Monday, March 31, 2008

Did I Say No Drawings? I Meant No Good Drawings


Montenegro said...


A Serb, a Croatian
And a Slovenian
Were auditioning
For the 21st century
And platinum membership
In the great European
Their task was to iron
A shirt, eat a meal,

And make love
To their significant
Other in five minutes,
And then say something
The Slovenian
(A student of Zizak!)
Spent his time ironing
And declared (being

Almost Austrian)
A Slovenian knows when
To sacrifice comfort
For dignity! The Croat
(Almost German!)
Got past the shirt
And into the food,
A roasted crown
Of cheese, bread and egg

Called “gibanitsa”
(Tasteless but filling),
And proclaimed,
In Croatia we do not
Make love with an eye
On the clock! The Serb
(Almost Mongolian
Still!) got his girlfriend
To iron his shirt,

Screwed her from behind
While eating a plate
Of calves’ brains
And explained,
Wiping grease
From his serious face,
Truly, if you wish to eat,
You must fuck the people
Who work for you!


Tricia said...


Montenegro said...


The Writers Almanac!
Step on a crack, you'll
Break your mother’s back!
But Nemerov’s dandelions
Didn’t quite do it, did it,
His going on and on
About peroxide blondes
On hollow stems, yet so
Appealingly flat-chested,
Those yellow teeth of life
That glut the world

With shining green
And stand as proudly
As they’re mean
When stalked for salad,
How in the end their
Suddenly ghostly hair
Bear seeds of sin
Everywhere, for more
And more and more
Of their golden ruin
And triumphant laughter,

These stubborn
And multitudinous
Daughters of the poor,
Or of the wilderness,
As someone timid said.
Thank you Garrison,
You genial chameleon
Of bogus localism and
Adventitious tradition,
For the dandelion’s
Blinding tooth of truth.


Sheehy O'Malley said...


O Tricia, hostess
Of whom we’re so fond,
You neglect us
And the pond
In which Narcissus
Would gaze is leaden
And wan, or less.

cowbell said...

Needs more Topol.

Montenegro said...


Christmas time,
And a sailor's suddenly
Home unexpectedly,
So his wife hides
Topal, the milkman,
Her lover,
On a closet shelf,
Slams shut the door,
Catching his Johnson
Under the lintel,
Poor Topal, dumb

With pain,
Mute from shock.
The wife’s cheeks
Are flushed, wrapped
In a bathrobe, heat
From exertion
Her cologne.
The sailor finds it
Hard to breathe.
Just decorating

The Hannuka bush,
She explains,
And there’s a cowbell
I picked up to hang
From a branch.
Does it ring,
He asked her,
As if never before
Having seen
A mushroom-
Tipped shlong,

And he snapped it
With his fingers,
Wacked on it
With a hammer
Accidently handy.
“Ding dong!”
Cried a voice
Behind the door,
“Ding dong,
Putz, ding dong!”

roger moore said...

Even with his mouth full of nuts, he was a genius. Nobody spits hulls like Topol. Nobody.

Sheehy O'Malley said...


But is the game
Worth the expense
Of 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 light
On the lair of the hare,
Flushed and trapped
In a burlap sack
With her robust stench
Of tropical patchouli.

Tricia said...

I leave for a few days and come back to a TOPOL FRENZY. This is what I love to see!