SALT ON THE FLAG1.A Serb, a Croatian And a SlovenianWere auditioning For the 21st centuryAnd platinum membershipIn the great European Community.Their task was to ironA shirt, eat a meal,2.And make loveTo their significantOther in five minutes,And then say somethingIntelligent.The Slovenian(A student of Zizak!)Spent his time ironingAnd declared (being3.Almost Austrian)A Slovenian knows whenTo sacrifice comfortFor dignity! The Croat(Almost German!)Got past the shirtAnd into the food,A roasted crownOf cheese, bread and egg4.Called “gibanitsa”(Tasteless but filling),And proclaimed,In Croatia we do notMake love with an eyeOn the clock! The Serb(Almost MongolianStill!) got his girlfriendTo iron his shirt,5.Screwed her from behind While eating a plateOf calves’ brainsAnd explained,Wiping greaseFrom his serious face, Truly, if you wish to eat,You must fuck the peopleWho work for you!Montenegro
THE LION’S BREATHThe Writers Almanac!Step on a crack, you'llBreak your mother’s back!But Nemerov’s dandelionsDidn’t quite do it, did it,His going on and onAbout peroxide blondes On hollow stems, yet soAppealingly flat-chested,Those yellow teeth of lifeThat glut the worldWith shining greenAnd stand as proudlyAs they’re meanWhen stalked for salad, How in the end theirSuddenly ghostly hairBear seeds of sin Everywhere, for more And more and more Of their golden ruinAnd triumphant laughter,These stubbornAnd multitudinousDaughters of the poor,Or of the wilderness,As someone timid said.Thank you Garrison,You genial chameleonOf bogus localism andAdventitious tradition,For the dandelion’sBlinding tooth of truth.Montenegro
SAPPHO’S COMPLAINTO Tricia, hostessOf whom we’re so fond,You neglect usAnd the pondIn which NarcissusWould gaze is leadenAnd wan, or less.
Needs more Topol.
COWBELLChristmas time, And a sailor's suddenlyHome unexpectedly,So his wife hidesTopal, the milkman,Her lover, On a closet shelf,Slams shut the door,Catching his JohnsonUnder the lintel,Poor Topal, dumbWith pain, Mute from shock.The wife’s cheeksAre flushed, wrappedIn a bathrobe, heatFrom exertionVaporizingHer cologne.The sailor finds itHard to breathe.Just decoratingThe Hannuka bush,She explains,And there’s a cowbellI picked up to hangFrom a branch.Does it ring,He asked her,As if never beforeHaving seenA mushroom-Tipped shlong, And he snapped itWith his fingers,Wacked on itWith a hammerAccidently handy.“Ding dong!”Cried a voiceBehind the door,“Ding dong,Mishugenah Putz, ding dong!”
Even with his mouth full of nuts, he was a genius. Nobody spits hulls like Topol. Nobody.
HUNTING HAREBut is the gameWorth the expenseOf a candle,Asked practical Topol,While his dubious tortoise,A long string knotted To its pyramid tail,The lit taper wobbling Where waxed on its back,Ambled shedding lightOn the lair of the hare,Flushed and trappedIn a burlap sackWith her robust stenchOf tropical patchouli.
I leave for a few days and come back to a TOPOL FRENZY. This is what I love to see!
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