The Romantics!
Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.
Warning: Morbid Content. Proceed (very) tentatively.
AN: This is dedicated to my friend (NXSE), who knows who he is.
# # # # # #
And he felt lost before he was truly lost. Rubbing his hands from palm to palm, fingers interlaced, he sat in a hazy daze. A rufescent sting in the air, down on his knees, amdist the Romantics' primal architectures that wept, each whose shadow was mightier than a Sakura Wanker's vision, who ran to pee from one brutalist building's floor to the next.
Viscous strings that damasked the shy cheek, dangling from a puckish mouth and an Indian beard and a well-shorn head dyed in a hue that imitated sun's shame (let's call this boy, Naruto). Only a stone's throw away from the Romantics' swarm (and Byron had snuck in just to spite piss on the boy—a Don Juan to the end) sat Milton and Shakespeare, looking over a storm of well-mannered jism-throwing spectacle, a Romantics' Era Bukkake .
And Naruto sat politely, a Romantic madam's mannerisms dripping from his eyes; and, around him, stones placed in patterns of merging circles, whose unification delighted the eye, received the love-piss that missed him—by mere inches. The muskiness imparted spicy odours and flavours to the frowsty room, into which stood Literary Titans.
Shelley, an angel, secret masturbator of the shorty, Keats, winked at him (not without a lilting recitation from Alastor) when at euphoria's door a pristine thread left his sword of anarchy and bestowed, upon this southward-dwelling Naruto, a gift of social liberation. Keats' juice, which from him flew in variant heights (after he mounted a stool to gain stature), found its mark in the sea-blue eyes; ah, an Ode to a very drippy Autumn! (At that very moment, smitten fully, Shelley offered to whore out Mary to a horrified Keats . . . and if not her, they could be more than just friends; ah, doth animate this wanton flood in me; Shakespeare clapped; Milton, suffice to say, was unmoved, still as Satan's hell-hammered Pandemonium.)
Byron, sending an unwary, todger-patting Frost reeling to the ground, "you do not belong in our time, bastard dandy!" unleashed a prolific liquid bitter that bubbled out and about the tongue coaxed from the Leaf's whore mouth; and then he stumbled over to Milton, who in his youthful apparel was a true Christ's Bride, and sang, "thee, thee, you hotter are than me, me!" Milton, taken aback by this craze, looked at this fathomless faggotry, and one of his hands fell out of his lap and dangled between the widened thighs, an action which Byron took as a reassuring sign—fainting . . .
And seeing the considerable white sea-froth that had lodged on this fool's omelette head, Hopkins was bothered by this sinister configuration that the heavens spat on, in Catholic Retribution. Though caught between an embrace of his ardour-starved-tunnels' affair, fore and oft, being conquered by Shelleyan rebellion and Miltonian vengeance and God, he chose a dangling obfuscation, a Carrion Comfort . . . and cursed profanities in religious rage from the rope's end, choking . . .
"And who is to say that this goodly whore-boy does not possess a cunnie?" Shelley said aloud, pointing to Wordsworth and Tennyson who hid away behind the trees, furiously stroking out little tape-worms that sputtered from leaning cocks, too old to stand up in battle. "In the modern world, we shall all be of equal stature. No old and poor shall starve. All shall be well-fed like this . . . woo-man!"
And at the end of this play, leaves susurrated outside, and Shakespeare and Milton pissed on her, too. What a time to be alive . . . ?
# # # # # #
EN: If you haven't read on these poets, I sincerely doubt you'd understand even a word of this; therefore, I'm inclined to believe that this would remain an 'inside joke' . . . forever and ever.
The End
