(and grabs a soapbox)
"Call me crazy but here is the most bittersweet bottle of beer I ever drank. There is something in it that displeases me; could it be its toxic aroma? I think not—perhaps the hops are too stale. Or perhaps the lifetime of oppression of the workers, who soil their shirts with sweat and bleed profusely over the pavement for the returns they sow, perhaps it is this which bothers me. But no, I am no unionist, I am no collectivist. I am however a discerning bar patron. I think perhaps it is the tastiness of this beer, combined with its unpleasant aftertaste which has struck a chord within me. Let us consider the rose, a sweet smelling flower, but quick to go rotten and stink up an entire area, whether indoors, out of doors or an enclosed courtyard. This is what I mean when I highlight the evanescence of earthly beauty. And so it is with beer. Now, consider the buzzing of the bee, or the lamenting yelp of the hound dog, as it chases its afternoon vittles down the road in the form of an ice-cream cart full of dog sausages – for sausage is known to go bad left in the summer heat, and so ice cream carts are sometimes put to this use. Consider the flux of the river, the changing of the seasons, and the perfect arc the sun makes in the sky in its daily voyage through our hearts and minds in time, space and serendipity. Then ask yourself, “Have I made the life of my fellow man just a bit more bearable?” Indeed such questions are not easy; the answers trouble us with repercussion and meaning we least suspect. There is an old Native saying, “He who is without the shade of an oak tree, is like a lonely reed.” The oak tree is the rock we build our lives upon – without a rock, a tree is but a mere twig, ready to be snapped by any passing mule or wolfhound. Such is the grim test of nature, as we are cast about day to day in an unremitting frenzy of rock, trees, and unquenching yet seemingly delicious liquid refreshment. Which brings us back to beer. Who among us has not tasted a premium lager, and thought, “Indeed, the brewmaster is a mighty fellow!” I wager not a one of you. For let us not forget the skill and knowledge, passed down from generation to generation, that made men like Alexander Keith’s into the well-marketed household names we rely on to feed our artificially contrived system of manufactured consumer wants. I believe it was that modern-day economic Methuselah and fellow Canadian John Kenneth Galbraith who once said "The richer we become, the thicker is the dirt.” I have no idea what that means, but clearly, the man was drunk off his cake. Which brings us back to beer…"
10/30/2004
10/29/2004
Mr. Gabby goes trick or treating...
Doesn't everybody love Hallowe'en? To me, this time of year is 'da bom', but then again, I'm a freak for 'da bommativity'.
For those about to 'rage it up,' remember my first rule for Hallowe'en: 1) take no prisoners. That is, if, when cruising the streets in your Skeletor Mask or Slutty Thong + Devil's Horns, you see some prisoners moping about and teeth-gnashing, please, do not take them. Let them be -- they've suffered enough as prisoners (of 'the man' or their 'tawdry lifestyle') and don't need reminding of their shackled existence. Because the rule is 'take no prisoners'. Ok? Ok.
Another rule of thumb for Hallowe'en is 2) all's well that ends in a well. This rule refers to litter and other forms of environmental negligence. If you see chewing gum on the sidewalk, or an empty tin of soda laying about, then a) find the nearest well, and throw this refuse down the hole (it should be at least 10 metres deep); or b), if you don't know where any wells are, then phone a water treatment facility in your municipality and ask them for a convenient location. This should solve most problems associated with rule #2 -- except for large cinder blocks that won't fit down the well hole, but those are the exceptions to the rule.
Speaking of rules, I would continue with more strategies for Hallowe'en (for example rule #5: chocolate goggles sting the eyes, or rule #23: a flaming pumpkin can be your greatest ally) but I don't want to 'talk down' -- after all, you have a fully functioning brain, and such pedantry is noisome, bothersome, or as the French say, ennuyeux -- which is to say 'back off, honky-tonk; I ain't no honky fool!' But enough slangery, and more on Hallowe'en:
Hallowe'en, this most infamous day of intrepid costumery, is known in some circles -- particularly, French circles -- as la jour du bonté de l'âme, or 'the day of soulful goodness'. Now this interprétation a la française may come as a surprise, or even a shock, but hey, that's your problem -- the HW-dog was not devised for the faint of heart. If you can't handle the wicked Hallowe'enic truth then please, head straightaway to the devil -- perhaps someone will pray for your damnèd quintessence come All Soul's Day -- which is Nov 2. But enough morbid theology; what's most important is that you remember to say 'Boo!' a lot on Hallowe'en.
Now Boo, that supposedly vulgar, monosyllabically partisan reprimand is not just a 'cat call' fit for sporting events -- it has myriad delights and uses. Indeed putting Boo in such an athletico-spectatorial 'Boo box' does not do justice to all of those who, for centuries, have laid down their dignity in the name of Hallowe'en, dressing up as Fairie Queens and Homicidal Pitchfork-Wielding Robots, scaring the mucus out of idle-minded gawkers in exchange for a little candy. Therefore I say Boo! to the Boo-belittlers: Boo is not merely a cacophonous foghorn on the playing fields of negativity, but also a wonderful interjection of wondrous surprise, of cunning trickery, a bon mot of winsome guile -- and with such winsome trickery follows the delicious 'treatery' that is the prerogative of the 21st-century treat-or-trickster (un Hallowe'enien moderne in the original French). Indeed, as the great liberal democrat Alexis De Tocqueville once said to himself in the shower, "with childish candour, shall come much candy." This is pure wisdom. So by all means boo to your (hellbound) soul's content: the sprites and spirits of Hallowe'en are smiling!
Anyway that is all. Look for me October 31 -- I'll be the guy dressed up as an umläut, booing his guts out and loving every minute of it.
For those about to 'rage it up,' remember my first rule for Hallowe'en: 1) take no prisoners. That is, if, when cruising the streets in your Skeletor Mask or Slutty Thong + Devil's Horns, you see some prisoners moping about and teeth-gnashing, please, do not take them. Let them be -- they've suffered enough as prisoners (of 'the man' or their 'tawdry lifestyle') and don't need reminding of their shackled existence. Because the rule is 'take no prisoners'. Ok? Ok.
Another rule of thumb for Hallowe'en is 2) all's well that ends in a well. This rule refers to litter and other forms of environmental negligence. If you see chewing gum on the sidewalk, or an empty tin of soda laying about, then a) find the nearest well, and throw this refuse down the hole (it should be at least 10 metres deep); or b), if you don't know where any wells are, then phone a water treatment facility in your municipality and ask them for a convenient location. This should solve most problems associated with rule #2 -- except for large cinder blocks that won't fit down the well hole, but those are the exceptions to the rule.
Speaking of rules, I would continue with more strategies for Hallowe'en (for example rule #5: chocolate goggles sting the eyes, or rule #23: a flaming pumpkin can be your greatest ally) but I don't want to 'talk down' -- after all, you have a fully functioning brain, and such pedantry is noisome, bothersome, or as the French say, ennuyeux -- which is to say 'back off, honky-tonk; I ain't no honky fool!' But enough slangery, and more on Hallowe'en:
Hallowe'en, this most infamous day of intrepid costumery, is known in some circles -- particularly, French circles -- as la jour du bonté de l'âme, or 'the day of soulful goodness'. Now this interprétation a la française may come as a surprise, or even a shock, but hey, that's your problem -- the HW-dog was not devised for the faint of heart. If you can't handle the wicked Hallowe'enic truth then please, head straightaway to the devil -- perhaps someone will pray for your damnèd quintessence come All Soul's Day -- which is Nov 2. But enough morbid theology; what's most important is that you remember to say 'Boo!' a lot on Hallowe'en.
