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Yearling's Bobtail I
Didi Willy the Cocoa Dear Saskia Odin Ash Wednesday Pchelka's Starry Journey M Good Night, Sita Grasshoppers Lie Heavy Yearling's Bobtail II Constellations! Look Back in Anger Garryowen On a Golden Cord Kyon? Uncanny Valley Boy Cremated Vegan Proclamation My 100,000th Dream Didi Didi left the house this morning wondering to himself, who would tie his shoes? And he left alone because he had to finish up all his orange juice. Didi, you've been following, I didn't want you here. Didi, couldn't you find another sister to be near? Cause I get sick of hearing, "Zeizei, let Didi play with you…" And I tire of saying, "My Didi wants to come too." Didi made an "accident" in class, so the nurse sent him home, snickered the recess crowd. They saw him crying beside a Safeway paper bag, decked in overalls from the lost and found. Didi, you've been in the bath all this time. Didi, come out, you can't soak there all night. Don't little raisin fingers need to dry? Didi, someday you will be a hero in the movies, fighting those crooked thieves with your sheriff's badge and gun… Didi, one day you will be a picture taped to all the girls' mirrors. They'll say, who now could have ever figured you'd finally become someone? Didi dear, I'm sorry that I yelled at you that way. Didi dear, I know today just wasn't your day. And now I think all I want is my Didi well by tomorrow, and there are things I hope my Didi will never know. Yes, and now I think all I want is my Didi well by tomorrow, and there are things I hope Didi will never have to know. top Willy the Cocoa Hilltops gnashing dig out potholes, the valley somersaults in tarred pavement mirage. Hydrants burst as early worms work this dying coyote's jaw. Swill pop poured from wayside bottle, his pinhead in its shadow eclipsed in full. Chilled cola's free with salvage sold… licking lips he ends his stroll. Oh, has Willy the Cocoa come for our tins and our jars this week? Saluting Mummy doing some haircutting to the sun when suddenly baby shrieks… As gap-toothed coma parts his forehead, launching pair of seizures to the patch. Willy ducks behind the porch steps and laughs. Oh ma'am, I see your kid with whiskers, he croaks, stroking creepers on his cheek, And three years howling is the longest cowlick yet I've seen! Prying X-ray spec'd, enraged at pages clawed, a kick slams the bearded baby to the ground with his tummy clenched, muffling baffled sobs. Papa storms in roaring, Boy, are you proud? You'd learn him good, when smarts he could've took all went instead to this clever head of yours. So to baby—to your brother—you'll say sorry for the world! Killcrop dashing kicks up puddle, soused loafers shouting 'tard payment is due. Hit this witch with switch, whispers wind, to fix his switcheroo… Milksop cornered into scuffle, a sack-spilled glass swung sounds the past-noon toll. Shelled skull has freed unsalvaged soul… dripping Willy's stalkless bulb. Oh, and August was the sawdust month that saw this mulch soften asphodel. Baby bluebonnets bloomed as new comics soon lay forgotten amongst the mail. But how marbleless, some reckoned, being ever stuck in imp-runt age of mind! Are you sick? I am seven, he'd reply… And do we speak in winded whimpers or squelch shreds of a summer gone, ever conscious of days past forever wrong? Such heavy fears, Mummy laughs, for a cub not yet Webelos! Son, seventy years and you'll be glad to finally rest those creaking bones! Life's like this quilt: patchy, then it fills… In time with needle done, you'll write this book of yours. Then to Willy, in the cover could say sorry for the world! Bobtail's cover could say sorry for the world! Oh, Bobtail's cover could say sorry…! top Dear Saskia Dearest Sasha, It's nearing autumn here with record highs. Is it searing in Boston? Hope this letter finds your first semester fine while I'm out of town… You'd love Taiwan, surrounded by walls of mountains, their peaks sealed and shielded by foggy clouds. Beneath this ceiling yields the scene a reeling feel of some giant's house. So… before I left, you said I should keep your kid name, with everything it meant. But then in your embrace, I felt you prepped to shed… And I'd reflect inside withering amber eyes— your pupil's pupal fly, a pet petrified— with you raving over how he's getting you staying kosher. Though, you know, I would have too… And I sniffled daily