October 31, 2007

Song of Dung & Defenestration

My fatigue for the next war is no accident,
Hybrid helicopters have wounded my core & shield.
In heaven, when the first female president
Returns, her vulva will be snipped by the late James A. Garfield.

Are you ready for a Californian high-speed train?
To marry L.A. & S.F. in a culture of two-&-a-half hours?
I squeeze a lime in your cocktail of pain,
I will block funding for all beehives & your precious oxalis flowers.

Let's just ask her, she says she means no discord,
There's hummus all over her face, & blood on her token black cloak,
She says the revolt of laboratory bunnies was never seeking its own reward,
Now freeways usually clogged with traffic are choked in smoke.

When asked if she would attend the lost ballet, she danced a maidmarian,
She objectified objective music, & cursed the fin de siècle,
The politics of the super-rich are buried in carrion,
And she was discovered at six a.m. in plainclothes leaving the residence of a sumo wrestler.

Her daughter published a book about pregnant teenaged mosquito lepers,
It was a bestseller at Stanford, unlike the rest of you squares.
Our Lady of Past Winter had the bibacity to drink the Watergate Papers,
One righteous dude too many, a Knight of the Mannerheim Cross, & no one cares.

My man Tom was an avuncular uncle despite his penectomy,
And after they were divorced, her hemorrhoids were tossed to the furnace,
Leakage, Señor, poetry, however, arrogate my brain-child & blow me.
Only edible Porcini? those pigs should be allowed to turn around & return as.

Angels, Albion, diaphany! - & not too soon, but where's our heroine?
I hear her thru the wall discussing the coup.
Fleeing from the bent sword & grooviness, never Matisse's supine ruin,
My exclusive rights to programming cable soccer have been diluted due to the Russian flu.

She is seventeen years old, not so much eternally, but superficially.
I wonder, does it grow new leafs as fast as it loses the old ones?
Her voice-mail inbox is full, her anarchist friends are failing precipitously,
A guest in the guest-house, modern juggling, ages golden but beholden of puns.

I have licked the fleshy part of her thigh for the penultimate time!
So she will never be content with her secretaries, get them besmudged hence!
The cheesiest composers have found words to rhyme with Argentina,
But I loved her, the doctors know it, listen to them eructating the future's judgments.

This Hate Triangle - with Passenger Pigeons & the Bluebeard of the Silesian Railway - has vanished.
The cabaret has gotten boring since they banned heterosexual can-cans.
Like a muse, she advises me to keep repeating myself until I get noticed,
And like a Borscht-belt comedian, to keep copying jokes from the Romans.

An uncanny funeral with an uncanny drumbeat,
Her loudest broadcasts were insufficient to dike up the flashflood of Evangelical Environmentalism,
Your dominion to the end of the earth, no puny feat,
See your omniscience will hit the non-believers in the forehead as a sudden awesome paroxysm.

What were the motives for Hitler's vegetarian diet?
But now that she is dead, & trashing the presidential suite at the Hotel Dis,
I rejoice when the Western train is on time, & the road is spooky quiet,
With the cows I ruminate our infinite hours, no, I remember only her pelvis.

1 comment:

James Welsch said...

As mentioned above, you can hear me singing this song to a folksy melody, here: