Happens, it does, in a house of two loos
That husbands and wives utilize them in twos.
At one at the same time dispense we our waste!
The effluence merges, and love voids the place
Of solids and liquids, each giving chase
Down into plumbing and into the sewage–
An intimate mingling! Ejecta and brewage!
Oh, blessing of sorts! Oh, lurid perfection!
Celebrate we this wet cosmic connection!
I have a problem with my feet.
In winter of all times each sweats–
Olfactor’ly my nose doth meet
Odorific fulminance.
*
Sad, Sino-socks—none can contain
What each should best be hidin’.
Wife, she winces, pinches spent
Pairs from the toxic garden
*
Into laundry chutes they’re spurned–
Returned to Sino-Biden:
“These, your profits, these you’ve earned
“In China’s breast abidin’.”
*
Yet as I wear the pairs Red-crafted
Doff the pairs each night.
Consign them not to laundry baskets–
Noses, eyes, from site.
I have five limbs:
The four you know.
The other one
Is apt to grow
With happenstance
As wifely ways
Dare to chance
Its eager sprays.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Have I been a Scotsman all my life?
Macbeth: Act III, Scene II.
Know you how I Ahab love?
His count’nance fits me like the glove
Of cassock Herman spoke thereof.
He cannot love. He cannot love.
And so Ahábic parts in me
I now extract—cranially.
I’ll take yon top-maul and I’ll smash
The brainy pieces into mash.
Pickle that, thou steward, care!
Save it–after I do dare
To choke the tooth of Moby out
Who groin’d me unto such despair.
Three days home, plus Christmas Eve and Christmas–
Sorry, you two, Aunt Flo’s here on business:
“Thou: deny your nuptial rights and fitness.”
Swollen men! Must we endure this witness!
Oh fever’d night of sleepless hues!
Know I now of duty’d dues
Unto ones word-wracked neural paths
Churned and spun on Lethos’ lathes.
How to close my brain—each strain
Of thought, then verse, how to restrain
These mental heats that burst and show
Me as the cud-chewn spotted cow
That stalks myself like Ahab’s brow?
Pray hie thee hence away from me!
Allow some peace, some fraughtless space
Wherein verses, strain’d, shall be
O!
Hide me, lobster’s carapace!
How doth a man with words to speak
Enjoin his comp’nied fans to word?
Roll my words round ‘stonish’d cheek.
Poetry’s not read–it’s heard.
So speak aloud my sound, my sense!
Crafted, wrought to finest grace;
‘Scape thy silent indolence–
Else pass me by and shut thy face.
Off the top. I purse my lips
And plead each newfound wench to kiss–
Follow me in corset slips?
Adoring, winsome lovely Miss?
How dost a man with words so rare
Gain gentried favor, derrieres?
I type into the ethric air
And gain, thereby–friends–borne of airs!
Winter’s olden, damn-dawn fog–
Teacher glow’ring ‘mid the bog.
Earthen eyes at soulless stares:
Inmates fastened to school chairs.
Stare I back, heart stake at stanchion;
God has stated His injunction.
Do that deed I dare not mention–
Face His dread eternal truncheon.
Note: I found this deep in some records from an especially dark day at work. It may be 18 months old. I mean the good Lord no ill will. In fact, I don’t quite understand what my meaning was. Comments would be, in this entry’s case, most welcome.
Anthropology, linguistics, archaeology, and writing systems
Carmina et Verba pro Discipulis Meis
Reading, writing and a-rhythmic tics
Discover the Magical Whimsical Art and Jewelry Creations of Liza Paizis