Now Boo, that supposedly vulgar, monosyllabically partisan reprimand is not just a 'cat call' fit for sporting events -- it has myriad delights and uses. Indeed putting Boo in such an athletico-spectatorial 'Boo box' does not do justice to all of those who, for centuries, have laid down their dignity in the name of Hallowe'en, dressing up as Fairie Queens and Homicidal Pitchfork-Wielding Robots, scaring the mucus out of idle-minded gawkers in exchange for a little candy. Therefore I say Boo! to the Boo-belittlers: Boo is not merely a cacophonous foghorn on the playing fields of negativity, but also a wonderful interjection of wondrous surprise, of cunning trickery, a bon mot of winsome guile -- and with such winsome trickery follows the delicious 'treatery' that is the prerogative of the 21st-century treat-or-trickster (un Hallowe'enien moderne in the original French). Indeed, as the great liberal democrat Alexis De Tocqueville once said to himself in the shower, "with childish candour, shall come much candy." This is pure wisdom. So by all means boo to your (hellbound) soul's content: the sprites and spirits of Hallowe'en are smiling!
Anyway that is all. Look for me October 31 -- I'll be the guy dressed up as an umläut, booing his guts out and loving every minute of it.
10/28/2004
paragraph #3143
(note the utopian banana men and how succulently they suck...?)
The tether in the yellow bell grows and glows, the weepy urn-ash vixens fight for the clogged moneyed jugular. We can never tell you secrets; placation comes too late in watery minnowy ponds, with the yuppy igloo centaurs and the prefab oligarch factories; hey why don’t you whack moles into dirt and stop clutching at my fronds... I am taller than sequoias but you’re thin as a reed - you frantic kleptomanic bean. Utopian banana men suck succulently, thrashing with finesse – it’s the hopping never stops; the 'bipping' leads to bops, two hundred centipedes caress my feet; luckily I have pity and don’t squash. And my friend, Frigid Filipino Ethel has a colourful coal mine canary - underground she sings with it - but its wings were clipped by a big brown Doberman, so she must use a walking stick.
The tether in the yellow bell grows and glows, the weepy urn-ash vixens fight for the clogged moneyed jugular. We can never tell you secrets; placation comes too late in watery minnowy ponds, with the yuppy igloo centaurs and the prefab oligarch factories; hey why don’t you whack moles into dirt and stop clutching at my fronds... I am taller than sequoias but you’re thin as a reed - you frantic kleptomanic bean. Utopian banana men suck succulently, thrashing with finesse – it’s the hopping never stops; the 'bipping' leads to bops, two hundred centipedes caress my feet; luckily I have pity and don’t squash. And my friend, Frigid Filipino Ethel has a colourful coal mine canary - underground she sings with it - but its wings were clipped by a big brown Doberman, so she must use a walking stick.
10/27/2004
toast of the town
the toast of the town
is sugary brown
the folks who eat it are
called ‘toaster hounds’
butter’s spread good
whipped and fluffy
jelly well slathered, it
makes a nice muffin
moist and chewy
this toast's the bee-yatch
folks goin' screwy
to taste the whole stack
the upper crust love it, it's
all of the rage
it's toast of the town, and
crumb-bums become sage
toast of the town
on all the cooking shows
the rest of the breakfast is
stale and it blows
but the toast of the town
has keys to the city
the flavour don’t last
but the banter is witty
the toast of the town
it boasts savoir-now
so let’s grab our chow
while it’s passing around
it's toast of the town
—but don’t burn your lips
as you swallow it down—
and if you chance to miss it
just catch the next round
when yesterday's plate’ll
be tossed to the ground.
is sugary brown
the folks who eat it are
called ‘toaster hounds’
butter’s spread good
whipped and fluffy
jelly well slathered, it
makes a nice muffin
moist and chewy
this toast's the bee-yatch
folks goin' screwy
to taste the whole stack
the upper crust love it, it's
all of the rage
it's toast of the town, and
crumb-bums become sage
toast of the town
on all the cooking shows
the rest of the breakfast is
stale and it blows
but the toast of the town
has keys to the city
the flavour don’t last
but the banter is witty
the toast of the town
it boasts savoir-now
so let’s grab our chow
while it’s passing around
it's toast of the town
—but don’t burn your lips
as you swallow it down—
and if you chance to miss it
just catch the next round
when yesterday's plate’ll
be tossed to the ground.
shaggy pig-dog story
(animal crackers redux?)
The pig in the garden sighs a lot
and drinks a cup of cider
the reason he squeals is ’cause of the gout he
contracted from a spider
the spider’s name is Bethany
an eight-legged hairy frump
she knits a sweater with her eight long legs
and rags on grampa Grump
Grumpa’s a tarantula
he poisons people anon
Bethany bugs him about his venom
so Grampa shouts "Eh, Ron!"
now Ron’s a sexy scorpion
a jagged tailed bloke
he scares the little alley cats
sneaks into stores for Coke
the cats hiss and chase ol’ Ronnie down
it’s scorpion ‘do or die’
Ron’s saved by Tabitha, the shaggy black lab
who howls at the sky
Tabitha’s been to Brixton
where the market’s really hep
yesterday two big pigs were there:
Silly Sam and Porky Pep
Pep and Sam said to Tabitha
“You’re bound to catch the gout,”
Tabitha nodded, mentioned the pig in the garden,
“There’s been a lot of that about.”
now this story’s about pork and pop and poison,
shaggy dogs and pigs that sigh
it’s a silly little ditty ‘bout tarantulas
and scorpion chatricide;
it’s bound to raise an eyebrow,
a quick scoff or "no one cares"
but it’s got to be written anyhow
though it floats away on air
'cause dogs and poison, and pigs with gout
are what make the world go round
and so we wallow like hogs in the fancy-free
’cause it makes a pleasant sound!
The pig in the garden sighs a lot
and drinks a cup of cider
the reason he squeals is ’cause of the gout he
contracted from a spider
the spider’s name is Bethany
an eight-legged hairy frump
she knits a sweater with her eight long legs
and rags on grampa Grump
Grumpa’s a tarantula
he poisons people anon
Bethany bugs him about his venom
so Grampa shouts "Eh, Ron!"
now Ron’s a sexy scorpion
a jagged tailed bloke
he scares the little alley cats
sneaks into stores for Coke
the cats hiss and chase ol’ Ronnie down
it’s scorpion ‘do or die’
Ron’s saved by Tabitha, the shaggy black lab
who howls at the sky
Tabitha’s been to Brixton
where the market’s really hep
yesterday two big pigs were there:
Silly Sam and Porky Pep
Pep and Sam said to Tabitha
“You’re bound to catch the gout,”
Tabitha nodded, mentioned the pig in the garden,
“There’s been a lot of that about.”
now this story’s about pork and pop and poison,
shaggy dogs and pigs that sigh
it’s a silly little ditty ‘bout tarantulas
and scorpion chatricide;
it’s bound to raise an eyebrow,
a quick scoff or "no one cares"
but it’s got to be written anyhow
though it floats away on air
'cause dogs and poison, and pigs with gout
are what make the world go round
and so we wallow like hogs in the fancy-free
’cause it makes a pleasant sound!
