Friday, October 05, 2007


Yesterday Elegant Choice threatened to quit his position as my benefactor unless I showed him my new poems. A hissy slapfight ensued. Reenactment:

"Why should I let you read the new poems?" I asked. "The last one you read, you said it was 'too much about a rat.' That was your whole criticism! That it was too much about a rat!"
"It was too much about a rat. The whole thing was about a rat!"
"You're too much about a rat," I responded, enraged. "Your whole thing is about a rat."
"If you don't show them to me, I'll stop benefacting you. I'll take away all your benefactions!"
"TAKE THEM AWAY RIGHT NOW," I shrieked, slopping my water all over my face. "NO MORE WATER FOR ME, I'LL DRINK FROM THE RIVER."
"You'll get hookworms!"
"And I'll catch your tiny fish on them."

So today I am looking for a fresh benefactor, preferably one who happens to be wealthy and rat-loving. Crispin Glover it is! I will inform him of this nomination immediately.

P.S. I am so remiss, I failed both to acknowledge King Wallace's birthday on the 2nd and the one-year anniversary of this blog on the 22nd. Fear not, however, I will throw us a belated art-party in short order.


Anonymous said...


Was that supposed to be a link?
Well it isn't now, and yet anyhow, Trish,
Though long in the tooth, all I do
Is audition for adoption
And a stranger's ruth,
A tiresome rumpus,
"O I'm lost, I'm lost!"
Trying to sort out true north
From magnetic, using my cock
As a compass, it's pathetic.

And my idiom, Jesus, I thought
I was smart. Explain what you mean
Or you'll fracture my heart.
How can it be high-modern
When so syntacticly explicit,
When every syncope is a new threshold,
A new anatomy, a sweet ravine,
Hairy yet naked as a rodent, get it?

Anonymous said...


What astounding luck.
The poor sweetie
Got her pinhead struck
By a random pea.
Not for her any C’est la vie.

Cluck, cluck! Holy crumb!
By idiom does she mean
Sexism, hunger for the plum?
The Kryptonite at large on which
The batteries get charged?

And yet the sky
IS falling in, and there’s no refuge
From its din in erudite
Stupidity, nor in Pierre Klossowski.

Tricia said...

I would liken you to a slot machine, but I fear that would only end in euphemistic tragedy. As for whether or not you are guilty of crimes of Modernism, it no longer matters: you are first and foremost now a member of ABORTION SAYS MEOW. All is forgiven, even your base name-calling: Pinhead! Trish!?!

Anonymous said...


To think (abstract, Nietzschean, and as if
A dervish), pretend to pursue
And tenderly capture (give pleasure,
For remember Apollo was the rapist
And murderer, never Dionysios,
Orchestrator of criminal joy and female
Hysteria), shoot the moon (change

Or exchange vital bodily minnows),
While the slot machine, the ever
Kinetic one-eyed, one-armed bandit
Contemplates the good old days
Of lemons, cherries and canaries,
And now and then, grunts and coughs
Up a splashing, chattering pay-off.

Anonymous said...


The rat that gnawed through concrete,
Then swam a tuba of porcelain
And the water intended to block
Sewer gas, had whiskers which tickled
A seated woman not where it rhymes,
But where it thought it detected
Forlorn kin, the F-holes, let’s say,
On her violin, and a belly as fat
As a coffee can according to Ignatz

The plumber who killed him
With a blow from his ball pein hammer,
Then strove to repair her link
To the main. We’ve an allegory
Here, more homely than arcane,
Concerning the perils of ease
And allure of musk on a hunk
Of blue cheese, though when sitting
To piss the Medusa emits Gorgonzola.

Anonymous said...


Another lousy day
Of deaf pond, mute fern. At night
I close my eyes and hear the laugh
Of a nymph escaping my grasp,
Low as a growl, rising to a cry
Of glee, and all in girl’s
Marimba, instant

And glissando. O nymph, sylph,
Salamander born in the prayer
Of fire, may all my sins be
Literally remembered
On earth as they would
If a hoof
Could get up your tree.

Tricia said...

How cryptic!

Anonymous said...


As if Roquefort cheese,
Tricia’s poesia
And occult ambrosia

Ripen in the crypts
Between her ears
And her hips,

And the strong whimper
“Please!” drunk on a whiff,
All wobbly in the knees.

Anonymous said...


Nymph, whenever at your ’orizontal
Orizons, may my designs
On the crypt of your propriety
Be tactile and actual,
Both from behind and frontal,
Or in a word, reMEMBERed.

A descendant, Doctor Hamlet,
Crossed the Irish Sea
To practice gynecology,
And once while inspecting
An athletic lass sprawled
On his professional saddle

As autumn winds and island rain
Slapped leaves against the office's
Window panes, he shyly
Observed, “A bit airy out today!”
To which she snapped, “What
In ’ell did you expect, feathers?”

Anonymous said...


This blood which rains from the sun,
Is it bronze or sardonyx?
Or crimson as an oak, scrub
Or stalwart, at the end of summer,
Russet later, clinging all winter,
Then nudged into humus
By a paltry bud of life,
A clitoral nub nosing into slow
Exfoliation, a beetle-nymph
Un-peeled into a pink butterfly,

Eventually solemn and tannic,
Summoning a snide, pornographic
Ghost to strength and change,
To forget the mortifying errands
Of the moon, try something heroic,
Marsyas taunting Apollo,
Or Pan chasing a nymph
Into a honey locust, wiggling
Like a salamander and thought
Fire-forged because so taut

With orange freckles, searing
Tongues of wit, the old goat
Looking at the tree, at his hoof
Saying fuck it, I’d as much luck
Climbing this tree as her leg,
And if I can’t be tonic or poetic,
I can be cryptic, like the boy
Who slipped under the duck boards
To watch girls at Scout camp
Take showers, cryptic.