tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post3501672650316627255..comments2024-02-17T01:47:17.207-08:00Comments on Emperor of Ice-Cream Cakes: Poems Are Jokes: Search String of the Day: Fat Porn Cream CakesPatricia Lockwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05054871173880967520noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-22472254606774609042007-10-15T11:37:00.000-07:002007-10-15T11:37:00.000-07:00FIREFire, like a slug or snailWith its wavering cl...FIRE<BR/><BR/>Fire, like a slug or snail<BR/>With its wavering clitoral antennae,<BR/>Is a gastropod, but its belly<BR/>And feet are everywhere, especially up<BR/>In the air, busy making history<BR/>Illegible, stark as gallows <BR/>And broken glass,<BR/>Indifferent to itself as black ash <BR/>Or white. Its devastation is peace,<BR/>Has to be, smoking all day,<BR/>Glowing, waiting for its chance<BR/>To reignite, then totally<BR/>Goal oriented, doing its hot <BR/><BR/>Rainbow dance, greedy eat and run, <BR/>Ever glad, ever dissatisfied flight. <BR/>By the waters of Babylon’s <BR/>Rivers of oil, we are dying, killing <BR/>And fucking everything up.<BR/>Better toss our clothes<BR/>In the willows, in the palms,<BR/>In a pile like a fire, and studiously,<BR/>Solicitously, cautiously fuck.<BR/>O daughters of America, <BR/>Why would the Bible blame you? <BR/>Is this too just another of that womanizer <BR/>Psalmist’s chauvinisms?Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-52856612333648062042007-10-15T08:20:00.000-07:002007-10-15T08:20:00.000-07:00THE GOLDEN DUCK1.The stars are what you think they...THE GOLDEN DUCK<BR/><BR/>1.<BR/>The stars are what you think they are,<BR/>Dots, and the dark of night is when<BR/>Every possible line between them<BR/>Gets erased and turned into blots. <BR/>At dawn, when the sky’s<BR/>Violet blossom yields its glimpse<BR/>Of the peach’s tender thighs, <BR/><BR/>2.<BR/>The stars are gone, swallowed surely<BR/>As Hansel and Gretel’s practical path<BR/>Of crumbs was gobbled <BR/>By the ravenous laws of reality.<BR/>My dear, if the world were on fire,<BR/>It would merely become Gloria Swanson’s<BR/>Wild mansion on Sunset Boulevard,<BR/><BR/>3.<BR/>Built of stale plaster cake<BR/>And bricks of mildewed candy, <BR/>The witch of ordinary life and time <BR/>Squeezing Hansel’s string-bean<BR/>To see if it was yet a sausage.<BR/>Clever Gretel, bless her evil heart,<BR/>Helped him escape by a ride<BR/><BR/>4.<BR/>Across the lake between the wings<BR/>And tail of the missing-link dinosaur, <BR/>Peanuts for brains, and an enormous <BR/>Gold duck, not smarter by much, <BR/>The sun’s country cousin, day star <BR/>Of joy’s definitive, amphibious fuck. <BR/>Mark your path across the forests<BR/><BR/>5.<BR/>Of succulence with crumbs of desire,<BR/>Believe in a firefly’s swarm of sincerity,<BR/>And you stand half a chance <BR/>Of getting lost. May I ride <BR/>On your sunbeam, Miss Duck? <BR/>Asked Hansel of Gretel, to stabilize awhile<BR/>Their mischievous luck.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-83808668706419415122007-10-14T17:30:00.000-07:002007-10-14T17:30:00.000-07:00You wouldn't want me to write an ode for you. It w...You wouldn't <I>want</I> me to write an ode for you. It wouldn't scan, and the world would catch fire.Patricia Lockwoodhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05054871173880967520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-55927344531845844802007-10-14T10:10:00.000-07:002007-10-14T10:10:00.000-07:00JOHNNY ONE-NOTE1.Moments ago, a shout, a cry, a ze...JOHNNY ONE-NOTE<BR/><BR/>1.<BR/>Moments ago, a shout, a cry, a zero<BR/>Of alarm, or anguish, the whole<BR/>Of my consciousness elate, <BR/>Yet with sorrow drawn to it,<BR/>Asking the responsible, What? Why?<BR/>But its content was gone, as if a rock<BR/>Or a tree were uprooted, <BR/><BR/>2.<BR/>The space which remained of it<BR/>Contracting inexorably, or else<BR/>Pretending to vanish as if an echo<BR/>Void of intelligence, a cove<BR/>Briefly disquieted, a pond<BR/>Ostensibly still, its violet lilies<BR/>Insolently avid, their pads placid<BR/><BR/>3.<BR/>And concealing, at least potentially,<BR/>An immense fish, its surface<BR/>A grave, gray-greenish reflecting agate<BR/>Mirror and hint, a flash in the pan, <BR/>A spasm inessential, yet insistent<BR/>On its significance, me. In the meadow<BR/>Was a rabbit, taut stalks of its ears<BR/><BR/>4.