when you skipped a grade. One bus seat up you moved, letting rippled braids caress, sun-streaked and loose, a wet-cheeked papoose sadly weaned from you… Whom I knew I'd lose the day, you flew enraged and shooed them from their game; untied this "tetherboy", soothing in your lecture voice. Oh but Sasha, if anarchy reigns, then no one lives when narcing to the aides, who shrug when thus annoyed, yawning, "Boys will beat boys…" Well Sasha… okay, you saw the cuts. But though my jaw was stuck, so now I talk Canuck, there's been plenty days I've really been through worse. Anyway, I'm feeling healed. Still, hugging hurts… And Sasha, I know you'll have them all, while if I last the fall playing possum is a toss-up. But where some haemophile might bleed the Nile to nausea, I can wash up, and hope the bastards croak, on rat turds choked. top Odin (about "doublespeaker rhyme": line in regular text and line in italics directly beneath it are sung simultaneously, each panned hard to one speaker) Mr. Odin died today. Lights off, from your hiding place of retreat emerged. By lot, once more trifling tref must reseed the earth. This fridge's gallery in web's wake was strewn, Indifferent galaxies instead stay unmoved; silent poll of colours overused. sigh and pull the covers over you. This latest piece you drew with crayons least whittled… In safest sleep, you ruminate on these riddles… The house settled in sheets, you swing the iron screen. But how dreadful indeed, do sweet dream's ichors seem! By the alabaster balustrade, Like a salamander shall await baby steps inch towards crevice rays. trading breath's bliss for present bane. Then down stygian stairs, And how stingy and scarce through sickle-lit oriental streets. proves shibboleth for these gentle means! Raccoons rummage round some rubbish bags, As you plummet down from couplets past; till a rickshaw hiccoughs from grating cracks. still, but missed bat mitzvahs come racing back. You seek the dunes once deemed a haven To dreams of whom does each one cave in that was safe for a heathen… as a slave for the seasons? And if flutters with the fairest And if summer trips to Paris were just sins simply dreamt, weren't just myths between friends, could some bottled butterfly dream your whims instead? would the rondel of her eye be stored in this neck? What's more, if all you live for still die at the end— But cored gifts fall to discord till lives acquiesce, like Odin's ashes back from the Society, by opened latches that come undone by undine— which filled a chasm dug up underneath— which spilled a basket among other things— can that which kills a cat spare his home if spread? a casket tilted back where its hopeless rests. You researched a gleam Your seizures of spleen, to be a guard's whistle at your feet, you see the jarred sibyl had foreseen and brought your raft behind the yellow-taped grills as not for wrapping by a cellophane sylph, to stand onshore keen to drift if shark swarms withheld. who cannot warm he who didn't impart warmth himself. Buoy bobs through sea serpents, Coin toss to be hers from shivering for shivs unsheathed. shivaree towards shivah seat As roller coasters of waves comfort sighs, has pulled your floater away from your sight. you frame silhouettes of torn rides You chase till dew sheds from your eyes in your dim, lingering gaze, with your beleaguered remains, a victim of erosion. amidst dustbunnies frozen. Should you hide, or could you fight, when your day to die has come? Can a holed up hostage pray for soulless solace and just play dumb? But in time, wouldn't you find life is simply much too long? But for a foetus force-fed, born preaborted, Yet your defeat of tortoise, forced lead unthwarted, your ouija board said, "Son, just hum along." sworn feat aforesaid, doesn't come anon. Though, no slave parts these seas, Though, no grey starling's beak then returns them as a buffer zone. can reach urchins smashed from undertows. The sudsy ocean shapes its padded bed, But suddenly Odin's day is at its end; which hitherto snubbed and spurned a wreck, his litter to dust and earth was swept, while mermaids smile past a guileless garden gnome… while Thursday's child has a mile less far to go… top Ash Wednesday O Catherine! My Catherine! our futile trip is done where it commenced: in my bookless room, Ulysses' tomb, surely buried she'd be! First we laid Tourette's, next regrets, the last day she rose up and left, hers the sole