Department of Five Word Poems: xii.

120.

Her breasts are like shadows.
-F. Keith Wahle

xii.

A maximum of Debussy cows.

________________________________________________________________________________

The Celestial Hierarchy EP - Compete album in ZIP file, Celestial Hip-Hop with MC Pseudo-Dionysius & Gold Diamonds

Presenting now the full EP, in an easily downloadable ZIP file. The Revolutionary Debut Celestial Hip-Hop Masterpiece, with Gold Diamonds & MC Pseudo-Dionysius, (a mere 17 minutes long!) including the hit singles Virtue & Big Bathtub. (If you've already downloaded some of the tracks, delete them & download this instead, I've made a few more minor remastering changes).

Download the ZIP file here.

If iTunes doesn't know the track names, here's the info:
Artist: MC Pseudo-Dionysius with Gold Diamonds
Album: The Celestial Hierarchy EP
Track 1: The Celestial Hierarchy (individual mp3)
Track 2: God's Angels are Curvy (individual mp3)
Track 3: Chastitty (individual mp3)
Track 4: Hillelujah (individual mp3)
Track 5: Virtue (individual mp3)
Track 6: Big Bathtub (individual mp3)

Report from the Dee

A continuation of my series of doggerel poems composed at pubs in Northern Britain. This one by the canal in Chester, at the Frog & Nightingale.

Report from the Dee

We have been hacking away at the stump of the Tree of Mystery,
A tricky u-turn for the canal boat:
His rapping was nonpareil, his gold diamonds twenty-four karat,
A pint with you & the present president is history.

Nonsense will guide me about the city walls,
And yet there's huge emotion in the sing-song.
It's cold & the black swans are getting everything wrong,
Squeezing to rhyme around my angels sacred freefalls.

I sense the dawn of a dark blue-green age.
Bricks or Martin Luther's tricksiness I believe,
Christ our Darling will the motorcycle watchmen relieve,
I'm just staring across at the cross in her cleavage.

Nonsense nor the Cheshire Cat have shown their grins today,
Retch at the pink wine popular in this county.
We will exterminate the rats, & their ancient bounty,
I'd be just as happy healthy with them anyway, any way.

Bicycle bells hectoring me like parliament,
Ding, & the future is eclipsed by white paintings under blacklight:
A mile-long housing project, no track-suits after the night,
Or the sun's son joyriding with the raiment as his bloody pavement.

Nonsense! Please pick up a pallet of biscuits.
Dog's nipples, dog's nipples - how quick you forget,
I adored you, but soon there'll be no time to regret.
No, sister, regurgitate too late & we must call it quits.

La Niña

Listen to me, hobos, with your feet not with your ears:
The salvation train no longer goes thru Portland:
One beer-swilling infant caused war for two thousand years,
Like dried-up camel tears,
Next century's preachers will drop from your face, & be forever banned.

The winter is past due, the fine is tremendous,
My love is a dodecahedron upon a fractal mountain,
The prophetess' jaw is locked up, but perhaps she just has Tetanus,
A virgin except for her clitoris,
She does not know the silent futurity, eternal jail for the whisky fountain.

Fall like amber locks, your robe torn off like lust & descent:
The wind hears you partying with another man in Orange County.
This rotten paradise was never meant to be misspent,
I have forgotten to pay the rent,
Pulsing beneath her t-shirt are several answers, lost booty, lost bounty.

You have to come up before you go down on the earth.
Do you remember that nice man with weird hair who killed his monster baby?
She told him it wasn't the antichrist, just more trouble than it was worth:
The birth of a subversive reversal,
So they added an eighth lane to the flaming freeway, no fin whale will judge their infamy.

Hobos & tramps, you need to ask me more questions, I miss her,
We are sober in different ways, missing in America's décolletage.
Pillaging & taxing, & surging with grief, & raped by a dinosaur incisor,
None the wiser until I kiss her,
Your eardrums beating with these vibrations on hell's watch.

The rain is over - Are you paying attention, Miranda? - come ask her apes,
What to bring as a present for a child who will end materialism?
She told him this wasn't the incorporeal rapture, just a stain on the images of cityscapes,
Put those walking feet toward stamping grapes,
And help me celebrate our victory, the chiefest beloved in Folsom Prism.