from bolts of what
was once whole cloth,
okay? this one time
how it happened: I
met this latinate
senorita, and
I was like "hun, hey
how's that hot
-blooded stereotypical
temperament
treatin' ya? GOOD!"
I paused
like a champ
"looks like?" I shyly
averred, if averred
is the word: it is.
(second sense)
and she
laughed, laughed! because
she had a good and better sense
of humor the further in my dumb ass
line of bulbous, drupelike words
struck her
deep,
but
a little off!
so. pity laugh!
cool. I can ken it. part
scots, don't cha know and we
were like chi chi chi
and cha cha cha but
it didn't end! up working out,
somehow, her in the front
burning my cool enchilada,
dumping so called hot stuff
on it vigorously pounding it
in my face and down my throat
so, yeah.
pathetic
kind of so
then one time,
with this irish lass,
real irish! None of your
false irish, not this one
time I arched a brow and
"said"
something to the effect
of "kiss me you're irish!"
only far, far more fetching
and clever somehow
(there was drink involved)
and she tasted of Becks
not Guinness which was fine
but I had to draw the line at Bushmills
that's for protestants
then this brit, well
she sure did have a thing
for that thing that the british
have things for, all
hanging out covering
their mouths with fetching
milkwhite angel hands
because there's all this shit in her teeth!
no
okay? this one time
how it happened: I
met this latinate
senorita, and
I was like "hun, hey
how's that hot
-blooded stereotypical
temperament
treatin' ya? GOOD!"
I paused
like a champ
"looks like?" I shyly
averred, if averred
is the word: it is.
(second sense)
and she
laughed, laughed! because
she had a good and better sense
of humor the further in my dumb ass
line of bulbous, drupelike words
struck her
deep,
but
a little off!
so. pity laugh!
cool. I can ken it. part
scots, don't cha know and we
were like chi chi chi
and cha cha cha but
it didn't end! up working out,
somehow, her in the front
burning my cool enchilada,
dumping so called hot stuff
on it vigorously pounding it
in my face and down my throat
so, yeah.
pathetic
kind of so
then one time,
with this irish lass,
real irish! None of your
false irish, not this one
time I arched a brow and
"said"
something to the effect
of "kiss me you're irish!"
only far, far more fetching
and clever somehow
(there was drink involved)
and she tasted of Becks
not Guinness which was fine
but I had to draw the line at Bushmills
that's for protestants
then this brit, well
she sure did have a thing
for that thing that the british
have things for, all
hanging out covering
their mouths with fetching
milkwhite angel hands
because there's all this shit in her teeth!
no
no
oh ye gods
it's dental work! good job
ye gods oh I'm so sorry but
she and I
kidded her about
that a bit, you can be sure
she had the most adorable
mouth in every way, so that
I almost hated for to see that
tight, lipped, self conscious
smile
hiding something for breakfast
we had bangers and cheerios
which went together, well,
about as well as
as you'd suppose
when that other bitch
her husband showed up
the cur! The cur who had
made his wife
bolt and then laugh
so hard a breakfast best
left for the italians to mop
and cleanse like
ye gods oh I'm so sorry but
she and I
kidded her about
that a bit, you can be sure
she had the most adorable
mouth in every way, so that
I almost hated for to see that
tight, lipped, self conscious
smile
hiding something for breakfast
we had bangers and cheerios
which went together, well,
about as well as
as you'd suppose
when that other bitch
her husband showed up
the cur! The cur who had
made his wife
bolt and then laugh
so hard a breakfast best
left for the italians to mop
and cleanse like
you
know
servile dogs! bolting
and wolving their own
"dog's breakfast"
off a French licked
flag we all know
was merely on
deck to tie
the world
together
once.
and wolving their own
"dog's breakfast"
off a French licked
flag we all know
was merely on
deck to tie
the world
together
once.
2 comments:
Poetry is intended to be read aloud. Not "this poem." All poems. Anyone who wrote a poem intended to be read not aloud is no Poet.
That's what the ancients called "prosody." They were right, too. They had a point, then. Doesn't matter now, of course! Unless you read it out loud, in good voice ringing softly off the rafters, rattling only literally every other window in the clerestory, then not one word of the thing (let alone "prosody") will be the same, let alone read the same: it cannot mean a single thing intended, then.
Try me. Better yet: try your own. Voice what it is you read, and you shall discover what poetry not only is like, but what it is for.
Please! Do, do, do.
OK.
This poem was once "Flags from whole cloth." It was shorter. It didn't come together properly. In the process of letting it billow out streaming on the breeze I neglected to open a new window, the better to let the original fly and perch in 2010's tree.
I destroyed it. However, it's a much better poem now in 2024, as I hope you'd be willing to believe.
Crap.
Revisionism is perilous, yo!
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