And now, this week's installment of my nonsense epic, but stay tuned. On a train from Davis, returning from a Christmas surrounded by nieces, drinking a famous beer made from rice, barley, hops, yeast, water, & aged over beechwood, I was working on this poem without a pencil, having to send messages on my phone to Grâce "Rat-Arse" Marlier, like all true modern poets. This is continued from here: Part I, Part II. I expect next week to be drowned in blood & jealousy & redemption & astronauts.
Happy Holidays, he said to me, slipping me a holiday bonus,
Have faith in our future, he preached, & began lighting the evening's votives.
A spectacular lake of rum awaits me when I turn eighty:
We couldn't see our reflection in the Mirror of the Laity.
By this time, he had amassed a considerable congregation in aboriginal Australia.
They were useful in defeating our formidable enemy: Delila Falalia.
Thereon, dark clouds would begin to block me from his life,
He still considered my memos, but he got most of his new-agey wisdom from his first wife.
I chopped the remains of the Parker Street Thane up in my bathtub,
A clever mix of chemicals purchased at WalMart will decompose any fop.
Opacity, untraceable text messages, a giant winged seraphic paratrooper,
No heavy dose of smelling salts could stir my companion's companion from her stupor.
You lean upon the pillars of romance, evil will infect our alive forevers,
The tiniest dose of arsenic in eighteen consecutive dinners.
We understand the reasons for Delila's defeat, they have never been clearer:
The furor for her party last Friday & the missent invite to her resurrected Fuehrer.
I was speechless after my foxpetal gene mutated off its dyspraxial axial.
Those two homicides remained mysterious until my memoirs were stolen from my cell at the Dublin jail.
Hear me, cherrybombs afire! If the green fairy can't save our friendship, nothing can!
The man who might emancipate our music is a distant descendant of Robert Todd Lincoln.
It behooves us to investigate the known facts of the story up to this date...
Passion, betrayal, murder, some irrelevant horseshit, well will the sun's planets spin at any rate.
Enter, so I thought, his veiled second wife, let the angels fall hard,
For the next two years I would receive no more than a Christmas card from their secret meditation retreat at Svalbard.