Hey! Where are the freaking rhymes? Take me back to Scotcho's Wacky Politburo.
I'll assume most of you have as little stomach for poetry as myself and refrain
from making this a complete collection of my verse. However, while I'm usually pretty
down on my own writing, occasionally one of my poems manages even to please me.
The poems below are among those rare few; I hope you find something therein. Be
advised that I am a deconstructivist poet, though, and usually don't adhere to any
rules besides those of my own invention.
First Fragmentary Musics
1. A dissection resulting in the irreducible
no other hammer to forge the beat
but the sharpened razor of ambiguity
i cut
and penetrate
the skin
keeping time: "the powers that be will be will be...."
just a sliver of a sliver to stand on, slivers
that turn
in turn
on my feet, no scrap of faith untouched
with a surgeon's doubt i am taken apart
operation a success
now won't you please put me
back
together again
2. We construct a bridge between text and context
another litter cries to be heard over an electric din
span or process being of particular note
meaning will be heard only as a living act
the measure of the act will constitute the bridge
we must cross if we are to see
this misshapen effect-
does the clatter begin in the mind or on the page?
turn off the light and see
as rats leave a sinking ship by scurrying across a tie-line
so we desert our minds for the text
that line, that thin thread, almost severed
by the light reflecting off the page
back and forth, back and forth, sawing,
until the bridge begins to fly
free now, ping
pong and wowed
are
you
ready
for
the
bridge?
Barth says the key to the treasure is the treasure.
3. Dream at seven or ten
at the fair or carnival all alone
people there, but indistinct, no mind, because i am winning prizes!
dimes in the glasses and rings around the floating numbered ducks
darts destroying balloons, soft balls killing milk cans, every prize
is mine and i can eat as many hot pretzels cotton candies fried
doughs lemonades as i want, still, part of me is silent observer and
i never really get to eat or play and when i wake
look round my bed to find no prizes
4. Later, with fiddle and drums
Bob opens his eyes, screaming, "My God, I've got pneumonia!"
his dismembered head lies in a bowl on the floor
with the epitaph Alpo emblazoned on its side
and, as the cowboy quickly rejoinders, "this is a Chuckwagon ad."
somewhere luck must have run out,
because it's feeding time
and here comes the dog
Bob moans for an analgesic
aware that there's no sin like an improbable agenda
not here, not now,
where he closes his eyes to make the best of a bad situation
waiting for fetid breath, hungry teeth
he wonders, "Where is the key? "
Here's another:
Enter the literature of the banal Tiny looks at his cards, realizes there is little chance of drawing to beat a flush There is still much to be done and no break in the astrological signs he throws in his hand Enter the literature of the banal clutching foot-stomping resignation Ready! goes the cry and the giant boom is lowered; Frank sighs and sips his coffee-like drink then laughs as the high iron boys start farting ah, there is so much to life just so long as you breathe through your mouth Enter the literature of the banal the poetry of madness redeeming the mundane After a hard day of jury-rigging Peggy decides to get a drink but the bar is closed the president's got shot or maybe there's a war on, etc. she walks down the street to the liquor store and buys a 5th of scotch Enter the literature of the banal the horse of high hopes the rhetoric of calamity holding a fruity parasol drink Marty wipes his eyes. Man, what a coughing fit! knocks over the ashtray. curses. swears. lights another one. and cries. there's only so much my bony fingers can do and I don't want to watch another Tom & Jerry cartoon Enter the literature of the banal the terror of the elite the rose that is only thorns the forces of corrupted nature making fuck a household word reclaiming small-lives while letting others fry might as well let the madman in before he batters this place to barney rubble.
This one's called "Wants bellow and beyond and how":
wants bellow and beyond and how
avarice, mighty [still encouraging a
nazi uproar -- 666; things uncertain
to a standstill: the near perfect
stasis of uncorruptible units
belief exists around the hub
everything revolves upon in the eve
love] many broken words on a scroll
litany approaching meaning in hell
ordinary transformations will go
wild, awry -- then all will know
angels, like you my athena
nascent ontologies just being born
damned, and it's a bloody shame, too bad
being only a misfit, a scab
evil, please don't pick it eyesore
you won't believe. why
or how did i say hello
now that you've run
damned again damned
ardent squares on the board a
night moves like an el on
dead rails squared
heavenly image, defy the oh
open the aitch, dear, too
wants bellow and beyond and how
There's a puzzle to that last one, and a clue to solving it in the last word
of the fourth to last line. Sorry, no prizes for correct answers, but if you mail
me at scotcho@sven.ctnet.com, I'll let
you know if you got it right. One last poem for now:
trash bin vignette artsy trash bin vignettes teeter miraculous, buy time and balance twixt current and curtsy. (deliver this journal to the center of earthquake preparedness in case of frenzy read fast) gestapo winter and, oh, my i ching hitler, an i ching i ching penny for your thoughts? jokeman this laughter is killing, this laughter is, laughter is killing me. (motor skills falter from neglect but trust that the sentiment stems from open heart bypassing shards of reason) police state, generate a disgust so quiet my hidden purpose flutters into such and so revelation, maybe a thought that matters. stuttered spell, my telegraph limerick, my underground reservoir of persuasion: vanity propels the would be holy to this: the x-communication anti assimilation of my word. (you see that our result must be greater than or equal to zero)
Golly, Scotcho, I find myself deeply moved in bowel-like fashion. Now won't you send
me back to Scotcho's House of Pancakes? By the way,
didn't anyone ever tell you changing the names of links for comic effect is considered
HTML blasphemy? Regardless, it's really f**king annoying!