assent… But saving herself strictly for marriage, or really from me? Oh and for Catherine, St. Catherine of God, I purge, with a dirge she'd deride, with sadness, sad for what I am not: a soul to share in her eternal life. Oh Catherine, pressed for an opinion, sighed, "My, what wit, man," putting down her Joyce, with "Joyce" oblivious to the trump she just played. Couldn't heaven, her heaven, brimming over with smart boys, fit just one art boy who tried but failed to win her heart poised with brains? And as I pace, stranded here outside her Shelta, in famous raincoat unknown to roam, my girl in glasses went clear—my Tekakwitha— for I lack the wit to spare a safe Algonquin abode. Well yes, I faked this "X", I should confess, using some old used cigarette. "So you'd cheat your way into heaven," she might protest. Well no, I know it's wrong, but I did burn my palms, I guess that butt was still fresh. Et Catherine vaut bien une messe… On this sad day to mourn us wretched souls cursed to be born, a spark zips through my head to be mistaken for Catholic with some smeared ash; to wear it like a tragic mask. On this Ash Wednesday morn, in spreading mole my sickness borne upon this head for all to see. And maybe if Catherine sees, she'll ask, "So where'd you attend Mass?" top Pchelka's Starry Journey But F., that man is the worst nuisance on the beach. Mother, woken from her nap, hears a piercing scream and thunders, "Why'd you hit your baby brother, when he so looks up to you! Don't you remember days past, when you wanted to buy a fortress but your daddy couldn't afford it, so you brought him into your room? You stowed away beneath your captain bed. We didn't hear a peep throughout the entire weekend!" Poor Sam Peabody! Oh brother, when all you know is bleat, they'll catch you by your cape and beat you, threatening never to release you till you learn to kick it back. Feigning sick, I chanced to read these words in a comic to me speaking: "Are you tired of being the weakling?"… I clipped and mailed the ad. Soon send away offers were piling up high, and then one day one came and made me cry and cry. Red pouches unspent for years, at once counted and sent, while all the weeks I waited, weighing those words in bold text: "Are you a Beyonder sent down to be Earth-fostered; do you often feel like a wanderer lost?" But waiting for Goddard, our two impatient paupers, Gogo and his Didi, sauntered off… Till in hunger they were led into Huntsville and fed, dragged to sled by hunter's belt and launched! "Far from home and shaped like common men, Beyonders bleed the most, their roots unknown to them. We've received your fee, and per the tests, you are indeed a seed from that nebular nest. Is this too much at once? We're trusting mum's to be the word. Beyonders pine for a love no mortals give, one they'll find only once we build the mothership. Your monthly tithe shall fund good tidings soon to come. But till then, here's how you're to live…" So thus we learned to act the dunce as spies among the carnal fallen, twin friars cast here in pollens from a star's placenta sac. Braced for an earth stay unloved, twits daily murdered for their virtue. Mirthful, the merciless would hurt you, as omerta turned their backs. Stung by venomous vipers, our muted youths lapsed; we knew the shortest cyphers are the toughest ones to crack. But every hero has a heel, we'd realise, blind before the squad. The only spies who get to feel love first unearth their own plots! Mushing onward, Mushka's dragged by collar to his slaughter under undying dawn. Choked, he's soon a goner, no one heard his hollers; this pack honours only the idiot's rod. Next cabins come equipped with pentobarbitone syringe, nothing too rich for glorious cosmonauts! I'm sorry I bailed, Xiao Xiang, mush on… I couldn't ditch my wails, I needed the pod. "Kids say you're hopped on drugs, son. With Mum we'll need a word." Mushka, per their bargain, I can't ever return. top M Maravijaya… I was a lad bent on learning the talents that all clever girls need to see. Bit my sadness with patience, with practise each day, then in five years I'd be one to keep. This moron marooned, a method mapped in my cocoon to mould me into a mystery mensch. No minutiae left unmastered, music cred with mindful manners merge. Once I metamorphose, certain I'd impress. Year five, and now the one who dug me up spent her wishes on a friend, while forever I'll hold in peace