10/26/2004
animal crackers
(mind-bogglingly stupid; with nod to S&G's 'At the Zoo')
animal crackers
fish are in the schoolyard
the trout are in the barn,
llamas are chiding the dromedaries
--it all sounds quite divine.
the pandas get quite queasy
chugging quesadillas,
nor do lemurs have it easy
importing raisins from Manila.
the ocelots are tepid
they don’t support the arts
the pumas are pee-yew-mas
adept at cupping farts.
the orcas held a conference
exhort the walrus and the seals
they're tired of trade restrictions
that hurt the common weal.
and ibexes are deadly
their horns can pierce a tank
while skunks are quite lascivious
—those stinky smelly skanks.
yes, the animals are everywhere
they're flooping from the trees
but their pageantry's oblivious
to silly human beans.
(hmm ... needs penultimate ‘transition’ stanza?)
animal crackers
fish are in the schoolyard
the trout are in the barn,
llamas are chiding the dromedaries
--it all sounds quite divine.
the pandas get quite queasy
chugging quesadillas,
nor do lemurs have it easy
importing raisins from Manila.
the ocelots are tepid
they don’t support the arts
the pumas are pee-yew-mas
adept at cupping farts.
the orcas held a conference
exhort the walrus and the seals
they're tired of trade restrictions
that hurt the common weal.
and ibexes are deadly
their horns can pierce a tank
while skunks are quite lascivious
—those stinky smelly skanks.
yes, the animals are everywhere
they're flooping from the trees
but their pageantry's oblivious
to silly human beans.
(hmm ... needs penultimate ‘transition’ stanza?)
the lizard is back
(impenetrable as ever)
Trebuchet magnificence comes into mind at least expected times, and police coat moon wagons cannot fret until the yesterday choice magnets frump contiguously from one census tract to the next. We are alarmed at the dripping of water in the basement - how can you sleep at night? Politeness pays more than firmness, so let those recalcitrant debtors alone, like Solon in Athens - something about the letting loose of chains. Forgive debts and there’s great release of creativity; this has been documented hundreds of times through history... In outside space created by industrialists and business interests we walk in straight paths; we sing to rhythms jotted down on horizontal lines; predictability pacifies the masses say patricians. We move from left-to-right back to the margins, we're like the typewriter return key. I opened the door, to breathe oxygen; and my autistic subconscious rattled off lists, the best the british the ancient men; I talked internally, wandered finally to the great ubermensch the loggerheaded beatnik microphage the spirochetes and the dog treats you leave on a shelf for when the neighbour’s pup trips by...?
We surf amid polluted fruit food, the mood music interludes, the mid-tempo transitions to a more advantageous auricular position, the decision to stick with fission, the semantic stitch after the linguistic incision; your tongue gets stuck in neutral, so rub the clutch with a grapefruit citrus herbal concoction. In Latin we were Roman, in Greek we were Hellenes; we wallowed in testamental sight-reading eyeball look look look at me now, an AmeroCanado-Englishmun, please, call the doctor quick; Dear Dr. Marshall -- I've become a McLuhanatic.
Trebuchet magnificence comes into mind at least expected times, and police coat moon wagons cannot fret until the yesterday choice magnets frump contiguously from one census tract to the next. We are alarmed at the dripping of water in the basement - how can you sleep at night? Politeness pays more than firmness, so let those recalcitrant debtors alone, like Solon in Athens - something about the letting loose of chains. Forgive debts and there’s great release of creativity; this has been documented hundreds of times through history... In outside space created by industrialists and business interests we walk in straight paths; we sing to rhythms jotted down on horizontal lines; predictability pacifies the masses say patricians. We move from left-to-right back to the margins, we're like the typewriter return key. I opened the door, to breathe oxygen; and my autistic subconscious rattled off lists, the best the british the ancient men; I talked internally, wandered finally to the great ubermensch the loggerheaded beatnik microphage the spirochetes and the dog treats you leave on a shelf for when the neighbour’s pup trips by...?
We surf amid polluted fruit food, the mood music interludes, the mid-tempo transitions to a more advantageous auricular position, the decision to stick with fission, the semantic stitch after the linguistic incision; your tongue gets stuck in neutral, so rub the clutch with a grapefruit citrus herbal concoction. In Latin we were Roman, in Greek we were Hellenes; we wallowed in testamental sight-reading eyeball look look look at me now, an AmeroCanado-Englishmun, please, call the doctor quick; Dear Dr. Marshall -- I've become a McLuhanatic.
10/21/2004
across ocean
(send a blanket in the mail - it's getting chilly out there)
I tickle you with
words because that’s the
only way to
touch you; when
we will sit,
snooze together again?
my dearest darling friend, makes my
face flush warm tickling
massage? how bout it
you say ‘amen to that’
like the end of prayer, me wishing when
you answer
every couple weeks
’cross an ocean you
flicker in a screen
my teeth flicker too and
I’m smiling into you
that big-tooth sheen of mine
I know you’re keen on it and
you onscreen
my big brown eyes lit and I—
you, afterward, after words we
smile, having gleaned from
the eyes, the sheen—that we know
'kindred' means that
only we know what 'we' mean
I tickle you with
words because that’s the
only way to
touch you; when
we will sit,
snooze together again?
my dearest darling friend, makes my
face flush warm tickling
massage? how bout it
you say ‘amen to that’
like the end of prayer, me wishing when
you answer
every couple weeks
’cross an ocean you
flicker in a screen
my teeth flicker too and
I’m smiling into you
that big-tooth sheen of mine
I know you’re keen on it and
you onscreen
my big brown eyes lit and I—
you, afterward, after words we
smile, having gleaned from
the eyes, the sheen—that we know
'kindred' means that
only we know what 'we' mean
10/19/2004
apologies in advance...
(nothing's more annoying than a poet with morals - but this erupted somehow today, and so who am I to get in the way?)
Benjamin's easel
Benjamin was a weasel
he had some paints and easel
tried to draw a beauty
—but it just came out evil
Benny was agog
he never seen such fright
he stuck a knife right through his painting
and wailed throughout the night
Benjy was a jerk
he spat and shirked his work
he called in sick and hit the bricks
til everything just burst
B-spot was alone
sat by the phone and moaned
‘I am good, so give me food’
but the bank refused his loan
B-Jam ate canned beans
thought up crazy schemes
he made wishes, washing dishes
in his head he dreamed
Benjamin’s a friend
inside of all men
but we kick him and we punch him
we don’t like what he pretends
He forces us to think
which drives some folk to drink
better one man sinks, so the rest don’t think
‘bout how everything just stinks.
So, repeat after me:
Benjamin was a weasel
he had some paints and easel
tried to draw a beauty
—but it just came out evil.
