Sunday, May 25, 2014

this here is a genuine Mississippi mudslingin' dog

be careful now, that right there is a genuine mississippi mud slingin' dog, and when half the goo-chassis is out, he hops, bucks, and twists, and tosses the offending member right at your feet, an erstwile brown mouse for your how now old house..

a beast rides
the camphor'd es
and a herm hides
in the christmas tree fringes
of the pre-programmed
clear cut.

there is a gnarl,
an enlightened snarl between us,
a truth gap, an oracle, Charles,
so that arguing with you
is like watching you
smoke cigarettes through your nose
with your head stuck up inside
some distant blue
alien aquarium parallelogrammar:
"let us tissue"
"lettuce bowl"

bright lights big city
the medieval chin imp of beau brummel 
just adores
being bathed to live music
on a stage stacked with chicken cages
and now that we vestal virgins
now follow the holy mother
Helen Keller
bunnies in pink sacks
and rock and roll
in painted brick basements
there's a noise
like bananas 
in a chicken cage.
Laocoon on lead guitar!

I'm not wearing
a painted chicken pelvis, Charles,
when all you're carrying
is a svelt clean hyphen
to ford the forbidden naming
of ultimate conduitry...

suit yourself, Marsha,
but you are still the top half of the es,
and I
the bottom.
bathos is no pedestal
for gnarl, and 
for all.

On the great balconies of Capri's,
there need never be
any arguing the canon
among the penultimate punctum
and palm,
these indigo pillows
for bent and extruded
grid chess
set to confer.

do you still not recognize
how hot on the heels 
over multiplicative mandalas
my canonlessness
can argoo:
this sentence is all blue pillows
made into chair pads.
the social
is a gnarled balcony
said Edgar Allen Poem.

our goo remains
the essential integument,
though no semicolon,
or neocanon
can separate our gnarls.
We enter
Sparta's blue.

now that you've gone,
I find myself,
taking your side
in every argument with myself.

and though I replace
you are goo,

are visible
as an indigestable remainder
at the bottom
of our screens.
Everything gets digested
by the canon.

Now that you are gone,
and its just my hyphen and me,
I realize,
that the empty headed
and architectural es
is just a beautiful white donkey
wearing a black saddle
carrying a roughly hewn rider.

like a painted chicken pelvis
entered old Jerusalem
in search of
bright hound's tooth garments
to lay at the feet
of holy mother
Helen Keller,
and her book
of hells.

as a military sleepwalker,
i smeared my skin
through the great canon
of maps and places,
until at last I arrived
in the city
of Laocoon.

This used to be somebody's
squid costume.
Our goo is the night.
and no one may argue
its fewrtile

Ernst Haeckel
was here...

and at the end
there was only one;
a last and final
earnest heckler
who called our great canon
and then called our furniture
and then named our syntaxis
pull open the blue tasselled drawers
and drawings,
move the brass teapot around
on the great forehead of gnarl
and call it

of strings and quarks
and gambots.
The Letter of the Law
is the shaping of the goo.
And the goo
is like a city
of laws nested in rules
nested in laws
and sideburns.

I'm not sure I can do much for you.
An enamel ovum, or period of white noise
has followed you here
from another narrative..

Is there something like a table
you aren't telling me?

I never thought I'd find
the author of all that drunkeness
in a mystic knife.
I would do anything for the canon,
but its blindness
has rendered me 
as wholly other
a holy mother.
I am Brandy Keller.
(another Chivas please..)

Instead of meditation
we eat.
She's military and asleep
of course.
We red everything through our cell phoems.

in the 


I forget about Zarathustra.
I can't find
hellenic killing.
the canon smokes a hyphen
and burns your face off.

Mudslinging is holy!
Mudslinging is holy!

O lungfish!
O broom-tilde!

If the word harlequin does not chase the image harlequin,
surely the ARRGG cannot GOOO...

No comments:

Post a Comment

Irrony Observes The Earthing.