My Love lies over the cold prone ocean;
I ejaculate a spiralled brocade
Of tainted flies over paper hole punches.
Leprous verse crowds my colouring book.
The vagabond whisperers, with plots, cook.
One-way hopes never collide, but encrust
Misgivings into harsh filaments
That rake my impetigo in gross whorls.
Pallid rhyme infests my colouring book.
Three thousand hands-on judges call me ‘schnook’.
Clearing-house bordellos of soft-core schmaltz
Reel in millions. I thought I was ‘Prince’,
But they popped turds of every joker, fool.
I put down my bird-sprayed colouring book.
I have the poetic wiles of a crook.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #5
I'm back in the ward, number six-two-one-three.
The nice men in starched vests took a fancy to me
And tied me in a triple-bind straightjacket.
I give up my poems, I just can't hack it
The way others get credit for "better" verse.
My time is at hand, give me an enema, nurse,
And stick that nozzle up to the tenth notch, please.
Clean my bowels of this versifying disease.
I need a pick-me-up, a defining moment,
A divine proclamation. Where my comb went,
I’ll surely follow. Yay, though I walk the valley
Of the wicked, close is my four-legged Sally.
I see, my Love, my over-the-ocean Love, my Muse
Is dictating to me of Biblical abuse.
Speaking of abuse, there’s a stirring in my loins
But arms are fastened where my armpits and hands join.
The nice men in starched vests took a fancy to me
And tied me in a triple-bind straightjacket.
I give up my poems, I just can't hack it
The way others get credit for "better" verse.
My time is at hand, give me an enema, nurse,
And stick that nozzle up to the tenth notch, please.
Clean my bowels of this versifying disease.
I need a pick-me-up, a defining moment,
A divine proclamation. Where my comb went,
I’ll surely follow. Yay, though I walk the valley
Of the wicked, close is my four-legged Sally.
I see, my Love, my over-the-ocean Love, my Muse
Is dictating to me of Biblical abuse.
Speaking of abuse, there’s a stirring in my loins
But arms are fastened where my armpits and hands join.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Enthusiasm; Winners and Losers
Today was one of those multiple-metaphor-on-a-theme days. Before heading out tonight, I happened to read Leon Rooke's short story "Wintering in Victoria". It was a typically wonderful Rooke story with a typically wonderful Rooke twist, like a gentle screwdriver applied to the heart, before the deep and slow turn. The protagonist at first appears to be a shit, an unconcerned ass letting his wife, job, and friends fly away because of his neglect. But then the other characters become more finely etched. And, with his hysterical (ex) girlfriend, the girlfriend's mother, his best friend, and his best friend's wife all set in silent (and not-so-silent) hostility against him, at the mother's house, Mr. "Unconcerned" goes up the stairs, waits for berating ex to come up the steps, comforts her, then continues, alone, to the bathroom where he commiserates with her truly neglected (and abused) daughter (from the ex's doing). They escape out the bathroom window and run, giggling through the woods.
Of course, there's no escaping the complex deciphering of relationships, the appearance with the reality.
I then turned on the second period of the Canucks hockey game where in short order the home team popped in a goal. The crowd of 18, 000 stood and yelled in concert, and the skaters melded in a melange of head-slapping, half-hugging, and smiling swearing approval.
I then took off to catch the last half of the weekly local musical idol event where 14 remaining singers competed for the "last person standing" prizes the last week before Christmas. I caught a beery-faced dude in mid-chorus of "Bye Bye Miss American Pie", the band throbbing the chords with enthusiasm matching that of the packed restaurant/bar. Next up was a 93 year-old warbler who chose a chestnut, the tune's moniker escaping me. The post-octogenarian gave it his all, and the crowd went nuts. After the judges gave heartfelt thanks and love, he noted how his voice was a "little stiff at the beginning, but then I settled down, though after hearing your comments, I feel stiff all over." The crowd, including me, roared even louder than they and I did after his song. Before the next singer appeared on stage, I glanced over at one of those inevitable bar-TV screens, and caught the shining face of the victorious Obama, while behind him throngs of supporting fans yelled in silent back-up. gawd knows what their honest emotions were behind the outward-same group visage.
After my wrap-up duties as idol-night balloteer (as opposed to the 14 balladeers), I headed home by myself whilst Verna, as part of her organizational duties, remained. The brief rains during the hockey game had stopped, and a gorgeous network of stars pricked the sky. I say "network", but of course that's a poetic shift. To take it further, poetic, here, means "lie". Are the stars "connected"? They're dead stuff, billions of light years away, and away from each other. But our human need for enthusiastic connection, and aching dumb hope, no matter how deluded or incongruous it may be, is necessary to us. We need to urge ourselves on to harmony. However much we lie, there's not only a noble intent, but a noble metaphysic to it.