these words unsaid. Hopes wrapped in marinaded confections but before tomorrow never sent. Signed off "Love: Me" is how my life and letters end. Morphined, I'll probably die pushing forty, exiled to a sand castle built by low tide; far too old to be martyred, too young to grow smarter, a mariner's child who hanged from this tie. Panoramic prints pending my soon-to-be Moonie wedding, fools once expecting their "Made in America" signs. In a time capsule sealed with pages of defeated spiels lies that marionette in this heap of twisted twine. All I know is that whoever finds me keeps me solely for a pet. With her "I do", my life in marriage is choked down my no-hope chest. Her lispy kiss unlucky for this chimney sweep, indentures dumbed as a boy. Whispered "adieu", I bade them to fare well, then turned to hug the void. But then I saw the world's a naked baby, cradled safely in my lap. It dropped a poop, but somehow I knew to have a merry ol' laugh. And now I wonder if the answer might be to know: the rule for a girl is that the boy who's to love her baby should first love the world. Moral is: it's up to me to be alert; nothing comes a pure surprise. Sometimes if it's all to work friends have to lie. And sometimes situations seem the worst, but in a year, they're never bad. Five more, she'll dig up Bobtail's words—I'm not sad! top Good Night, Sita "Good night," she says or should I should you refuse by a gutter gurgling then we'll choose either never live yet live on or to love first without once knowing love when cesspit dead ends for further speech are these stuttered sentences we speak for this kid wearing no decoder ring Dutch courage wimped out to going Dutch but even no sponge nor a barnacle minds swept in unchartable tides they just always know to pry for the innermost matryoshka's heart of gold inside till then crack up another doll to find the chrysalis unchristened to all who'd buy this aping jaw fixed to his skull swaggering down these barren exhibit halls but totems so revered when defined by ambrosia beers in time are seen with a focus grown clear and slowly the story erodes pidgin palaver exchanged can only transfer good faith hyped up like some disastrous play that starts with a lone ringing phone but even so just that it ever rang at all for if the tactic is to stall you're just ecstatic she called what this understudy sought from his number strutting on the wall we whine when first we got shunned then wise up and learn to shotgun last show's set still propped up so we'll breeze through our parts though each kind new ultimatum to his tribe left old and jaded the boy brave who cultivated brave rejection into art but died unfinished alas hotlines get busy just as thoughts slide to slitting wrists that hint of sampler cologne and a lass sniffing out these rote charms always rides in single go-karts as we wind an endless flowchart with every given answer a no and her veggie wishbone's short end in these clutching fingers of steel too untrusting to ever unpeel from a dummy steering wheel settled for hugging only curbs and having only tires squeal when boys who mope know the beauty of simply limping away blind as the chirping crosswalks guide where willows softly conspire when boys who cope only risk invites denied I sigh, "Good night." top Grasshoppers Lie Heavy L.A. to the Bay, pompous autumn waits. Uprooted, then en route, eighteen threw off the brutes and their molls perched on pedestals, noses in penny dreadfuls. For a cafeteria's wage, death of dull dishroom days stalled by keys left on dumbwaiter trays. Down the steps to fetch her lancet pen, and stunned, by reflex you asked. At first she hedged, but then laying qualms to rest: schwa stickers attached to your sci-fi paperback. First date nosebleed spurs tales of bare-knuckle defeats… Snowflakes in time come to see off the year. You cried for one to sit; it kissed your ear. Her show played in mimes, but you pleaded to hear. Then just like the drift, she disappeared… With no sister ship slain by his side, and so off her list, sunken Tirpitz lies. Alone his first gig, stagefright ignites. But no convert's missed, once assured his tithe. Homeward, mop-sopped to your knees. Tonight, just sour grapes, bitter sweets left to brave February's brutal gust; chimneys weep sooty dust. Phantom limbs trip left and right them tripped on runner's high. Below the window of your Walkman you hide. Your gate code punched, when