This poem is not finished, & I'm not sure what form the next part will take. But, oh, fret not, there will be violence, rapiers & rape, & a filthy little bit about sea mammals.
I.
Sing, Pineapple, of your cousin with the spiky red flower,
He spent a disproportionate amount of time washing his privates in the shower.
Now it's finished, we are done with stage two, fighting like huge male impala,
My magical pied piper tune is de Falla's Requiem, but I'm too lame to follow.
Drinking only coffee has burned a hole inside my stomach:
Inspired emotion repressed inside of me like an echoless quack.
If the archdiocese cracked down on the problem, there'd be no priests left.
So I bang my heart on the table, for all the earth like Nikita Khrushchev.
How do I describe my companion? He found water in the wilderness,
Without him I am empty, obfuscated, in transition like a dead dentist.
Oh, ratio of beauty to brawn, true balance making justice jealous,
Drink with white-collar criminals, explain Neoplatonism to the corner fellows.
He is the pilot of the planet's energy, he is sand-blasted
The checkered frontier, indifferent to the meanings of the seven languages he mastered.
His mother put me on her knee, spoon-fed me kilos of plankton,
She saw our fates written on our chests, departing with the sinking sun.
The companion, he spoke in poetry, even the way he touched me rhymed,
Our last adventure was not our grandest, but the passage back was stymied.
Burning orphanages, mountaintop removal, ugly women wanting to cuddle,
Your cochineal robes have left stains around your butthole.
Bear the iniquity, his superego eclipsed the Minister of the Environment,
Change the cat-litter, tip twenty-five percent to the Lord's servant.
Myopic & blindfolded in the presence of the angels' lambency,
The world does not know that it did not know it's stoutest sentry.
...continued here.
Sing, Pineapple, of your cousin with the spiky red flower,
He spent a disproportionate amount of time washing his privates in the shower.
Now it's finished, we are done with stage two, fighting like huge male impala,
My magical pied piper tune is de Falla's Requiem, but I'm too lame to follow.
Drinking only coffee has burned a hole inside my stomach:
Inspired emotion repressed inside of me like an echoless quack.
If the archdiocese cracked down on the problem, there'd be no priests left.
So I bang my heart on the table, for all the earth like Nikita Khrushchev.
How do I describe my companion? He found water in the wilderness,
Without him I am empty, obfuscated, in transition like a dead dentist.
Oh, ratio of beauty to brawn, true balance making justice jealous,
Drink with white-collar criminals, explain Neoplatonism to the corner fellows.
He is the pilot of the planet's energy, he is sand-blasted
The checkered frontier, indifferent to the meanings of the seven languages he mastered.
His mother put me on her knee, spoon-fed me kilos of plankton,
She saw our fates written on our chests, departing with the sinking sun.
The companion, he spoke in poetry, even the way he touched me rhymed,
Our last adventure was not our grandest, but the passage back was stymied.
Burning orphanages, mountaintop removal, ugly women wanting to cuddle,
Your cochineal robes have left stains around your butthole.
Bear the iniquity, his superego eclipsed the Minister of the Environment,
Change the cat-litter, tip twenty-five percent to the Lord's servant.
Myopic & blindfolded in the presence of the angels' lambency,
The world does not know that it did not know it's stoutest sentry.
...continued here.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment