Thursday, November 01, 2007

Stick THAT in Your Craw and Drink It!

Allow me to introduce a brand new POETRY COMICAL called "Clawfoot Bathes the Baby." The baby in question is one Babyfaced Dino, that old familiar dino with a baby for a face, pictured here naked but thankfully unbearded. The clawfoot in question is a delicious vague animal of my own imaginings--a sort of Grizzly Panthercow. Whether he is tame, and whether he is tender, I am not yet sure. I leave it to future episodes to decide. The title alludes, of course, to the world-renowned poem I wrote a few weeks ago, "Baby Takes Relaxation in a Clawfoot Full of Cologne," which first appears to address the topic of infant mortality, but on closer inspection is revealed to address the topic of nothing at all.


Anonymous said...


Tee., I think that’s me, the pink
Reptilian baby on the panthercow,
She about to froth with kinetic
Indignation–-like my daughter
When I suggested, delicately,
That Elyse was lovely but why
Not try for a Christopher junior
Instead of stopping at one, especially
Since grandfather was pouring
So much lucre into that bottomless
Rathole of a “hunting camp
In western Maine”–-my God,
Those words, hunting camp, they’re like
A ribbon from the Academy Francais!–-

Grandfather and grandson, entering
The woods with loaded guns–-“Don’t
Shoot, my lad, until you see
The whites of their lifted tails!”-–
But Muldoon, Muldoon, that sheep
In barely believable wolf’s clothing-–
I’ve just read a jingle of his in
The Salzburg Review–why O why
Is he so content with merely wry
Ornament!?–-“The duty of genius
Is to attack!” I just read that
In Poetry: Robert Musil, who loved
Profoundly the military academy
Where Rilke was mercilessly bullied

And miserable. Musil chain-smoked rotten
Austrian cigarettes, did hundreds of push-ups
And sit-ups daily, and grinded
His teeth when he slept. The ancestor
Of all mammals was a dinosaur
With tits and hair, and its brain
Is still in here or in there somewhere.
Your baby, I see, is a female dinosaur
With punk hair and boobs, seated on a flanged
Horn of her own making, while this
Old fuddy-dud spent his life in quest
Of the bliss of a durable rainbow bubble,
The surd of a fragrant, iridescent sud.

Anonymous said...


Her indelicately vented valentine
And pancake snout, adapted
For looking in and looking out
Through self-steamed, unbreakable
Cookie-house glass, and her brow
Both horizontal and indomitable,
Persuade me, Trisher, what we have
Here is a panthersow, not cow,

In full acquiescent resentment,
Or what in arid swamps of domestic
Parlance is called hot to trot
And assert that all intelligence
Is but a transient plateau,
That life consists of waking up
From a nap as a pink, black
And half-indignant piglet.

Tricia said...

My, how I missed you. Your personal poems are my favorites; however, that is not a boob, that is a CHIN. Check your perv-colored glasses, they're impeding your true vision!