Benjamin's easel
Benjamin was a weasel
he had some paints and easel
tried to draw a beauty
—but it just came out evil
Benny was agog
he never seen such fright
he stuck a knife right through his painting
and wailed throughout the night
Benjy was a jerk
he spat and shirked his work
he called in sick and hit the bricks
til everything just burst
B-spot was alone
sat by the phone and moaned
‘I am good, so give me food’
but the bank refused his loan
B-Jam ate canned beans
thought up crazy schemes
he made wishes, washing dishes
in his head he dreamed
Benjamin’s a friend
inside of all men
but we kick him and we punch him
we don’t like what he pretends
He forces us to think
which drives some folk to drink
better one man sinks, so the rest don’t think
‘bout how everything just stinks.
So, repeat after me:
Benjamin was a weasel
he had some paints and easel
tried to draw a beauty
—but it just came out evil.
10/18/2004
My Cat
(nb, I do not own, nor have I ever owned, a cat - but if I did, it might go something like this...)
*ahem*
My cat
My cat, he slinks
He drinks his water regally, quiet and royally
Ferally stalking, he’s walking or ambling
Finally feeling sane, he pauses—
feline claws clenched for an ambush
(A fine game of rat or mouse. Oh to kill and eat a defenseless baby duck!)
He stops stalking when I look at him
he returns my stare, glowering. I glare, almost glowing. Mad at my cat. Why,
he doesn’t even love me, my tabby. Me?
Ok, so I am chatty, admittedly. Lonely yes, but dares he pity me?
Me, his master? How durst he! Must he?
This cat of mine, coughing up a dust ball! Nine lives, p’shaw!
First of all: “Get off the couch, you hairy beast,” I shout right through my home
For now he brushes against my leg, and again against his scratching post
fur rubbing gently now
almost erotic for such a heavy pet
almost ‘sexy’
like the clubs on Queen Street where I feel like
the real deal
or the ace of hearts.
And I’m on fire, shuffled out onto the deck for smoking,
but it’s like I’m burning, stuck in the mud
smoking outside the clubs
before leeched lovers sucking on each other
wannabees, really
full of beans. They’re for the birds
not for me,
Me alone out on in the courtyard on a Friday night,
But it feels like a Wednesday
In there, inside there
I am the dancing king
in rooms full of sweaty courtiers.
Those are diamonds in their eyes
“Oh, but you’re so shiny”—that’s what they tell me, tauntingly
Don’t patronize me,
I feel like scowling, but instead
I walk away
I want to say, “Listen cats, you do as I say.”
“You’re just cats; you can’t speak English—you depend on me in every way.”
But
with agility they leap away
And I think,
oh you silly cat,
you stinky dirty rat—
I’ll have your ass one day.
(yeah, gets a bit carried away ... March 2001)
*ahem*
My cat
My cat, he slinks
He drinks his water regally, quiet and royally
Ferally stalking, he’s walking or ambling
Finally feeling sane, he pauses—
feline claws clenched for an ambush
(A fine game of rat or mouse. Oh to kill and eat a defenseless baby duck!)
He stops stalking when I look at him
he returns my stare, glowering. I glare, almost glowing. Mad at my cat. Why,
he doesn’t even love me, my tabby. Me?
Ok, so I am chatty, admittedly. Lonely yes, but dares he pity me?
Me, his master? How durst he! Must he?
This cat of mine, coughing up a dust ball! Nine lives, p’shaw!
First of all: “Get off the couch, you hairy beast,” I shout right through my home
For now he brushes against my leg, and again against his scratching post
fur rubbing gently now
almost erotic for such a heavy pet
almost ‘sexy’
like the clubs on Queen Street where I feel like
the real deal
or the ace of hearts.
And I’m on fire, shuffled out onto the deck for smoking,
but it’s like I’m burning, stuck in the mud
smoking outside the clubs
before leeched lovers sucking on each other
wannabees, really
full of beans. They’re for the birds
not for me,
Me alone out on in the courtyard on a Friday night,
But it feels like a Wednesday
In there, inside there
I am the dancing king
in rooms full of sweaty courtiers.
Those are diamonds in their eyes
“Oh, but you’re so shiny”—that’s what they tell me, tauntingly
Don’t patronize me,
I feel like scowling, but instead
I walk away
I want to say, “Listen cats, you do as I say.”
“You’re just cats; you can’t speak English—you depend on me in every way.”
But
with agility they leap away
And I think,
oh you silly cat,
you stinky dirty rat—
I’ll have your ass one day.
(yeah, gets a bit carried away ... March 2001)
10/17/2004
Writer's block
I stopped, knocked off
at the dot
my robot scoffed, dropped and I
bopped the cop
I mopped up glop
topped up til
the cap popped
the lip locked
I rocked back, forth
Now it’s
socks off
and molotov
so don’t mock my
cocky cocky Cockney
Rachmaninoff?
at the dot
my robot scoffed, dropped and I
bopped the cop
I mopped up glop
topped up til
the cap popped
the lip locked
I rocked back, forth
Now it’s
socks off
and molotov
so don’t mock my
cocky cocky Cockney
Rachmaninoff?
10/16/2004
the Poltergeist Magnificane
Welcome to the world of the Poltergeist Magnificane and the popular poultry finger:
“Yesterdiction, Futurifaction, Satisblixion, Multivacuation are the order of the day.”
So sit on my throne, police my face - you are the best wet dressers in the whole damn place.
Usurious road nuggets hiss trembling and yelp yellowy. Whether Iguana rectum or walrus whisker, my violet feathery foxfiddle begins to be a trickster. So quiggle my thumb, rub my tum, begin barn-blasting and open up the rum, we are the tall tots boasting about the cage full o' chum, we are the big smelly acoustically unholy pollywog-and-rolypoly coconut drums!
“Yesterdiction, Futurifaction, Satisblixion, Multivacuation are the order of the day.”
So sit on my throne, police my face - you are the best wet dressers in the whole damn place.
Usurious road nuggets hiss trembling and yelp yellowy. Whether Iguana rectum or walrus whisker, my violet feathery foxfiddle begins to be a trickster. So quiggle my thumb, rub my tum, begin barn-blasting and open up the rum, we are the tall tots boasting about the cage full o' chum, we are the big smelly acoustically unholy pollywog-and-rolypoly coconut drums!
10/14/2004
be still my muse
after all I stand to lose, your eyes
insides I needed to use
we do what we must
do, but when
everything unglues
and still I need you
will you be at least my muse?
(I can't believe I ever lost you)
insides I needed to use
we do what we must
do, but when
everything unglues
and still I need you
will you be at least my muse?
(I can't believe I ever lost you)
Mi piace il cafonismo...
"I like being a jackass..."
And who can say what it means to be a gentleman? A knight-errant treated like second-class refuse will eventually cease his errands. And become a garbage tosser too. It’s such a shame that what goes around comes around.
We often cry instead of frolicking in the gardens where we were born. How tragic. Yet I have taught many an apple to turn brown on a wire instead of losing itself amid the tall trees of Oceania. Wigwams and lollygags are interspersed on the avenue of fried things. Does this frighten me? Probably not.