Oh .... the 93 year-old? He was the only one "voted off the island".
Of course, there's no escaping the complex deciphering of relationships, the appearance with the reality.
I then turned on the second period of the Canucks hockey game where in short order the home team popped in a goal. The crowd of 18, 000 stood and yelled in concert, and the skaters melded in a melange of head-slapping, half-hugging, and smiling swearing approval.
I then took off to catch the last half of the weekly local musical idol event where 14 remaining singers competed for the "last person standing" prizes the last week before Christmas. I caught a beery-faced dude in mid-chorus of "Bye Bye Miss American Pie", the band throbbing the chords with enthusiasm matching that of the packed restaurant/bar. Next up was a 93 year-old warbler who chose a chestnut, the tune's moniker escaping me. The post-octogenarian gave it his all, and the crowd went nuts. After the judges gave heartfelt thanks and love, he noted how his voice was a "little stiff at the beginning, but then I settled down, though after hearing your comments, I feel stiff all over." The crowd, including me, roared even louder than they and I did after his song. Before the next singer appeared on stage, I glanced over at one of those inevitable bar-TV screens, and caught the shining face of the victorious Obama, while behind him throngs of supporting fans yelled in silent back-up. gawd knows what their honest emotions were behind the outward-same group visage.
After my wrap-up duties as idol-night balloteer (as opposed to the 14 balladeers), I headed home by myself whilst Verna, as part of her organizational duties, remained. The brief rains during the hockey game had stopped, and a gorgeous network of stars pricked the sky. I say "network", but of course that's a poetic shift. To take it further, poetic, here, means "lie". Are the stars "connected"? They're dead stuff, billions of light years away, and away from each other. But our human need for enthusiastic connection, and aching dumb hope, no matter how deluded or incongruous it may be, is necessary to us. We need to urge ourselves on to harmony. However much we lie, there's not only a noble intent, but a noble metaphysic to it.
Oh .... the 93 year-old? He was the only one "voted off the island".
Ethereal Beauty #4
Let's away, Love, to the denture convention
Where we'll do things I can't even mention.
Wine is flowing, my corpus is exempt
From parsing Parson birds with evil intent.
Frost my nipples, bite my hose, roll me in flour dough
Till dentures clack forty times. On my pecker blow.
Whisk me away from this claustrophobic ward.
Nurses have seen my johnson in a binding gourd.
I'm leaking chloroform from nostrils, white coats
Keep watch. I need escape in a tiny boat
That holds my poems while I write six thousand more.
I've been called the world's champion scriptural bore.
The fridge is yawning, my sperm is defunct, birds squawk.
Where are you, Sweet, in this mist by frozen dock?
Faeries drowning in lye upon my head of pins,
Absolve me, God, of these ten thousand ghastly sins.
Striking, what?, the way the sun wheels from its gasket
Of splashed benedictions on my waiting casket.
Harpies, harridans, loose-lipped matrons abound
In my cranium, haggard garish-painted clowns.
I'd give up my weepers for one eternal kiss.
Others implode in four thousand stanzas for this.
Ravage me, O Sisters of mercy. Savage
My several parts till my face is drained cabbage.
A unicylist in a marzipan waistcoat
Played "Tutti-Frutti" on a lute while a stoat
Brushed my crossed gaiters with prickly whiskers, fat,
As budgies flew a V above a boiling vat.
It wasn't always so, Doc: I love my country
And sweetie (as described in verse five one two three).
But vaporous-dreamed filles des joie announcing cum
Have stapled their stockings on my besotted bum.
Gouty snout sheathed in spouts of green. I've found a keg
Of plonk from the dispensary. (I’ve a fake leg
Where I put remnants of verbal abuse to use
As catapulted turds in fits I never lose.)
Away, pranksters. Someone get my walking stick.
This sodium pentathol makes me sick.
I'm in a cameo on channel ten-thirteen;
Licking a cross nun's shoe while dreaming of my quean.
Ashes to ashes, busts to busts. Fill my head
With sugarplums, honey, scriptures from the dead.
Addled apple’s thick with silt, I'm seedless, sinking.
There's no better poet when I've been drinking.
File and recite this to schoolkids to bring them glee.
Have them salute daily so they remember me.
Scuppered Love on the loose three thousand verses back.
I'd have better luck exposing my hairy crack.
Where we'll do things I can't even mention.
Wine is flowing, my corpus is exempt
From parsing Parson birds with evil intent.
Frost my nipples, bite my hose, roll me in flour dough
Till dentures clack forty times. On my pecker blow.
Whisk me away from this claustrophobic ward.
Nurses have seen my johnson in a binding gourd.
