FIVERS by Keith Wahle



Her breasts are like shadows.

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There is never a plan.

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Curried ostriches killed the cat.

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Why not settle for less?

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It's a grand old flake.

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I cope to borrow Caesar.

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Show the police your erection.

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We must keep throwing snowballs.

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Smoke a lot of cigarettes.

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I have quadrangles for you.

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No one likes electric eels.

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Guide me to eternal rest.

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Please don't hurt me again.

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We saw them from nowhere.

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Any five words will do.

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Some people live with fish.

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Hat goes on the head.

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Jelly goes on the head.

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Pencil goes on the linoleum.

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I never liked your hacksaw.

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Marbles ride on the train.

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Irish dancing is for carpenters.

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Big sillies attack the villagers.

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Death threats can't hurt me.

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Only death itself is calm.

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Children get in the way.

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Don't bow down to criminals.

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Big money in toilet paper.

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They came from the ocean.

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Where did the moon go?

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Gold, gold, and more gold.

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Please don't pester the Jesuits.

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Statistics and ballistics don't mix.

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Tell me lies, big personality.

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Speak with a British accent.

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I was flabbergasted by creosote.

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Rotating peninsulas make me nervous.

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Always keep your genitals hidden.

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She dreamed of more light.

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She dreamed only of nosebleeds.

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We saw cleat marks everywhere.

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Five words, oh the limitations!

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In our neighborhood, nobody speaks.

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Write a poem about tuberculosis.

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The door to the future.

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Out there, another bimbo robot.

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In here, dozens of germs.

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Going up a thousand steps.

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Notice the growth of democracy.

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Declining profits mean bigger cantaloupes.

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Her brassiere touched my penis.

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Memories of a burning city.

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Dig deeper into the fluff.

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Eagles hidden in the wall.

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No problem, everybody will die.

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I love the imaginary princess.

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The penis in the vagina.

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Potatoes will rule the world.

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Hurt people when you can.

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The secret ingredient was fear.

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People are born and die.

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Worms are on the menu.

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Trilobites hurry down the street.

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Children rise from their graves.

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Girls show us their clankers.

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Shoes made out of money.

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Clothes made out of cake.

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Rheostats harm the art world.

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Later we busted the spoon.

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Everyone in Japan speaks Italian.

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The neighbors will injure you.

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We must kill the crackpot












What is “Poetics Theater”?

L. S. Asekoff / Jennifer Bartlett / Michelle Brulé / Sean Mullin / Jennifer Stockdale / Rodrigo Toscano / Keith Wahle / Matt Reeck amerikin faggit poim; Ode to /u/

The Last Toast