Helmets are legislated for bikers, the long-legged trekkers on their way to Avalon; Ben Franklin fritters and Marlboro cigarettes are the lost products of the last decade, banned and censured for deleterious effects on the common weal, and for their odour the smoke the tobacco cloak the shaggy dog story revoked as irrevocable. Logarithmic dieticians and nutritious metaphysicians make predelictive predictions beyond the expansive Euler scale, as though the truth about calculus won't blow down in a cosmic gale, hoisting pelicans these hurricanes. So say hail and all hands high and all time good times in the blink of an eye. Follow and wallow, lead and breathe freer, determine what it is you must believe in, the weekend reprieve or the clothing store manager’s vacation leave?
I left the city with an anchor 'round my legs; I tripped in the highway, got run over by a semi. I washed outside with a garden hose, walked about the piazza looking for mosquitoes. I was searching for a friend to take me to Ohio. My good friend Ms. Correcto drinks a lot of Milo - (call me crazy if you have to but at least it makes her smile-o). Every time I asked the waitress for a high-chair for my bug, she laughed, spit in my ashes and asked if I'm on drugs. So I hid under the covers and drew your face in crayon; you said "let's strap on some leather tonight, and really get our 'gay' on." I waited until midnight to open your lipstick letter. Feeling better I sighed, jumped outside and called your name: "You're such a big fan of tapioca, and that makes you pretty lame!"
And who can say what it means to be a gentleman? A knight-errant treated like second-class refuse will eventually cease his errands. And become a garbage tosser too. It’s such a shame that what goes around comes around.
We often cry instead of frolicking in the gardens where we were born. How tragic. Yet I have taught many an apple to turn brown on a wire instead of losing itself amid the tall trees of Oceania. Wigwams and lollygags are interspersed on the avenue of fried things. Does this frighten me? Probably not.
Helmets are legislated for bikers, the long-legged trekkers on their way to Avalon; Ben Franklin fritters and Marlboro cigarettes are the lost products of the last decade, banned and censured for deleterious effects on the common weal, and for their odour the smoke the tobacco cloak the shaggy dog story revoked as irrevocable. Logarithmic dieticians and nutritious metaphysicians make predelictive predictions beyond the expansive Euler scale, as though the truth about calculus won't blow down in a cosmic gale, hoisting pelicans these hurricanes. So say hail and all hands high and all time good times in the blink of an eye. Follow and wallow, lead and breathe freer, determine what it is you must believe in, the weekend reprieve or the clothing store manager’s vacation leave?
I left the city with an anchor 'round my legs; I tripped in the highway, got run over by a semi. I washed outside with a garden hose, walked about the piazza looking for mosquitoes. I was searching for a friend to take me to Ohio. My good friend Ms. Correcto drinks a lot of Milo - (call me crazy if you have to but at least it makes her smile-o). Every time I asked the waitress for a high-chair for my bug, she laughed, spit in my ashes and asked if I'm on drugs. So I hid under the covers and drew your face in crayon; you said "let's strap on some leather tonight, and really get our 'gay' on." I waited until midnight to open your lipstick letter. Feeling better I sighed, jumped outside and called your name: "You're such a big fan of tapioca, and that makes you pretty lame!"
10/12/2004
My mad mad love
(oldie but a goodie, written in the dark days... watch out for the blood)
My mad mad love
My love is mad crimson love,
it spills into margins,
nibbles your fingers and tickles your wrist; you
drop your can of cream soda
and fall on your knees
howling.
My love is an ocean of confetti
tossed back and forth like a frisbee
on a grey concrete highway;
it breaks down granite
and melts into warm
raspberry pudding.
My love is a secret rainbow of
ultraviolet regeneration;
it takes seven years
to blossom from the tiniest
mustard seed, but it feeds every
hollow capillary.
My love is an open book of
prayers, spells; a blue curse
when you are deaf, a
stone statue, paralyzed
in terror of being
in love.
And my love is a clutch of darkness--
blackening my insides, maggots
rotting in midsummer stench--
when I fear
my love is wrong and
I hate my own soul.
My love is killing me
killing me every hour so
I pierced my heart with a silver switchblade—
all that’s left now is
sixty seconds of
mad crimson gurgling.
My mad mad love
My love is mad crimson love,
it spills into margins,
nibbles your fingers and tickles your wrist; you
drop your can of cream soda
and fall on your knees
howling.
My love is an ocean of confetti
tossed back and forth like a frisbee
on a grey concrete highway;
it breaks down granite
and melts into warm
raspberry pudding.
My love is a secret rainbow of
ultraviolet regeneration;
it takes seven years
to blossom from the tiniest
mustard seed, but it feeds every
hollow capillary.
My love is an open book of
prayers, spells; a blue curse
when you are deaf, a
stone statue, paralyzed
in terror of being
in love.
And my love is a clutch of darkness--
blackening my insides, maggots
rotting in midsummer stench--
when I fear
my love is wrong and
I hate my own soul.
My love is killing me
killing me every hour so
I pierced my heart with a silver switchblade—
all that’s left now is
sixty seconds of
mad crimson gurgling.
"...nonconformist."
Prefab vocab? Ironclad drab? Blah blah yada yada, Crabby crabby, rather be a cabbie; same old same old, at the end of the rainbow is the dull yellow gold; I want something shiny, sure, but I don’t like the mold - makes me sneeze - sure I’m hard to please, I don’t mean to tease, but I got to live with me until I grow cold.
10/11/2004
turnip-eyed leaf-blowing gasket devil!
(another one that gets away)
Middle of College St. I saw the devil, goat-face, horns and all, and he was smoking a cigarette. He was total mafioso smoking that cigarette, brandishing a leaf-blower with his other hand, clearing a sidewalk in front of an antique store at the north side of the street. Good thing he didn’t see me, as I was in no mood to sell my soul, or have leaves blown all over me. I felt like I was moving through space invisible again, but I know from experience I’m pretty conspicuous. I mean, who else has a giant turnip growing out his eyeballs?
Yeah, that’s me, ‘turnip boy’. Folks oft try to chew on my eyelid-turnip, because it’s novelty to them, but it’s all bets are off when that happens, because hey if you idiots want turnips then head to the goddamn supermarket. Meantime I’m just trying to avoid selling my soul like I said.
Most times when I’m walking along College, I don’t feel like a freaky turnip-eyed munchkin, because I’m looking at the rest of you circus nuts; but so what eh, we all have problems. Like my friend Larry, he has a gasket problem. Meaning that, instead of a lung, he uses a gasket to breathe. Until I met Larry I didn’t even know what a gasket was. But now I know that to breathe in and out of one of those things your whole life involves a desperate world of hurt...
Middle of College St. I saw the devil, goat-face, horns and all, and he was smoking a cigarette. He was total mafioso smoking that cigarette, brandishing a leaf-blower with his other hand, clearing a sidewalk in front of an antique store at the north side of the street. Good thing he didn’t see me, as I was in no mood to sell my soul, or have leaves blown all over me. I felt like I was moving through space invisible again, but I know from experience I’m pretty conspicuous. I mean, who else has a giant turnip growing out his eyeballs?
Yeah, that’s me, ‘turnip boy’. Folks oft try to chew on my eyelid-turnip, because it’s novelty to them, but it’s all bets are off when that happens, because hey if you idiots want turnips then head to the goddamn supermarket. Meantime I’m just trying to avoid selling my soul like I said.