I'm leaking chloroform from nostrils, white coats
Keep watch. I need escape in a tiny boat
That holds my poems while I write six thousand more.
I've been called the world's champion scriptural bore.
The fridge is yawning, my sperm is defunct, birds squawk.
Where are you, Sweet, in this mist by frozen dock?
Faeries drowning in lye upon my head of pins,
Absolve me, God, of these ten thousand ghastly sins.
Striking, what?, the way the sun wheels from its gasket
Of splashed benedictions on my waiting casket.
Harpies, harridans, loose-lipped matrons abound
In my cranium, haggard garish-painted clowns.
I'd give up my weepers for one eternal kiss.
Others implode in four thousand stanzas for this.
Ravage me, O Sisters of mercy. Savage
My several parts till my face is drained cabbage.
A unicylist in a marzipan waistcoat
Played "Tutti-Frutti" on a lute while a stoat
Brushed my crossed gaiters with prickly whiskers, fat,
As budgies flew a V above a boiling vat.
It wasn't always so, Doc: I love my country
And sweetie (as described in verse five one two three).
But vaporous-dreamed filles des joie announcing cum
Have stapled their stockings on my besotted bum.
Gouty snout sheathed in spouts of green. I've found a keg
Of plonk from the dispensary. (I’ve a fake leg
Where I put remnants of verbal abuse to use
As catapulted turds in fits I never lose.)
Away, pranksters. Someone get my walking stick.
This sodium pentathol makes me sick.
I'm in a cameo on channel ten-thirteen;
Licking a cross nun's shoe while dreaming of my quean.
Ashes to ashes, busts to busts. Fill my head
With sugarplums, honey, scriptures from the dead.
Addled apple’s thick with silt, I'm seedless, sinking.
There's no better poet when I've been drinking.
File and recite this to schoolkids to bring them glee.
Have them salute daily so they remember me.
Scuppered Love on the loose three thousand verses back.
I'd have better luck exposing my hairy crack.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #3
Scratch my back, I'm full of fleas;
Don't forget my gonads, please.
Wind me up with consummate ease
Before I sputter, cough, and wheeze.
Come here, Love, you're mine forever.
You're my one true blue endeavour.
My umbilical cord, sever.
Call me Lucy, call me Trevor.
I'm leaking lime juice out stuffed ears.
Picking poetry as my career
Causes readers to laugh and jeer.
I‘ll never see the dais as seer.
I've written for 'Broken Hearts Daily',
For 'Daffodils And Tulips Gaily'.
If your heart droops, I'll never fail ye.
For a life perverted, they jail me.
I'm a test case, the bearded lady
Or elephant man of vast Hades.
One squirt of oyster juice, baby,
And I'm cavorting with weird Sadie
Under pier as I peer up her skirt.
In all the vast meadows, I'm Fra Flirt.
Women flock to me with their hurt.
Lick my nipples under my hairshirt.
Repair my ego, I'll write an ode,
Love, in sappy mysterious code.
Come into my squalid abode.
(Jesus into town on his ass rode
And, I hear, shook his head when
He saw the gaping idiot men
Hanging on his every word, then
Penned paeans demented, without end.)
Don't forget my gonads, please.
Wind me up with consummate ease
Before I sputter, cough, and wheeze.
Come here, Love, you're mine forever.
You're my one true blue endeavour.
My umbilical cord, sever.
Call me Lucy, call me Trevor.
I'm leaking lime juice out stuffed ears.
Picking poetry as my career
Causes readers to laugh and jeer.
I‘ll never see the dais as seer.
I've written for 'Broken Hearts Daily',
For 'Daffodils And Tulips Gaily'.
If your heart droops, I'll never fail ye.
For a life perverted, they jail me.
I'm a test case, the bearded lady
Or elephant man of vast Hades.
One squirt of oyster juice, baby,
And I'm cavorting with weird Sadie
Under pier as I peer up her skirt.
In all the vast meadows, I'm Fra Flirt.
Women flock to me with their hurt.
Lick my nipples under my hairshirt.
Repair my ego, I'll write an ode,
Love, in sappy mysterious code.
Come into my squalid abode.
(Jesus into town on his ass rode
And, I hear, shook his head when
He saw the gaping idiot men
Hanging on his every word, then
Penned paeans demented, without end.)
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #2
Crossstitched, my eyelids, to a hospital pillow.
The clothes outside are faint eggshell blue. They billow
While the humid matron pumps horse-meds down my throat
With a two-by-four back-up, and a rubber goat.
Help me, dreamLove! Defrost my poems and bite my lips.
Float here; sing a lullabye while I let one rip.
Flip cartwheels. Install butter in my dressing gown.
