Mr Mascellani's Musings

Squeal Factor 5

This is not a flower,
it's a rabbit without ears
who rides his bike
through London town
as the clocks explode.

This is not a girl
with hair as red as Latin.
It's a Pekinese
who thinks he's Elvis-
and perhaps that's true.

This is not a negative,
nor a plate of Irish stew.
It's a whale
who wails and wails
because Latin is not red,
it is dead

This is not repetition.
It's a swan who forgot her name
and staggers around the city,
drunk on kerosene.

This is not the end
It's an angel with a baseball bat
who's heaven sent
and vengeance bent
So, whatever you do,
don't step on his blue-suede wings.



Rewrite

"Squeal factor 5" laments the furniture
as the window panes become window pains.
The swans can't recall their names;
They stagger about drunk on gasoline.
And Sam looks at the mess
that once was Pandora's face.

The flowers are gone-
turned into rabbits without ears
that ride their bikes
throughout the city
as the clocks explode.

The lady next door kneels down
in her lounge room, praying
Pekinese prayers to waves
which don't exist but still
crash onto shores
dreamt up by baby whales.

Babies begin to wail
aroused by the wail of the siren of the ambulance
that has come for Pandora.

Sam rides with her;
He remembers that the cat has not been feed.
He begins to weep.

Sunflower, moon, rainwater, dirt.
A bullet through their window.
nothing, no more,
makes any sense.