<BR/>Immobile, eyes wide as saucers,<BR/>As blind, brown, and all-seeing<BR/>As this frog pond in its lamentable<BR/>Fragility, its theory of stagnant<BR/>Security–-if I pretend not to see it,<BR/>It will not see me–-its propensity<BR/>To erupt in abrupt zig-zags, lightning<BR/><BR/>5.<BR/>Panic, rustle of its absence<BR/>Vacuous as a rumble of thunder,<BR/>The cosmos clearing its throat, <BR/>Sensing the almond at the base<BR/>Of its brain, its most primitive place,<BR/>The amygdala, equivocally stroked<BR/>With poison quicksilver, so cold and aflame.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-29691911950690691552007-10-13T22:50:00.000-07:002007-10-13T22:50:00.000-07:00Dry socket is my worst fear come to life. Or it wo...Dry socket is my worst fear come to life. Or it would be, if dry socket were somehow made out of roaches...or the devil, I guess. I have been warned not to smoke or drink through a straw.<BR/><BR/><I>*cross-posted with your enormous NOSTALGIE POUR LA BOUE, which I must address at a later time*</I>Patricia Lockwoodhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05054871173880967520noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-55790665176881113452007-10-13T16:46:00.000-07:002007-10-13T16:46:00.000-07:00NOSTALGIE POUR LA BOUE1.Actually, John was relic o...NOSTALGIE POUR LA BOUE<BR/><BR/>1.<BR/>Actually, John was relic of the late Penelope, <BR/>She who took me to what can’t be confirmed<BR/>Was the Westminster Pub in South London,<BR/>Called The Frenchmen’s after its Free<BR/>French patronage during the Second World War,<BR/>Then due to its sexually floating clientele,<BR/>And the famous authoress instructed me<BR/>To order Coq au Champagnes for 60p,<BR/>Six times the cost of a pint in 1970,<BR/><BR/>2.<BR/>Year of the coal miner’s strike<BR/>(“They can dig their own fucking coal!”<BR/>And the Arab oil embargo (“Mafeesh<BR/>Moshkila!”), in which the champagne<BR/>Was cognac the coq Coke, with a dash <BR/>Of cherry liqueur and a swizzle stick<BR/>Impaling three rosy maraschinos. For extra<BR/>Excitement I was pursued into the Men’s<BR/>By a muscular sailor in a striped jersey,<BR/><BR/>3.<BR/>Crimson pompom on his blue beret. <BR/>His face was smooth and his cheeks<BR/>Appeared rouged. Could he be a woman<BR/>Impersonating a gay man? Interested in my coq?<BR/>My champagne? One way find out.<BR/>I coughed and dropped the harmonica<BR/>I always carry into the slate trough<BR/>And path of our mutually arched<BR/>Horsey exertions, yet instead of murmuring,<BR/><BR/>4.<BR/>“Allow me, s’il vous plait!” so I could gauge <BR/>The musicality of his talk and assess <BR/>The sway of his haunches as he walked,<BR/>He pursed his lips in a moue, a scarlet heart<BR/>Outlined in mascara, and I thought, <BR/>This is it! Now I’m really going to get it! <BR/>But he bent and lifted it from the dubious drink,<BR/>Rinsed it off in the sink and slipped it<BR/><BR/>5.<BR/>Into my back pocket with one hand,<BR/>Deftly squeezing my nuts with the other–-<BR/>For an hour I spoke in falsetto–-“Thanks,”<BR/>He rasped, “for the feel, honey, but this isn’t<BR/>What you think!” I was left in the dark<BR/>With Penelope. We proceeded to a hideous<BR/>Performance of CORIOLANUS replete<BR/>With dancers in black-face and grass skirts<BR/>Pretending to corn-hole each other, <BR/><BR/>6.<BR/>Representing the menace of the Volscians, <BR/>Who Shakespeare thought were Italian.<BR/>Anyhow, top that, Mister Jee, student<BR/>Of Dobyns at Sarah Lawrence, somewhere<BR/>Along the grizzly Poughkeepsie. Tricia<BR/>Will be busy writing odes for me<BR/>And assuaging my nostalgia<BR/>For muddier days, Lola, the Kinks, <BR/>And those rogues, Dave and Ray Davies.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34876486.post-33292561859003003292007-10-13T07:25:00.000-07:002007-10-13T07:25:00.000-07:00THE BLISS OF HER WISDOM, HER BUSTED CUSPHow dreadf...THE BLISS OF HER WISDOM, HER BUSTED CUSP<BR/><BR/>How dreadful, a man in a mask commanding <BR/>A woman supine and restrained <BR/>To hold her mouth open steady, don’t move!<BR/>Continuing, then, in an apologetic murmur,<BR/>Just prior to his exertion of full force,<BR/>Now this might hurt quite a bit, to extract<BR/>Those twisted radicals, talismans<BR/>Of gnomic wisdom, in the name <BR/><BR/>Of his one-dimensional, unambiguous <BR/>Cataract blinders, science and knowledge!<BR/>A woman cries at the very instant two lovers<BR/>Take bites from a crisp apple, kiss and pass <BR/>Sweet pulp between their lips as if<BR/>Making the promise, none of this<BR/>Will involve pain. Has he warned you yet<BR/>Of the dangers anent a dry socket?Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com