Most times when I’m walking along College, I don’t feel like a freaky turnip-eyed munchkin, because I’m looking at the rest of you circus nuts; but so what eh, we all have problems. Like my friend Larry, he has a gasket problem. Meaning that, instead of a lung, he uses a gasket to breathe. Until I met Larry I didn’t even know what a gasket was. But now I know that to breathe in and out of one of those things your whole life involves a desperate world of hurt...
10/10/2004
help available
twentysomething lefthanded Italo-Canadian blogger seeks employment in postmodern meritocracy:
-master's program not quite working out; will wash dishes or write sitcoms for food (whatever's more dignified)
-skills include: smiling, bad puns, flights of fancy, basic arithmetic (to 99X's tables), some word processing
-has experience in: public speaking, running twice-weekly newspaper, writing books in vain, making waffles, keeping the bathroom clean
-academic: university degrees (2) in arbitrary disciplines (2)
-languages: English, Italian, French, some Latin, plus I live in a Portuguese neighbourhood!
-awards and citations: if you leave a comment below, does that count?
-master's program not quite working out; will wash dishes or write sitcoms for food (whatever's more dignified)
-skills include: smiling, bad puns, flights of fancy, basic arithmetic (to 99X's tables), some word processing
-has experience in: public speaking, running twice-weekly newspaper, writing books in vain, making waffles, keeping the bathroom clean
-academic: university degrees (2) in arbitrary disciplines (2)
-languages: English, Italian, French, some Latin, plus I live in a Portuguese neighbourhood!
-awards and citations: if you leave a comment below, does that count?
10/08/2004
eloquent testimonial
"I got a friend, he a big pizza pie makin chillyo, name o’ Frederico. Now things went to shizzle for this mofo, but ol F-diggety didn’t crumble or nuth, tho it was bad. It was badder than Tremclad, yo, It was like the fourth of July in reverse, worse than a bunch a turkeys in yer face. But no way man, Effie he’s tall crayfish in a sea of lazy clam! F-bop he goes down, sure, but not underground, no way ma bubba. In short it’s all pow-wow and no shizzazzle; Freddy he picked hisself up, did the dusty dust, and continuations were ensuant yo. So, things became wickedy-dick prêttee-dam-quik. Talk aboot the inspira-tron, my bruthnut, cuz F-bomb return to the pizza rollin and the pie bakin, better than eva, and his biznitch near trippy-dips in a ma-fat-ter o’ months. All because of lil ticket I call Rabbi Tone-def Robbinovitch and the Persona Pow-wow Programm!"
(holds for applause)
"Masta Tone, will ya pleez burglarize me from da micro-funk?"
(Tony Robbins smiles, takes microphone)
"Now let Massa T-Rex sing the mass!"
(holds for applause)
"Masta Tone, will ya pleez burglarize me from da micro-funk?"
(Tony Robbins smiles, takes microphone)
"Now let Massa T-Rex sing the mass!"
10/07/2004
feeding the dragon
there’s an empty file folder
in my computer
it screams at me in binary,
“what have you lately done
for me?”
back to Square One
got to go shopping
pick my brain
every single day, the same
wake up naked, beside a dragon
so relentless in its feed
--I wish I were an
accountant
something to count on
every single day, all the same
I
wish I were an
accountant
to keep track of what
it means
in my computer
it screams at me in binary,
“what have you lately done
for me?”
back to Square One
got to go shopping
pick my brain
every single day, the same
wake up naked, beside a dragon
so relentless in its feed
--I wish I were an
accountant
something to count on
every single day, all the same
I
wish I were an
accountant
to keep track of what
it means
712 College St
(it’s that west end Toronto sidewalk, dessert-talk, smoke, handshake, squawk, gawk… institution)
“The Lord Himself dwells in these waffles!”
quoth the fat Jehovah’s witness
espresso slicker than gheri-curls
as Lil’ Richard graced the business
they say it got unhip up here
southwest - the Drake’s - where sizzle’s now
but ‘they’ don’t know Tronno from Tonawanda
and the Sitchy-Side still blazes
sure, the waitress ain’t really from Sicily
but she looks pretty good to me
brings us water, lots of bubbles
I wink, and tip accordingly
time to park, blab, hang out
with black Camilla, Swedish Inga
one scoop chocolate, one of vanilla
sidewalk days or nights out
don’t dress your best; or, dress to impress
chug the coffee, slurp that mess
spit out foam on your fresh pressed breast
sit and watch the stars gleam
it’s PortuGinos and paesanos
veggie gentry and ’bridge Sopranos
905ers and downtowners
--it’s so much more than ice cream.
“The Lord Himself dwells in these waffles!”
quoth the fat Jehovah’s witness
espresso slicker than gheri-curls
as Lil’ Richard graced the business
they say it got unhip up here
southwest - the Drake’s - where sizzle’s now
but ‘they’ don’t know Tronno from Tonawanda
and the Sitchy-Side still blazes
sure, the waitress ain’t really from Sicily
but she looks pretty good to me
brings us water, lots of bubbles
I wink, and tip accordingly
time to park, blab, hang out
with black Camilla, Swedish Inga
one scoop chocolate, one of vanilla
sidewalk days or nights out
don’t dress your best; or, dress to impress
chug the coffee, slurp that mess
spit out foam on your fresh pressed breast
sit and watch the stars gleam
it’s PortuGinos and paesanos
veggie gentry and ’bridge Sopranos
905ers and downtowners
--it’s so much more than ice cream.
10/05/2004
scrawled gyrations
(with sparsely scattered lucid bits)
Listening to pop songs as if they were prayers
We’re the most religious society in history
Chorus:
Just like a prayer
Just like a prayer
…I’ll take you there
You say you don’t believe in god?
As long as you don’t say ‘I don’t believe in Elvis’ (anagram: elvis? lives!)
Elvis Presley? Lepersy Lives
Cultural dictat. You have nothing.
I just don’t see why anything should be over.
Polynomial expansion. You could never tell me a secret
I got too many splinters in my palm.
Nobody’s interested in this stuff.
Take me down to Confession Street, the preacher’s in the alleyway dismissing sins for free. He can ease your conscience with a flicking of the lips, he simulates salvation in an unmistakeable lisp. It’s anonymous and it’s easy; it’s good for what ails you.
There are many reasons to continue; but there is no reason to eat ketchup. It doesn’t taste that good; it doesn’t feed your soul the way you want.
The tall oak sees all, knows all
The bleeding piece of earth
The green lantern of hope
The jungle where your soul is
The rabbit hole of confusion
The road not taken
The dignity of age
The humanity of monsters
(what I learned from literature)
What’s it like?
I was here first
Now I’m just waiting
For the rest of you to
Catch up
mind starts to wander
This hateful invitation to nothing
Find a key line, something for the audience to latch onto and get excited about, then fill in the cracks with filler from your life. All writers are lonely, and yet they are left to describe the world. This is dangerous. Psychologists and Physicists. What about teaching? I remember trying to learn about Salsa. And all those things I’ve never done.
We were trapped by the past, it was inexorable. The randomness of it all. The consolations of philosophy were good. I leave this work unfinished; I leave this to be filled in the blanks.
