Friday, August 01, 2003
Oh, Ginger!
Original
Ginger’s gaze rocks Mary Ann’s world
Like rough weather tosses a tiny ship,
Touch me, Gingerly, Ginger, she thinks.
Our love is such a faithful trip.
Make wild jungle cat love to me, Ginger.
Be as primitive as you can be, Ginger
I’ll be the Gilligan to your Skipper.
Caress my coconuts
and spank my bottom with your skipper’s cap.
Work me over with your fruity island tongue.
Let me be your “Lovie”
and make me thurstone HOOOOWWWWLLLLL
For the third time tonight.
Take my body
for another
three hour cruise.
Rewrite
Ginger’s gaze rocks Mary Ann.
Like rough weather tosses a ship,
Touch me, Gingerly, Ginger, she thinks.
Make jungle cat love to me, Ginger.
Be as primitive as you can be, Ginger
I’ll be the Gilligan to your Skipper.
Caress my coconuts
and spank my bottom with your skipper’s cap.
Work me over with your fruity island tongue.
Let me be your “Lovie”
and make me thurstone HOOOOWWWWLLLLL
For the third time tonight.
Take my body
for another
three hour cruise.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
Bring Out Your Dead
Original
Bring out your dead!
I'm not listening.
Sharon hangs out her washing,
notes to herself that the new powder
removed all the vomit and blood.
Bring out your dead!
I can't hear you.
When Sharon was a child
her parents enrolled her
in tap dancing classes.
On the 9th of July, 1974, 10:35 p.m.
they burned to death at home.
Zoloft, and Lithium, and Prozac- - oh, my!
Bring out your dead!
No! Leave me alone.
Sharon sees a cloud that looks like Gertrude Stein,
realises she will never see Tasmania, Kentucky, or Prague.
Inside her house,
where her PC sits,
there's a globe of the world,
a present from her deceased husband.
Bring out your dead!
OK, ok, ok.
Good girl, good girl.
Bring out your dead
Bring them on out,
we'll put them in this 'barrow
with all these other corpses
and take them away.
The voices lie.
There's no 'barrow filled with corpses.
Sharon is stuck with her dead.
And, under her house, tarantulas fuck.
When she goes to bed, she dreams
she's on stage at the 'Sands"
tap dancing with Sammy Davis JR.
The next morning,
It begins again:
Bring out your dead!
Rewrite
"Bring out your dead"
As Sharon hangs out the clothes,
she notes that the new powder
removed his vomit and blood.
When Sharon was a child,
she went to dancing classes.
"I don't wanna go to tap dancing class anymore, Mummy".
On the 9th of July, 1974, 10:35 p.m.
her parents burned to death in their home.
Therapy. Zoloft. Lithium. Prozac.
Back in her house,
on her desk,
where her PC sits,
there's a globe of the world
which was a present from her sick husband.
Rain clouds begin to threaten her washing,
And she realises that she will never see Vegas.
When she goes to bed, she dreams
she's on stage at the 'Sands"
tap dancing with Sammy Davis JR.
But the next morning,
It begins again:
Bring out your dead!
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Pulp
It's sleaze o'clock in the moaning and the moon scowls down
on a citythat is as lackluster as the charm that hangs off a gimp
hooker's bracelet. While in the fortress of filth and debauchery
that he calls his apartment, in a bedroom filled with deer and moose
head trophies, and a bear skin rug, and on a bed as big and as long
as a kerouacian sentence, Big Louie is being entertained by a dame
named Candy or Brandy or Sandy, maybe it’s Mandy.
He tries to remember which it is, for a moment, but then he shrugs
his shoulders, scratches his beach whale ass, and takes another drag
from his Cuban cigar as the dame plays a virtuoso performance on his
one-hole flute, swallowing the notes at the climax-then the sound of
Big Louie's phone invades the moment like an unwelcomed visitor from
another dimension. He picks up the receiver, talks, and puts it down.
"I gotta go", he says to the dame, police business, there's been some
trouble down town. Some god damned VIP palooka’s been shot dead,
right on the corner of Nowhere and Nothing streets.”
The dame gets under Big Louie's bed sheets and through pupils that
are as tiny as pinholes watches him change into his uniform.
on a citythat is as lackluster as the charm that hangs off a gimp
hooker's bracelet. While in the fortress of filth and debauchery
that he calls his apartment, in a bedroom filled with deer and moose
head trophies, and a bear skin rug, and on a bed as big and as long
as a kerouacian sentence, Big Louie is being entertained by a dame
named Candy or Brandy or Sandy, maybe it’s Mandy.
He tries to remember which it is, for a moment, but then he shrugs
his shoulders, scratches his beach whale ass, and takes another drag
from his Cuban cigar as the dame plays a virtuoso performance on his
one-hole flute, swallowing the notes at the climax-then the sound of
Big Louie's phone invades the moment like an unwelcomed visitor from
another dimension. He picks up the receiver, talks, and puts it down.
"I gotta go", he says to the dame, police business, there's been some
trouble down town. Some god damned VIP palooka’s been shot dead,
right on the corner of Nowhere and Nothing streets.”
The dame gets under Big Louie's bed sheets and through pupils that
are as tiny as pinholes watches him change into his uniform.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Motel
One bed, two lovers
two lovers, one cuckold
one cuckold, one gun
one gun, two bullets
two bullets, two bodies
two bodies, one vacancy.
two lovers, one cuckold
one cuckold, one gun
one gun, two bullets
two bullets, two bodies
two bodies, one vacancy.
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