Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Maraca Override

The eye changes color, expiry of a prescription pill.
Tonight, my affair is with the Highway:
I'm attending the voluptuous repulsion of the Back Up Singers as a different type of learing taffeta casualty,
Spinning off in neutral.

The muscular reality of underlying conflict between us,
Dangles from a country noose.
I take it upon myself to shroud my misleading head wounds,
In plush and garishly patterned layers of gauze.
Revolutionaries in our field,
We sing an ethnic chanty.

Two dimensional you,
Slipping into some overdose dream -
Wrecked on the crags of everything,
You find me non-applicable,
When you tongue the little wound.

Coffin in rich mahogany,
Leads to a cool magic lifestory.
The M├ętis likeness of some longing;
Two Solitudes then.
Something-something, I demand.
Challenging inhalations in the twilight of today.

Slaves to a burgundy solace,
I describe an Emotional Holocaust
With a Furer in cheap out-sourced plastics.
Too soon to make that joke, you warn me.
My material is shoddy during wartime.

To alleviate your severe to mild headache pain,
You ask me to murder the cat that you only just,
Decided to name.
You’ll have to get me high first,
And convince me it’s a paper bag.

I'm so glad we agree for once!
Our sinewy impulse manifest
The tentacles grip firmly to the styles of the ancient.

Life’s Luxuries include:
Your choice of flavor of poisonous Kool Aid!
Digging in with the shape of your biblical metaphor.
The pitch of the imperceptible sound,
The viscosity of diseased blood.

And ascending with gasoline halos,
You suggest to me that
Thursday might be better.


Forgive me for stealing this line,
But you have Legs like God’s own barge poles.
The legs of a runner, who failed,
Throwing salt over his left shoulder.
You have the legs not unlike a woman’s.

You have an arresting way,
Of exhaling when you’re bored.
It frightened me into a militant attention,
During which I shouted;
Very, very loudly,
My Catholicism showing like a panty-line.

When you’re blue, I am usually red.
And when we play in the paddock,
I am usually the horse.
Your eyes would gouge me then,
All cranberry and grapefruit.
All rat-babies, and cake-pans,
And blonde and orange and furious.

Whenever you come around
It seems like Neil Young is playing.
I am reminded of the way
He shamelessly gave birth to several epileptic sons.
You carried me over dirty Spring,
Illness carries over generations.

Let’s keep skip-ip-ipping along.