a looming shadow nears, as your heartbeats, her steps, race to first. And she deftly thrusts through the shield of your sneer: "Hey, you know you're my password?" I am? "Well, you're backward…" She locks your arm. Key turned, returned to your guard… In her gingerbread prison, here now you submit. Though never full, you're fed; so you hit the switch. On your bed's rumpled linens, a lidless Vaseline sits. "Shall I leave you," she says, "here to Philip Dick?" Thoughts sift in the waiting room: Why does she play bright to your gloom past a year on a stalled friendship's sails? On a malady your thoughts are stuck, and the organ on which it struck, in the everpresent scent of her trail. Then you wake by a bell with a ring. In her white gown, crept up she beams; and you marvel, glimmer of her cheek unveiled. She loves you… …and now you're left with no defences. Well, who'd have guessed this? You stand unsure. She lures with a tease, "Oh sweetie, you're right: you wear your hard-on in a sleeve." So how's that compromise? And dude, you love her. When your paws were thrashed sparring with the tide, from your Grace Darling's beacon light fell an oar. Let pure lose to pure… You stroke her temples. She gushes as she guides, and pulls you up inside her thighs. top Constellations! reverends, paused stiff in tandem. Heavin' some, Ana whispures a low sigh, bein' of de exempt, exit us the Viking den… Walkyriens: to Walhall o' mead-Tussin! Quouffs uppraissed, this boundless Kalevalley ends. We ride as Finnugreec tongue Lapps are highmen. Makeyars mygrate, from among ol' psealed off drains. Then down the steppes we charged, Drinkhis Khan, once Toomujin, has slain the teeto-Tartars! Tomer-layin' the seed, Howie led the feat of avatars… Indus-trail sewerce, questurns Indo Hairapins: Forsi ahuro or Sensegreat devas'dayshone? To soma up, our-youn' invedas unsolft quarry rest… Ourevian battles spent, a'duct Uighuress. Are Melee tapirs the dusc-horse yet…? From the Khlmair city Ingcar Wet, to war: scimitary of'fence! Pour sod, fourfeit tundr's Siburial plains… Upridge o' lawn trod on by forc'd nations sank… But past a cross Bearing Straight, herows—ourauras left—to Audamn's grave. And now without a chart, just the winds and the constellations known by heart, I'll sail this sea, there is only me and my northern star! The mistodawn, ha'nt'd by sobre-trooth tiedgirl cries, sunk in tarpid lies. In Hollowscene broughtour ancister toughtim rite, he sees Lowkey and Freyed! Noworse and Nunavatter collide, Leif as the Red's son arrives. How old are these mummeries I have left to mine? Pullar switch, in-som'umiak skims through channels snow blitz'd… Then pounds arrhythmetic heart, Enguished buzzereds come unsated find Rumspring is parched. In mouth Deseret, black Letter-Day Sensed ahead… “Rejoyce!” bellow the top Look Back in Anger Scrambled past this hell, where flagboy last fell, dragging aglets held by the bastard's boot, as the Van Nuys belles lunched soundless through the noon. Now your sapling cut says you've past ring one, yet—if adding up—then for more you'd vie. From the valley of death you rode, so on spite you thrive. Feeble feeder fish allowed to grow; these spluttered fits found fit for show. You wished a cancer nibbled off, and laid down on the public trough. She braves the crowd filled first from sides. She might complete your jigsawed life. With hair of maraschino red, “Great show,” she later said. Well there are ways to make a treat of life, and you were fine when you had none. But knowing now what you'd missed out on, you find, you look back in anger that it's done. When religious kids mocked, each hypocrite's taunts would just acquit God of further need; reading His obit not a bang, just a murmuring. Now each new concession sees this peasant discontented all the more, with his ignorance lessened of his plight before… Beyonders prevail, the letters preached, and thus secure, must turn the cheek. You waved your pledge to this godly good, only to crack, sprawled where they stood… Though, if you're right to want what's yours, weren't they right to take what's theirs? So if you're weeping for poor squirrels, also weep for poor, poor bears. Red and friends, lagging by the back door, lift you on angel stares. Drunk, you'd claim you've never loved, but it's too late to unscrew a Bud… Yes, you were wrong to make demands on life, 'cause when you beg it never comes. And we all find this out on our