). The pigeons come out of her gallery, and start infecting his cock. She seems to like this, because she gets super wet. The narrator goes down on her. After a while, he enters her and blows his load. So that’s it. It’s a story about a time a guy met a prostitute with a “gallery full of pigeons” and then paid her for sex.

I was originally going to put a picture of a real “gallery of pigeons” here. Be glad I didn’t.

It’s not very nice, this poetry game. But the other poem is pretty bad too. It’s called “Doswabel”, which is the name of some chick the author was banging. In this poem, he doesn’t beat around the bush like he did in the last one. There’s no foreplay; they go straight for the banging. The narrator pulls his signature move on Doswabel, and he “ekes her kirtle.” I have no idea what that is, but it sounds absolutely disgusting. Although he wasn’t really into the prostitute in the last poem, he really likes Doswabel, because she is one hell of a lay. In fact, she is way too much for him, and he “springs his white” (i.e. blows his load) all over her flesh. He then drones on and on for about a dozen pages about her bosoms, which I assume is just him trying to focus so he can start Round 2. He also compares her to a gay trout. I’m not sure what that means. Doswabel, meanwhile, seems to be patiently waiting. When he is ready, she lets him give it to her up the chimney. And he “ekes” again. Doswabel has had enough of him, so she runs off, but then dies and goes to hell. And that’s it. So, not a happy ending then.

This poem brings new meaning to the phrase “eeking the cat.”

And that’s about it. The poems are pretty bad, and also pretty disgusting. It turns out that Theo Marzials isn’t the greatest poet of all time, but you know what? He gave it a go. Which I think is pretty good even if the poetry is complete tripe.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention that he calls his penis his “flame sausage”, which at first I thought was the best nickname ever for somebody’s Johnson. but then I realized that it’s probably only flaming because of all the STDs he caught while writing these poems.

Beau Dashington

02/10/2015