(and some random riffs)
Jackaninny j-walkers in the planetary groove, the in the unfeeling druid manoeuvres, the nuanced maverick in the thermostat barn, the gridlock juniper bushes building a house of cards, the jello mould mind games, the foreign policy names, from Azerbaijan, those ex-Soviet republics, also called Dalmatia, also called Parthia, also called Gaul. Your name has been manifold throughout these centuries my friend.
Can it all be collected? all those bloggers out there who are better than the rest; all those wonderful personalities, in this meaningless criticism of life—when we are all too literate and afraid of life. Saying and doing and writing as disparate as the three points on a triangle – as far apart as possible. What we didn’t do is what we say; what we write is what we didn’t say: over the noose, the verbose, the bellicose and lachrymose and the overdose. The do dare dedi datus, I gave myself to everything; the capio capere cepi captus. I was taken from everything. You were so close to me, and so close is the way we like it.
Listening to pop songs as if they were prayers
We’re the most religious society in history
Chorus:
Just like a prayer
Just like a prayer
…I’ll take you there
You say you don’t believe in god?
As long as you don’t say ‘I don’t believe in Elvis’ (anagram: elvis? lives!)
Elvis Presley? Lepersy Lives
Cultural dictat. You have nothing.
I just don’t see why anything should be over.
Polynomial expansion. You could never tell me a secret
I got too many splinters in my palm.
Nobody’s interested in this stuff.
Take me down to Confession Street, the preacher’s in the alleyway dismissing sins for free. He can ease your conscience with a flicking of the lips, he simulates salvation in an unmistakeable lisp. It’s anonymous and it’s easy; it’s good for what ails you.
There are many reasons to continue; but there is no reason to eat ketchup. It doesn’t taste that good; it doesn’t feed your soul the way you want.
The tall oak sees all, knows all
The bleeding piece of earth
The green lantern of hope
The jungle where your soul is
The rabbit hole of confusion
The road not taken
The dignity of age
The humanity of monsters
(what I learned from literature)
What’s it like?
I was here first
Now I’m just waiting
For the rest of you to
Catch up
mind starts to wander
This hateful invitation to nothing
Find a key line, something for the audience to latch onto and get excited about, then fill in the cracks with filler from your life. All writers are lonely, and yet they are left to describe the world. This is dangerous. Psychologists and Physicists. What about teaching? I remember trying to learn about Salsa. And all those things I’ve never done.
We were trapped by the past, it was inexorable. The randomness of it all. The consolations of philosophy were good. I leave this work unfinished; I leave this to be filled in the blanks.
(and some random riffs)
Jackaninny j-walkers in the planetary groove, the in the unfeeling druid manoeuvres, the nuanced maverick in the thermostat barn, the gridlock juniper bushes building a house of cards, the jello mould mind games, the foreign policy names, from Azerbaijan, those ex-Soviet republics, also called Dalmatia, also called Parthia, also called Gaul. Your name has been manifold throughout these centuries my friend.
Can it all be collected? all those bloggers out there who are better than the rest; all those wonderful personalities, in this meaningless criticism of life—when we are all too literate and afraid of life. Saying and doing and writing as disparate as the three points on a triangle – as far apart as possible. What we didn’t do is what we say; what we write is what we didn’t say: over the noose, the verbose, the bellicose and lachrymose and the overdose. The do dare dedi datus, I gave myself to everything; the capio capere cepi captus. I was taken from everything. You were so close to me, and so close is the way we like it.
10/04/2004
Moses harangues the masses
.
Big black Moses
works at the foot of Ossington
folks more colourful there than in Little Portugal;
women and men in transit, don’t know what to make of it
where the Queen car stops in fits, east to west
Parkdale to Bellwoods, "this is nutbar territory" you overhear
but October’s meaner than summer now,
not much love for 'nutters' even here
Moses wades into roadway, parts the traffic
rubdown rag in hands, attacking windshields at the lights
drivers protest, wave away, sometimes they honk
he frightens two skittish teenage girls
chases pretty Asian women along the walk
(what are we supposed to do?)
I’m fixated by the spectacle
enthralled by his honest nerve, such
earnest close-talking discomfort
Moses has no place to live, except with himself
and it can’t be easy, that crowd
—and we’re a tough tough Monday afternoon crowd—
when no one sees what he sees, Lord knows what
his coping mechanisms are: bushy white beard, felt bowler, brass crucifix
and a scorching case of schizophrenia
—but Moses works his corner like a bloodhound
he networks like an MBA.
So, if you want out of the ordinary, head to
Ossington and Queen in the afternoon and look for
Moses and his pals:
they may entertain you for a token or loonie;
most people say “sorry” and look away,
and it’s tough holding that loonie after 15 minutes' wait
but I too say “sorry” and look away,
how else can I make it on the 501 in one piece?
you see Moses really asks too much—and my conscience needs some sleep.
Big black Moses
works at the foot of Ossington
folks more colourful there than in Little Portugal;
women and men in transit, don’t know what to make of it
where the Queen car stops in fits, east to west
Parkdale to Bellwoods, "this is nutbar territory" you overhear
but October’s meaner than summer now,
not much love for 'nutters' even here
Moses wades into roadway, parts the traffic
rubdown rag in hands, attacking windshields at the lights
drivers protest, wave away, sometimes they honk
he frightens two skittish teenage girls
chases pretty Asian women along the walk
(what are we supposed to do?)
I’m fixated by the spectacle
enthralled by his honest nerve, such
earnest close-talking discomfort
Moses has no place to live, except with himself
and it can’t be easy, that crowd
—and we’re a tough tough Monday afternoon crowd—
when no one sees what he sees, Lord knows what
his coping mechanisms are: bushy white beard, felt bowler, brass crucifix
and a scorching case of schizophrenia
—but Moses works his corner like a bloodhound
he networks like an MBA.
So, if you want out of the ordinary, head to
Ossington and Queen in the afternoon and look for
Moses and his pals:
they may entertain you for a token or loonie;
most people say “sorry” and look away,
and it’s tough holding that loonie after 15 minutes' wait
but I too say “sorry” and look away,
how else can I make it on the 501 in one piece?
you see Moses really asks too much—and my conscience needs some sleep.
sentences! sentences! I need 500 by nightfall!
The people in the beer commercials, they have it so good, ya know.
So mention me, melt me, make me more mellow, make me like the network men, morphing into a monster, modelling brain drain complainants and profane, medieval usurious anti-Inquisitional interest payments?
The unused men all over the earth. Such a pity, the waste of good minds, leads to vine-climbing, over the fence, a fifty-dollar trespassing fine.
The yellow school bus or pickup truck or love in the back seat with ‘Isaac Hayes moonlight’ and a piece of good luck. Mmm, lovers and liquid, liplock and rub-a-dub, leech love, sucking on each other as we rage against the tick-tock.