own time… Look back in anger to have won. top Garryowen Brushed her off tonight, to swipe meats and wine with your crew of chefs and thieves. Tonight the rubber off, she offered as a thought, if you would opt for bed not street. Well you're not me, Garryowen. Oh no, and I can't speak for this life you've chosen. Drunk pissed punks tryst, bustin' cars with fists, the littlest fuss will incite your rage. In you come, piss drunk, smug in smegma crust, since hummers aren't love, or so she's claimed… Well see, Garryowen, now no one, buys your grief as the boy unchosen. So the celibate you'll play, self-medicated, stewing in hatred for the world. Slammed in the well, you'll glimpse yourself with choler turned up, cringing in shame. As claws you built from scratches, with your bilious malice, fill up a package strapped to your scapegirl, You'll slap her down, and push her out, a crumpled castaway! Your rabid wit unleashed, Garryowen, to no end, you'd make her strip bare just to watch her freeze. You won't always have her for your pet. Someday she won't be there; someday yet! Final trip on a tanker, you'll drop your anger to which you've chained her; she'll sink into the briny end. Now that you're cleansed, aren't you the faltering dear? They told her, “Never help a self-abuser see himself as well in you.” You'd smite your kitten good, galled that smitten she would opt just not to hear! Toora-loora-li, Garryowen, who owes no one, becomes someone's last-ditch alibi. You're a purer lie… top On a Golden Cord On a golden cord, once worn, now shorn, safely kept with bread and pocket lint. Not of its own accord, but broken for what its promise meant. And so she said, “Now it's yours again… And how you look tonight! So polite, yet resigned, with wounds dressed and feelings put away. Full of patient replies… But how can I trust a word you say? So spill away.. and please, dear, you have no more secrets saved. I'm sorry, but I went through your mail today…” Immerse the moulted form in holy foggy night, Returned a golden cord, this sole belonging signed. emerged beside a pauper's grave from dreams. Leave early, time's up, cross your date released. The wraith surveys the widow on his pyre; The jailer waves a bit, though uninspired, torched the bellyaches on suttee. for the well-behaved on the wing. Had I grown dispirited in all this act, As I soak in spirits amidst wanted ads— by disparate elements, like kindling gathered up? my desperate ailments tied in this shambler's dusk— Guilt pardons the spectre taunting twin streetlamps; still hardened against her fawning, misty glance, hatchet man who's burnt enough. past this avenue Möbius. But a precious gift as a shedded chain, But the present slips past a debt unpaid, has lain to rust, one more cruel memento. that slays you once before you'll let it go. Then if life were real, not just drunken play… And if night were peeled off the front of day… But what do I know? But what do I know? Just that those playful pups with their hateful fangs knew the restraint of those born as hunters, while this supposed dove chafing in his cage, just learned he's pecked to death his precious other. But should it matter since you loved her once, when you really thought the world that simple? And who's to judge how much you cared because the gesture then was just a little more worth working for?… Mush! Mush! Now the jester teeters towards… the taunting, streetswept dawn. Thoughts spawned then dropped, of gathering up the suttee dust. Some things just come to loss: this bracelet, its lustre; me, my lust. Or was I once, something not what I've become? Have I just killed the thing I love? Of fateful thoughts hung on a gilded clasp, Once navels locked upon the wilted grass, which this Ubermensch reavowed he'd come to snip. digging through her innie, the outie snug-to-fit. And a smarting head throbs once his brain's warring halves, Then the guardian knot of this frayed cord detached, each attack with the proper fist. leaked the bandage upon her wrist. A sober plea finds the present you, The former me might have left a clue my alias drunk, in panic and starved for leads. by trail of crumbs, which vanished as bartered feed. And will she label lies oaths we vowed we could, Until we strangle cries knowing how we stood, with Garry's sole witness relieved? when buried whole with the deceased. So a plan devised divides a slave once wed; Though, the master mind reminds