I'm the parrot who glares. I headline with "respect".
Even though I don't show any, who cares? Worms will swim
Through your body just like mine. I of a sudden
Feel queasy. Aah ....! Grease my poems and resurrect
My reputation, moribund in gym stench. Dim
With circumlocution, I inhale (fine friend!) mutton
And throw the skanky shanks athwart my fervent ghosts
Populating the vacant hemispheres of my brain.
I moon the moon and make moon eyes at my Love’s pic. Heave
A bucket or three, I don’t care. I’ll cull a roast,
Regurgitated slop, and recycle a refrain.
Cryptic moans through pockets in my head I believe.
Kumquats? Forbidden Loves! Mesopotamian nights!
Strike my haberdasher with flinty sheaves of paraffin.
I think I espied white-coats making off with my missives
In moon-flooded white-floored midnight. I'd put up a fight
But a man of God with a bad reputation can't win
So I'll back up my book of lies and call out for kisses
Sweet while forensic specialists in halls of basements curl
In cues of cadaverous stanzaic watch in leagues
Of ennui mightier than my ego pilled
On pillorying poets sublime. What Shirl
Can resist a meadow interloper? Cheryl Tiegs?
Bind me in horsehair and hemp; my meds do make me ill.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #8
Fortuitous circumstances have set me here
On this mossy outcrop of granite, fist around beer,
While the ass-flap of my pink pyjamas flutters
In sheepish wind as the prize in my eyes gutters.
I've busted out of the straightjacket, dontcha know,
And regale the ewes with bleats and shrieks as I grow
Blackheads on my schwzinzel. Crows are aping me
From sleek gutters perched above the apple tree.
Love, terrible visions await my cloudy future
Slicing seaward inflating my nose with fake silver lures.
Caress my johnson, lonely like me in mawkish verse.
I'll startle you with lines I lament over and rehearse.
Model these crotchless overalls, figment of this pig, meant so
Piningly, this cheese setting (I hope) your mouse to flow.
I'm chewing on dandelion root, dandified
In suspendered bermudas while my nurse has cauterized
My blackheads for a secret princely fee. Look,
Wanton Want, my nose is buried in a picture book,
The pages sheared as I have my way, my cave
Anointed with lip balm and corn Fritos and after-shave.
Who will love me if not for you, I beseech.
I wring and sling, left hand and right, as I teach
Others the glories of cut-and-paste passages
From Corinthians while wanking into my massive fez.
Glory be to the Holiest, now bring me some absinthe.
Undo my suspenders and knock down all the plinths.
A panegyric for St. Paul, a tulip for my Sweet.
Now excuse me yet again while I'm off to beat my meat.
On this mossy outcrop of granite, fist around beer,
While the ass-flap of my pink pyjamas flutters
In sheepish wind as the prize in my eyes gutters.
I've busted out of the straightjacket, dontcha know,
And regale the ewes with bleats and shrieks as I grow
Blackheads on my schwzinzel. Crows are aping me
From sleek gutters perched above the apple tree.
Love, terrible visions await my cloudy future
Slicing seaward inflating my nose with fake silver lures.
Caress my johnson, lonely like me in mawkish verse.
I'll startle you with lines I lament over and rehearse.
Model these crotchless overalls, figment of this pig, meant so
Piningly, this cheese setting (I hope) your mouse to flow.
I'm chewing on dandelion root, dandified
In suspendered bermudas while my nurse has cauterized
My blackheads for a secret princely fee. Look,
Wanton Want, my nose is buried in a picture book,
The pages sheared as I have my way, my cave
Anointed with lip balm and corn Fritos and after-shave.
Who will love me if not for you, I beseech.
I wring and sling, left hand and right, as I teach
Others the glories of cut-and-paste passages
From Corinthians while wanking into my massive fez.
Glory be to the Holiest, now bring me some absinthe.
Undo my suspenders and knock down all the plinths.
A panegyric for St. Paul, a tulip for my Sweet.
Now excuse me yet again while I'm off to beat my meat.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #7
Look here, Doctor, there's nothing amiss in the snakepit
Of my mind.
I bray, I stand, I sit, I pick my nose and teeth
And behind.
Anything in the kit to calm my nerves, a cayenne shake
In some cream?
I weary of the infiltrated mug of Oral Roberts
In my wet dreams.
My verses may be as flat as Neil Young hitting a high note,
Dressed in teal.
Trouble is, I write the same thing: a needle stuck in a groove,
And quite unreal.
Can I get a private nurse in room number five-nine-six-three,
Or a coop?
Lessons? Lesions? It must needs behoove me, in solitary,
To recoup.
Of my mind.
I bray, I stand, I sit, I pick my nose and teeth
And behind.
Anything in the kit to calm my nerves, a cayenne shake
In some cream?
I weary of the infiltrated mug of Oral Roberts
In my wet dreams.
My verses may be as flat as Neil Young hitting a high note,
Dressed in teal.
Trouble is, I write the same thing: a needle stuck in a groove,
And quite unreal.
Can I get a private nurse in room number five-nine-six-three,
Or a coop?
Lessons? Lesions? It must needs behoove me, in solitary,
To recoup.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Ethereal Beauty #6
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.
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.
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.
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