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.
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3 comments:
MEN WITHOUT QUALITIES
1.
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!–-
2.
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
3.
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.
CLEOPATRA PIG
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.
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!
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