us, straight ahead, a bid for greatness' sake, he's sold on as holy war. a bigger plate awaiting nulls one half full before. When longed by nothing you then fight the best, And fond sighs of reunion I must rest; for kohl-eyed houris as reward. forego like jewelry that she wore. top Kyon? So you fled to her nest on this stork, history shed, having never grown your horns. A present sent to her of a newborn… So baby, tell me then, when you take in her breasts, are you suckling to be fed? Is it just her womb you bed? Well, have some more… And how you always burned, for the slight; spurned at first, you couldn't let it die! You'd nurse your bruises: why, the nerve of me, to lie in reserve while I had to learn to find all the points you had! Then you'd resent plunders past that forced my defence… But dear, let's make a pact: if you're single then, I get you back? And… I'll be stronger—not a bother, more modest, I promise— to parent my knight-errant as the sole keeper of his sheep herd. And when sobered by the time-lapse to spring forward on a fallback… my ticklish piglet, you'll bounce back to me, giggly, having fully gorged yourself. Bursting belly told by extra holes punched in your belt. A shank's dustless silhouette bares the sill's sheen, your severed stinger left in me never lost its sting. But other nights you'd lap my wound clean to leave me as before, with only instinct to adore. Besides, a you-shaped pussing sore bleeds just once, then never more… So are we agreed, honeybee? Come for me? At thirty-three? You say you woke one crystal morning, to find all those thoughts had gone away: your fear of death, your fear of never dying, and sadness for what it was. You just knew Bobtail's your priority, so for Bobtail I'll gladly wait. And darling, don't you worry, these were only practise cuts… top Uncanny Valley Boy Beta, come wax prophetic with me. Rest your rump, boy, by your old giving tree. Stumped, I ponder the forespoken monster at the end of this book of yours… And you, for a future, sold your whole fortune to live neutered, blissfully and orphaned. Upon purchase of a queen's ship, earth right now your tourist store… But distracted by your brother's tantrums, we couldn't imagine your mail order cult, till they called, suspecting you of huffing, then we caught you stuffing twenties in an envelope… So do you believe your “hamartia” now? Oh, bastard ingrate! Some nights you wake, climb and survey the houses you've betrayed. Scattered your beans over suburbia… Mowed down by the tides, and inundated under in unfair fights, you made a bunker that shuts airtight to seal out their floods. But then, my little prince, safe on your tiny planet where none else fit, you finally granted their nutshells are rigged, and healed round your grudge… Now suddenly dressed to play, you drowned your stutter, smugly prepped to haze the new latecomers. This scheming crackpot vowed to clean the jackpot out this time around… But have you heard, my beloved Rama king, the testifiers' lore? A nation paused to watch you fail your Sita on repeat for evermore! Did you find a rival in the goddess you once sought as prize— your idol who riled you when you saw that you two were tied? With bride you bridled in this perfect duel match, and so one night you chalked the sidewalks slurring Valmiki's chant. When wakened from the siren, you found spelled out in dead ants: ____… No well worn sari could sway you from a fairer marathon! Your dulling gold now gone… Stubborn harpies can't draw this contest to be one! …traded in for the trophy blondes. Through tatters of sky, their sun tinkles light in needling chimes that weave through the vines, cast on your peons, old and subservient. Oh child of mine, what's left of what these faces you flip override, and all these pages you've ripped from your spine to find a cleared path in life's unbearable maze? Then once for all to render it all fail-safe, your thoughts surrendered for Bobtail's sake, to five-year plans. Now son, before you embark on your great bildungsroman, shouldn't you first be sure you've finally become someone? Rama, Rama, Rama… …Maranatha! top Cremated Or another… Atavist stuck feet first, At a vista, key turned subversive inner lotus eater, to first switch in her low two-seater, an everlasting doublespeaker, and deaf from blasting frontal speakers, his beaten wit and id she's deemed her sinking ship, this phoenix risen limp beneath her pinkish slip, maybe