With the hard linguine bite of an al dente cooked sister
the nasty space encroached on
our brouhaha.
this ill arrangement of our soft (so soft) altercation
churned brown fundamentalism
with puke-green anarchy
to yield a creamy diarrhea
from the nether orifice
of a bloated politics.
better a stank definition
than
a bald mesmerism.
[I wrote this in less than five minutes one Saturday morning, using a set of nouns and adjectives I had come up with during the preceeding minute. Its truth is thus debatable; its message, however, is clear.]
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3 comments:
To Slocum:
I say, Sirrah, what a message you bring! I quite enjoyed your metaphor and motif. Themes spun on the god of stomach and all that, wot? Good show. (I now doff my stylized entry into this comment--often my technique is judged obtuse, perhaps even presumtpuous. were I to remark--and I may or may not be so bold--I would simply mention that my habit is to pre-empt myself.)
I really appreciate writing that engages its audience with visceral imagery. I liked your sister.
To add a brief thought:
My mouth
Tastes like coffee
Again
My thought
Shifts to Spring
My phallus
Eyes the crowd
Again
My God
Stays the same
i like your poem, gabriel. well sort of. :-)
-gsarah
Let it be known that I have traveled below dunster for the space of a month to find no new thing grown, no treasure uncovered, other than the prolific treasure already present. I must say that, while I recognize the treasure hidden, I would communicate with the caretaker once more. And let the poet know that his presence is missed.
Justin, love you Bro.
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