Portions preferential inversely based on age, you sidestep the post-supper sweets with cringe-inducing contortionism; the freed men in the descent downstairs into sawmills munching on gorgonzola amid rumours of a bishopric gone astray the locust dewpoint the aria the breakfast in bed and the green glowing light signalling a telephone call, it all reminds me of mute-button hotpoint-flashpoint pressed flowers, tall towers, the stolid reliable strength of middle-class manpower. Hours and hours I wait, elate upon admission, it’s a metaphysical condition, this semantic elision, an act of contrition, really, to hoist me from perdition. Fusion or fission, a nuclear lyricism, it’s light from a prism, a movement in dada, to remove us all from the prison. (and as Cosby would say, ‘it’s all about the fizz-um.’)
Binaural murmurings smack me from my moping, the floating Godzilla pillows the pied piper in alleyways leads us rats out into ocean air, salt spray cleansing every one (rodents and man with big Scottish buns, it was double the fun, we saw and we ran, I smile and I run). It was Easter: I was smothered in music, we walked through the Stations of the Cross, radio stations blaring; petty parochial or exegetical politics don’t sway me; though polite, my mammoth double burgers mollify my warty waxy neurosis, no it’s not psychosis; familial closeness allows me to boast this: I’m like the bloke with the most-est; I’m both the party, and the hostess. You provincial boyscouts can’t change me, and despite all appearances this federally funded flaming firing fedora-n-trenchcoat mafia ain’t so lazy, I just tease thee, really; it looks like joking, another attempt at an ‘ism’, yes, but it’s not so easy living when you’re losing all religion.
So mention me, melt me, make me more mellow, make me like the network men, morphing into a monster, modelling brain drain complainants and profane, medieval usurious anti-Inquisitional interest payments?
The unused men all over the earth. Such a pity, the waste of good minds, leads to vine-climbing, over the fence, a fifty-dollar trespassing fine.
The yellow school bus or pickup truck or love in the back seat with ‘Isaac Hayes moonlight’ and a piece of good luck. Mmm, lovers and liquid, liplock and rub-a-dub, leech love, sucking on each other as we rage against the tick-tock.
Portions preferential inversely based on age, you sidestep the post-supper sweets with cringe-inducing contortionism; the freed men in the descent downstairs into sawmills munching on gorgonzola amid rumours of a bishopric gone astray the locust dewpoint the aria the breakfast in bed and the green glowing light signalling a telephone call, it all reminds me of mute-button hotpoint-flashpoint pressed flowers, tall towers, the stolid reliable strength of middle-class manpower. Hours and hours I wait, elate upon admission, it’s a metaphysical condition, this semantic elision, an act of contrition, really, to hoist me from perdition. Fusion or fission, a nuclear lyricism, it’s light from a prism, a movement in dada, to remove us all from the prison. (and as Cosby would say, ‘it’s all about the fizz-um.’)
Binaural murmurings smack me from my moping, the floating Godzilla pillows the pied piper in alleyways leads us rats out into ocean air, salt spray cleansing every one (rodents and man with big Scottish buns, it was double the fun, we saw and we ran, I smile and I run). It was Easter: I was smothered in music, we walked through the Stations of the Cross, radio stations blaring; petty parochial or exegetical politics don’t sway me; though polite, my mammoth double burgers mollify my warty waxy neurosis, no it’s not psychosis; familial closeness allows me to boast this: I’m like the bloke with the most-est; I’m both the party, and the hostess. You provincial boyscouts can’t change me, and despite all appearances this federally funded flaming firing fedora-n-trenchcoat mafia ain’t so lazy, I just tease thee, really; it looks like joking, another attempt at an ‘ism’, yes, but it’s not so easy living when you’re losing all religion.
10/03/2004
decode this!
Theal phab eti sadir tysumb itch
Youth inky oua respel lingnons en se
Bu tre allyitis ac rap pypo em
Whi chi swor se? Ik nown ot
:-)
Youth inky oua respel lingnons en se
Bu tre allyitis ac rap pypo em
Whi chi swor se? Ik nown ot
:-)
10/01/2004
Zaza FitzDobermeyer's school of lichen removal
"Don't touch that - I liken it to lichen... And lichen, tis a most deadly pox!" -Zaza FitzDobermeyer.
Grunwalda FitzDobermeyer was a tall lanky underwater swimwear model, who was often at a loss; even more often at a crossroads. Indecision and hesitance stuck to her like a barnacle, or a heap of rotten lichen; indeed these two undesirable qualities were her unshakeable watchwords:
"What shall I do," asked Grunwalda. "How shall I contribute? What glimmering knick-knacks should I puchase?"
Her questions were usually met with muteness, deafness and blindness, for Grundwalda lived and worked in a senseless vortex. This vortex was surrounded by a large silver garret, and was interspliced with canopial evanescence, emanating forth with brunky somnolence, which is worse than living in a crappy basement apartment.
Now off in the distance was a thunderous cracking of loaf. "Crack, Rage!" cracked the loaf. It was loud, but inaudible to Grunwalda. Such was Grunwalda's lot, to have the knowledge that such fantastical noises existed, though she could not apprehend them from within the canopied garrets. So she decided to call her brother, Zaza FitzDobermeyer.
"Grunnie, baby, how are you?"
"Zaza, can you hear me?"
"Of course, it is the daytime, and I am not unconscious."
"Zaza, I need a favour."
"Name it peaches."
"I need a hearing aid."
"Hearing aid? I think I must be deaf, but I know I didn't hear you ask me that!"
"Cut the crap, Zaza. I also need a job."
Grunwalda FitzDobermeyer was a tall lanky underwater swimwear model, who was often at a loss; even more often at a crossroads. Indecision and hesitance stuck to her like a barnacle, or a heap of rotten lichen; indeed these two undesirable qualities were her unshakeable watchwords:
"What shall I do," asked Grunwalda. "How shall I contribute? What glimmering knick-knacks should I puchase?"
Her questions were usually met with muteness, deafness and blindness, for Grundwalda lived and worked in a senseless vortex. This vortex was surrounded by a large silver garret, and was interspliced with canopial evanescence, emanating forth with brunky somnolence, which is worse than living in a crappy basement apartment.
Now off in the distance was a thunderous cracking of loaf. "Crack, Rage!" cracked the loaf. It was loud, but inaudible to Grunwalda. Such was Grunwalda's lot, to have the knowledge that such fantastical noises existed, though she could not apprehend them from within the canopied garrets. So she decided to call her brother, Zaza FitzDobermeyer.
"Grunnie, baby, how are you?"
"Zaza, can you hear me?"
"Of course, it is the daytime, and I am not unconscious."
"Zaza, I need a favour."
"Name it peaches."
"I need a hearing aid."
"Hearing aid? I think I must be deaf, but I know I didn't hear you ask me that!"
"Cut the crap, Zaza. I also need a job."
please don't leave
I woke this morning in
an empty bed,
piled up
with
every letter you
ever wrote me
you said
‘I’ll call you
in the afternoon;’
I waited until
midnight,
now I’m turning into
a pumpkin.
when I was a boy
I had a friend,
his name was Jonathan;
I wonder if you two
somewhere,
are having a coffee
and laughing at me?
an empty bed,
piled up
with
every letter you
ever wrote me
you said
‘I’ll call you
in the afternoon;’
I waited until
midnight,
now I’m turning into
a pumpkin.
when I was a boy
I had a friend,
his name was Jonathan;
I wonder if you two
somewhere,
are having a coffee
and laughing at me?
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