good for anecdotes. making scroonched her pantyhose. As comedy teams work, a hoot the times His god humming Freebird, the hula guy not at each other's throats. nods as she drums her toes. Trophy bronzed from a Trojan Though, she ponders the children for some unforeskinned virgin, born from a forced conversion on the shelf, serves his declared assertion: on a self-servicing cleric surgeon to remain inherently perfect, duly may inherit his burdens. as worn puppet his offscreen person dubs. This swarm pumped and kissed off, she purges up, His silent dramedy works better; despite once promising forever, twitching sword in care, he's anyone. which she swore when scarcely twenty-one. Needle done will not retract, it hums a typo fragile ex passed through ash… With his vinyl, exit Miriam to cash his stash. Undeluded, she'll bask in selfish cut-off jeans, and in her pool, hears not a worrisome “Bless her, Godspeed…” The key turned and she floors it, The seat hurt when he lowered it, so homeward the sport's escorted, though no worse but for his soreness, the cleaved horizon pours the mortar in. this geezer's life-support's abortive. Redressed, he gets his notice, short an He's vegging with his boner shortened; apology, bold and blunt. a pop, and she pulls the plug. Life's a dumb ex-dromedary, hungry carrying Lights one up then draws a daring puff, preparing this groovy second hump. the scoop, he's getting dumped. top Vegan Proclamation "If you're just starting out, you need to decide right now: either you stick with quality vinyl, or you buy only the bargain bin LPs; you can't have both. Because a scratched record will chip a good needle… and a chipped needle will scratch a good record…" So shall we, Odin, lightly tread past the rape racks where our furor led, to a soiled girl fouled on the false rib from our chest? We baulked at our lives born unfair, set to rock this pout from horse to chair, as a tempered hammer cooled by striking the smouldering air… Well, first pets always bear the worst, mere primers on how not to hurt, and now I know why the battered kitten purrs… “No, I'll smile because I believe in the big crunch, and meanwhile, the universe is a cyanided box… Because if we can't ever be known to be dead, we just might always be alive to God…” Torn straps unsalvaged sows have chewed, form a trail which leads to a bloody broom, its bristles scrape discharge encrusted on leather boots. Through an alley strewn with burger shrouds, a lone rallied youth strikes himself from his cloud, reversing his stomach and his swastikas inside out… Well, if first cuts are the worst ones bled… then none by us now, to any flesh! This shipwrecked world is large enough for us to make amends… and to be good again… “So all your leads have left and now you're sad, too? Someday you'll breathe again; for one, you have to… I don't know how where once I cowered I now could fly. I still love you for the airholes, dear; and now, good night.” The stardust marks us, Odin, sparks zip through our heads… And can we start as children? Would we want to then? The diapered white dwarf, gurgling, curls up for his sleep… Our ashed heads bow from chivalry to our Siva's feet… top My 100,000th Dream My hundred thousandth dream, I bumped into my Sita. Silent for a while, we searched our eyes, then we smiled and like old times, I took her shoulder as we drove from El Torito. I said never again we'll slave our whole lives away! As pretty as the rainbow, Sita! Sita! Did I ever live another life? As precious as a summer, Sita! Sita! Did I ever live another life? And were you mine? My hundred thousandth dream, I kissed my senorita, on the pampas where the gopis played, and the seasons glide away. I can't remember how or when my heart was Sita's. We were young, so sure of life, never knowing time unkind! I spent a lifetime waiting, Sita! Sita! Did I ever live another life? We blow the wind in whistles, Sita! Sita! Did I ever live another life? When you were mine? My hundred thousandth dream, on the cliffs of El Cerrito, she says now it's dark and getting late, but we'll always have today. Why does my last thought in this world belong to Sita? Now the light spills warm and bright… gently fills these eyes… She'll always come to take me, Sita! Sita! Will I ever live another life? Real or imaginary, Sita! Sita! Will I ever live another life? When you'll be mine? top |
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