07-30-2015, 01:35 PM
Edited Version 2:
I hail the quick and dirty shots
of vittles doused and primed with fry cook oil.
I watch you aliens on the boob tube,
as meaty breaded breasts parade as things
in a wet bucket, misplaced, by a leg.
The foul tub is like a stiffened flag
with rigid stripes of stiff blood red and white,
but glory hallelujah there is more.
The pastry hospitality is swift,
my lord, and marching from the bluegrass state.
On doily buntings come the crusted pies,
like fine ornate brocades from cupboard stores,
oozing with an ore-like berry extract.
And these are followed by the sushi,
The oriental, binded shrimp and fish
cinched in belts of seaweed, off the boat,
and served on lacquered bamboo trays.
The fishing boats are rare things in this wharf.
They only scud the breaking surf in back.
While we pass back to native ground
to meet once bucking bovine, hoof and hock
no longer twitching in domestic pens.
The rituals from helicon are gone.
We do not slaughter cattle blade-in-hand
With their autistic eyeballs pointed up
In savage sacrament to deathless gods.
All of this, this song, belies the pure futility
of odes, as if I could draw succor,
from the crumbled infrastructure of Beijing.
Yet, still, the piper stuffs me with more flesh.
The double decker brioche patty melts
are now anointed flanks of glistered brawn
bathed in atomic blasted swaths of cheese,
the vaulted id in curdled mother’s milk
atop the god-inspired transformation
of the penned up baying beasts to porn.
I eat up all, frenzied, far from Helicon.
while I wrap bacon fat around my gun.
but this, this is not done…
The wholesome savor must be cooled
with globose mounds of retrograded sweetness
in a sundae rigged with glossy maraschino nipples.
I’m bucking now, inspired by the muse
And humming stagger lee in a hushed voice
while feasting eyes catch melting ice cream,
which now drips pools atop the malt shop floor.
With face, stalwart, and towards the light
the drool is brought on by a constant stare,
and with a buzzing fly the muse departs.
Version 1:
I like it quick and dirty:
quick shots of a breaded breast
without a thought towards flab
or cumbered hearts,
airy flesh shots of a chocolate cake,
oriental binded shrimp
or tuna in a sweet hot glaze,
double decker flanks of brawn bathed
in atomic blasted swaths of aged and curdled mother’s milk,
and, perhaps the best of all,
the globose mounds of retrograded sweetness
in a sundae rigged with glossy maraschino nipples
(caught in the act of dripping cream drops on the malt shop floor).
The lights and signals inundate the brain,
and I am salivating like a Pavlov’s dog,
lost in the material.
Kind of a gross poem.
I hail the quick and dirty shots
of vittles doused and primed with fry cook oil.
I watch you aliens on the boob tube,
as meaty breaded breasts parade as things
in a wet bucket, misplaced, by a leg.
The foul tub is like a stiffened flag
with rigid stripes of stiff blood red and white,
but glory hallelujah there is more.
The pastry hospitality is swift,
my lord, and marching from the bluegrass state.
On doily buntings come the crusted pies,
like fine ornate brocades from cupboard stores,
oozing with an ore-like berry extract.
And these are followed by the sushi,
The oriental, binded shrimp and fish
cinched in belts of seaweed, off the boat,
and served on lacquered bamboo trays.
The fishing boats are rare things in this wharf.
They only scud the breaking surf in back.
While we pass back to native ground
to meet once bucking bovine, hoof and hock
no longer twitching in domestic pens.
The rituals from helicon are gone.
We do not slaughter cattle blade-in-hand
With their autistic eyeballs pointed up
In savage sacrament to deathless gods.
All of this, this song, belies the pure futility
of odes, as if I could draw succor,
from the crumbled infrastructure of Beijing.
Yet, still, the piper stuffs me with more flesh.
The double decker brioche patty melts
are now anointed flanks of glistered brawn
bathed in atomic blasted swaths of cheese,
the vaulted id in curdled mother’s milk
atop the god-inspired transformation
of the penned up baying beasts to porn.
I eat up all, frenzied, far from Helicon.
while I wrap bacon fat around my gun.
but this, this is not done…
The wholesome savor must be cooled
with globose mounds of retrograded sweetness
in a sundae rigged with glossy maraschino nipples.
I’m bucking now, inspired by the muse
And humming stagger lee in a hushed voice
while feasting eyes catch melting ice cream,
which now drips pools atop the malt shop floor.
With face, stalwart, and towards the light
the drool is brought on by a constant stare,
and with a buzzing fly the muse departs.
Version 1:
I like it quick and dirty:
quick shots of a breaded breast
without a thought towards flab
or cumbered hearts,
airy flesh shots of a chocolate cake,
oriental binded shrimp
or tuna in a sweet hot glaze,
double decker flanks of brawn bathed
in atomic blasted swaths of aged and curdled mother’s milk,
and, perhaps the best of all,
the globose mounds of retrograded sweetness
in a sundae rigged with glossy maraschino nipples
(caught in the act of dripping cream drops on the malt shop floor).
The lights and signals inundate the brain,
and I am salivating like a Pavlov’s dog,
lost in the material.
Kind of a gross poem.
A poet who can't make the language sing doesn't start. Hence the shortage of real poems amongst the global planktonic field of duds. - Clive James.
Nice personification also: "flesh shots of the chocolate cake", "maraschino nipples dripping cream drops on the malt shop floor."
