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Archive for December, 2009

I took my love to the olde cow patch
The cow said “Moo”
And I said “Catch!”
I threw a stone he did not see.
That cow is dead because of me.
So I’ll keep scoring
With chicks
Til I die.
But for the cow I killed,
I cry.

*this poem was inspired by a Facebook post and does not reflect the attitudes or ethics of its author. You could even say, in a certain light, it is but the antithesis of my long-cherished beliefs. You could also say, in another light, that it is the work of my alter ego, who represents my devilish lady-plowing id which only exists as an internalization of my enemies and compensatory identification with the aggressor. Really, you could say a whole bundle of things.

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a self devoid of pelf

an invigorating entr’acte of poetical proportions from my heart to your computer screen

Odorous of swine, naked, begrimed! Dolores crawled neurasthenically to The Downing Ivory, chanting ceaseless, inaudible gibberish. Black, matte chimney shapes hovered dreadful in the distance as blunt pastel sky layers floated frailly in midair. Her journey over, her vim would recover. What sand she had! They’d tell her story, retrospectively, with great admiration for her dedication to the cause of salvaging her reputation! A lush sort of ceremony tumbled out of the backlit doorway and Dolores watched catatonically the streams of genteel ladies holding bouquets in white satin bunting, before chandeliers and red roses, black pianos, strung by pearls and diamonds, forming tight, concentric circles, wielding shiny instruments. Dolores murmured her semiconscious approbation, dazedly. Men in white satin yarmulkes kept tight, psychotic posture under glossy black hair, glassy expressions and dark, beady eyes. If they kept their mouths closed, they were very refined. They were phlegmatic partygoers, Judeo-German gentlepeople; uncreative, earnest social climbers, poorly-worded peasants, rich in resources with Hebraic fakery. It was very Weimar, but Dolores had seen it already, seen it all (seen the horrors, shaming, opalescent, encrusted old baboons. She had harbored no delusions of surviving the dragoon). At least she was home; she was finally home. Now if only she could shake herself. But to her nauseous astonishment, Dolores spied Rita, a fellow Madeiran, wide-eyed and seemingly sound-minded, in a corner, scooping fruit punch from a silver bowl. In black velvet and loose curls, the only pair of blue eyes, standing, as if reasonably, at this garish gathering. Dolores shuddered, her eyelids fluttered. She turned with held breath to see an Egyptian sex goddess lie languidly on hot sand with a tight, shiny chestnut updo and a dark-eyed snow princess in white satin and stone face, nibbling Turkish delight. She said “I am Dolores, come from the dead…!”

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