Prelude to a sex spill
Not one to refuse a good spanking
I lined up with the others. Mister Sue
you’ve got some learnin’ to do. No
two ways about it, trouble’s comin’ our way. It’s
going to be a caterwauling the like of which
we’ve never seen. Looks like
we’re in the Narrows (to stay). Expect
slabs. A scuttle has commenced. One dollar, one
measly dollar gets us rendered. What we’ve got to do,
brother, is snuggle up to Jesus. And, and
get our eggs & butter from Frolicker’s Farm.
Forget about those Koch Brothers. And cultivate
a post-deciduous flourish. What
we’re talking here is Baroque on steroids. We
pause here to note that the Bir Hakeim Metro station
has been called after a World War 2 battle. My O my
aren’t we debonair & it just keeps happening. Gives
Moonrakers the willies but we don’t care. Not
our problem that they get their runts mixed up
with their punks. Slow to dot & slow to dash,
a weakness they compensate for by triple crossing
their t’s, double dotting their i’s You want to see
who can chug-a-lug the most? You do? Okay put
some money where… And tell us why the here
& now is so perfectly obscene. Of course I’m ready
to accept my punishment though I’d like to know
what crime I’ve committed. I’m guessing that
I’ve snuggled up to the wrong guy, but obviously
I’ve got it wrong, again, Mister Sue breaking it to me
gently: that for what I’ve done (embodied a post-
deciduous flourish) I’m standing in the wrong line.
Let It Rip
If you wish to honeycomb with Robyn
you’ll need to speak with Ralph. Where
the crow flies there’s a bundle. It can be easy had.
How often have you said? – On cue the whole shebang
is minimized. Yesterday our allegiance was to Bernie’s
bliss source. Today it’s to your rope look when you speak
of a flush, presumably royal, in Santa Fe where every
other day is Glamour Day for bread & butter boys.
Take or leave. Make or break. Cobblestones
pried up & tossed. I’m at a loss. Did they get
what they were owed – no stars on that flag?
Just stripes, a rainbow row. A place in which
to grow? You wish to borrow my truss? No problem.
Anything to parse? Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
Did you hear the spiritualist moaning in my sleep?
What he left unsaid: “In what direction can we best
lean for best benefit?” South, obviously. My wet
your wet if you ask nicely. How about if
we buck a few? Can what’s abundant
abide in frippery? Could you use another
accoutrement, a tear catcher? Why not? What’s
in store? “Let it rip!” Whatever it is you need
to maximize, it’s okay, be my guest. Be
my Valentine if that will help you sort
the gibberish from the let’s pretend. A ruse
in time… What it takes for the unsaid
to flourish – a ceremony, or at the very least
a sense of one. Is missing.
Speed Dating
Curtail your grunt impulse.
Miss Greta Green is watching.
Grammar alarm: a pox on verbs!
Intimidation comes in two colours: red & white.
Blue? Blue is for the uninitiated. In this case: self.
Of which there’s much too much of. Probably why
nothing I say is taken any notice of – “Divulge more
English! Divulge more Irish!” Nothing, so what’s
so divine about the one asleep in that bed? My Aunt G.
kept a .38 Smith & Wesson snub nose
on a small table beside her bed. No problem
about using it if the need to arose. It’s now, 10pm,
that moonlight jokers applaud my, sorry,
uncurtailed grunts. This lamb is heavy, my
shepherd days long over. Wolf alarm: Home Guard
heroes handy with wolf tools to the rescue.
They save the day. It’s now, 8am, that Jubilation gets
& will keep the upper hand. A taking in & then
a sprouting forth. A swishing through a language wood
where we bare all to creatures large & small (when
compliance runs it runs crooked). In line 5
please note the grey hulk beached & posed
for family photos – picnic baskets & the boots
of drowned sailors, whalers probably, their loyalty
to Captain Ahab questionable. Granted that
there’s a tendency here to tend to all comers but,
No, never to these harpoon throwers. Give Destiny
leave to chide them for their errant ways.
Scraps
Among these five, four are gargantuan.
Would you like an unction? I would, I’d delight
in an unction. Scraps for the initiated, to make of them
pretty pictures. (If pretty enough they’re Jesuitical
in their mockeries of salvation.) Ignoring
the ascension the Pretenders curry favour
from the Down-to-Earths. Local wars
with their charm offensives espouse
splendours in the grass. Kudos
for a consecration done with flair for which
we can thank les glapisseurs de dieu. A shame,
Isidore, that you were born with ham fists.
Better luck next time. Would anyone care
to elucidate the workings of the glottis? The
pharynx? Predicated on co-operation from
the curs of God, we’ll be going all out for
some pre-natal exposure to Mom’s effusions.
Probably time to introduce some tongue-speak:
Inimical panache! Flabbergast flay!
To hear church truth you gotta wear it, share
it, bare it. Who embodies that holy ghost shake?
Nobody I know. Nobody I’d care to know.
That flashback joker comes all over stink, Rockin’
Rob ripe for a scrub. Slipstream Sue
ready to oblige. Kick & scream all you want,
Rob, it won’t help you none. If in doubt about
the efficacy of soap consult Pliny the Elder’s
seven sons. Among these seven, six are lilliputian.
Motown Meltdown
Stitch written all over his face.
A swim guy, a notorious doodler.
His art is why his weight is free.
Take one: The fix is in.
It’s a splurge of all in.
It’s a simple case of conviction spindrift.
Come Hell or high water he won’t give up
his Goldilocks persona.
Better late than never he perfected the art
of stooping to any Aleph who proclaims himself
King Shit. In awe of hat-felt bit-holes
fast track failures are his forte.
An out-of-synch groper
he thought he was a goner.
His deadpan dinner burned.
Episode eight – that mover & shaker escapade.
It’s thanks to him that Sister Ever & Brother Anon
have never had a bucket to empty.
Blind-sided, he’s almost home.
At the kitchen table – a rout by chatter clutter
Agitation came in the guise of cowbells.
Arriving late he found his coffin closed.
When he finally managed to slip out from under
Mother Earth was waiting with a scold.
His best practice a perfect example of digging in.
Embracing some floor to ceiling swellings
he was squeamish after a fashion.
It was an onslaught by snuffed candles.
If you’ve never been Mother Hubbarded
you’ll have no idea of what he’s talking.
Engaged in hanky-panky he’s always rude.
Episode twelve: Bang the lot & call it crude.
His candied fruit gets a Good Golly Award.
Probably time to take to weeping for.
Love incurred by half past two is cancelled by three.
Availed of nothing but himself. Alas.
A would-be god on a temple swing,
his pusher’s out to lunch.
Obviously it’s a snack show.
What else could it possibly be?
A flagellation by sweet potato sprouts.
An uphill struggle that ends in April.
For whooping them good he got no thanks.
Will never tell what he’s accrued.
Swept up in a wind of his own making
he laid siege to an empty nest.
Take thirteen: Smooch in a corner.
Lock the door when you leave.