I think one of the nurses saw my backside and frowned.
Ahoy! I'll abet the rumours with furious glee--
See the straightjacket wall strings covered with cat pee?
That's my work, I composed it for you, matchless Love,
Though your eyes cross, twitch when espying my wet glove.
Ahh! Another old fart, the minister of the ward
Has come creeping 'round my sickroom with a pen sword.
He's trying to convert me to the other side
Where poems are big and my head voices don‘t chide.
The clothes outside are faint eggshell blue. They billow
While the humid matron pumps horse-meds down my throat
With a two-by-four back-up, and a rubber goat.
Help me, dreamLove! Defrost my poems and bite my lips.
Float here; sing a lullabye while I let one rip.
Flip cartwheels. Install butter in my dressing gown.
I think one of the nurses saw my backside and frowned.
Ahoy! I'll abet the rumours with furious glee--
See the straightjacket wall strings covered with cat pee?
That's my work, I composed it for you, matchless Love,
Though your eyes cross, twitch when espying my wet glove.
Ahh! Another old fart, the minister of the ward
Has come creeping 'round my sickroom with a pen sword.
He's trying to convert me to the other side
Where poems are big and my head voices don‘t chide.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #1
Ethereal beauty, as if an amour
Could reap and sow, like a basilisk
In God-giving banquets for the poor
Who love in beseeching tears. Tsk!
O, Love, blind me with your love,
A love that wraps and smothers
My aortae, blood unshoved.
From unrequited love, we're all brothers.
Ah! The men in snowy coats
Come for me
With butterfly nets. Who dotes
On you, Love? It's me on my knees.
Cleavage! Turnips! Westward fools!
My Love lies unrelating
In a fervent sea which cools
In epileptic flecks mating
Periwinkles with discarded twinkies. Sadness
And sameness, Dear, I follow your coattails
With tongue-lolling gladness.
Verse number six-one-two-nine. Quail
Litter the foyer while I dine
On sheepsbrains, vicious
Their remonstrance, I've had wine,
A bellyful. Are you suspicious?
Erk! Cover me in potato sperm!
Lick my dangling parts.
I know, I know. I'm but a germ
Who prays and bites and weeps and farts.
Sing me a song, ethereal beauty,
Afore I collapse in hysteria.
You're such a coy, steaming cutie
With, no doubt, not a touch of malaria.
A tepid round of tea, barmaid,
I’m juiced on skull-and-bones pills.
The orderlies left, I‘m not afraid.
In seventeen books I‘ll relate my ills.
No? You‘ve refused overtime?
God’s plan a cataract of song,
A splooge of rental dental rinse, a dime
Halo expurgated from my dong.
My ethereal beauty should be smiling
So I can sail, absolute, softly in peace,
My reputation as poet-putz piling
Up like mercury in a piston-obelisk with grease.
Ha! Ho! Where is my amour, my one true Love?
My cooing pigeon, my mustard seed,
My aching, tear-stained turtle dove?
I give up my pale abominable screeds.
Could reap and sow, like a basilisk
In God-giving banquets for the poor
Who love in beseeching tears. Tsk!
O, Love, blind me with your love,
A love that wraps and smothers
My aortae, blood unshoved.
From unrequited love, we're all brothers.
Ah! The men in snowy coats
Come for me
With butterfly nets. Who dotes
On you, Love? It's me on my knees.
Cleavage! Turnips! Westward fools!
My Love lies unrelating
In a fervent sea which cools
In epileptic flecks mating
Periwinkles with discarded twinkies. Sadness
And sameness, Dear, I follow your coattails
With tongue-lolling gladness.
Verse number six-one-two-nine. Quail
Litter the foyer while I dine
On sheepsbrains, vicious
Their remonstrance, I've had wine,
A bellyful. Are you suspicious?
Erk! Cover me in potato sperm!
Lick my dangling parts.
I know, I know. I'm but a germ
Who prays and bites and weeps and farts.
Sing me a song, ethereal beauty,
Afore I collapse in hysteria.
You're such a coy, steaming cutie
With, no doubt, not a touch of malaria.
A tepid round of tea, barmaid,
I’m juiced on skull-and-bones pills.
The orderlies left, I‘m not afraid.
In seventeen books I‘ll relate my ills.
No? You‘ve refused overtime?
God’s plan a cataract of song,
A splooge of rental dental rinse, a dime
Halo expurgated from my dong.
My ethereal beauty should be smiling
So I can sail, absolute, softly in peace,
My reputation as poet-putz piling
Up like mercury in a piston-obelisk with grease.
Ha! Ho! Where is my amour, my one true Love?
My cooing pigeon, my mustard seed,
My aching, tear-stained turtle dove?
I give up my pale abominable screeds.
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