1. A Serb, a Croatian And a Slovenian Were auditioning For the 21st century And platinum membership In the great European Community. Their task was to iron A shirt, eat a meal,
2. And make love To their significant Other in five minutes, And then say something Intelligent. The Slovenian (A student of Zizak!) Spent his time ironing And declared (being
3. 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
4. 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,
5. 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!
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.
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 Vaporizing 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, Mishugenah Putz, ding dong!”
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.
9 comments:
SALT ON THE FLAG
1.
A Serb, a Croatian
And a Slovenian
Were auditioning
For the 21st century
And platinum membership
In the great European
Community.
Their task was to iron
A shirt, eat a meal,
2.
And make love
To their significant
Other in five minutes,
And then say something
Intelligent.
The Slovenian
(A student of Zizak!)
Spent his time ironing
And declared (being
3.
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
4.
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,
5.
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!
Montenegro
REVOLTING
THE LION’S BREATH
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.
Montenegro
SAPPHO’S COMPLAINT
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.
Needs more Topol.
COWBELL
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
Vaporizing
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,
Mishugenah
Putz, ding dong!”
Even with his mouth full of nuts, he was a genius. Nobody spits hulls like Topol. Nobody.
HUNTING HARE
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.
I leave for a few days and come back to a TOPOL FRENZY. This is what I love to see!
Post a Comment