Report from the Danube

The second half-length river report/eastern European edition.

I've stopped eating, I stick with the velcro mobs,

On a yacht in the beautiful polluted wearing a floral May dress,

I embarrassed myself by ordering ten blowjobs from the waitress,

And she blushed hard as if I had just ordered ten blowjobs.

Some have said our love is growing inward,

Like a festering blister on St David's Day,

She didn't look thirteen, she was immortally pretty,

She was a member of a grumpy butt-chinned cricket horde.

Work it. Drops dript,

Now leaving the small city for exponation only,

My long intestine has never felt this lonely,

A child is boring, the wings of a swallow clipt.

Report from the Dâmboviţa

Here's a half-length poem in the style of last year's river reports - - - poems I wrote in pubs on rivers in Northern English cities. In lieu of proper travel reportage, some allusive nonsense:

Seventy-seven bats ago, since I left my home town,
I have sinned at his expense,
And forgotten to pay terraneous rents,
Way to be thrown down when the volcano come down.

Away down past the jetlagged sunrise,
Saying like a spiriduş with a gypsy fiddle,
I will unclothe you with an easy ancient riddle,
I will unclothe you like a routine morning exercise.

That's all they really want, an interview
Before the sweat & celebrity cologne,
Thrown down like a mouse from the sky is thrown,
Alone waiting for my Irish wish's curfew.

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.