Cat and Fish

cat: signor, i am feeling off today.

fish: is it spiritual or bubble bubble

........................physiological?

cat: bubbles? i dont make that distinction

fish: have you eaten

cat: i have

fish: how was it?

cat: bland, to be frank

fish: you need a hobby horse, cat.

cat: what's a cat to do with a mrrrrrwow, horse? am i to ride it or it me?

fish: i dont make that distinction

cat: i am so off

fish: hey bubble bubble

cat: ?

fish: don't chew so loudly

cat: but i already ate

fish: but i am referring to your mind

cat: a mind can chew?

fish: you're the one who makes no distinctions bubble for tummy or theory

cat: oh fish fish signor can chew do better?

More than One Liners

they say hes razor sharp

impossible

he hasnt shaved in years.

well hes a hipster if i ever heard of one

have you

not likely.

trouble in paradise eh

dont lets bring scripture into this

why not

im trying to keep it clean thats why

what are you doing doc

relax i just want you to remain perfectly

hurt

or this is really going to

stay still

tell me do you enjoy the blues

i hate the blues

what about the reds

cant stand em

ah but in this climate you must support the greens

no you see they upset my stomach

(speed dating by colour folks it works)

how bout this for a lark

no thanks ive only a budgey

hes got a certain

je ne sais quoi

what's that mean

i dunno.

hes a wizard on the guitar

well im myself something of a warlock on the spoons

just what are you implying

oh nothing explicit

as shakespeare said

id love to hear him say it

im a man of my word

well id ask you to spell it but there are ladies present

such things have not been seen since the fall of rome

what about the winter

ive never met a man i didnt like

is that a fact

well it was

distinctive thoughts thought up @ work

- we know what is wanted by the way what is the distinction between5000 years and the flicker of a few screens
-back away from the history dept. (no future!)
-cohesion, we are ,,, told
- all of nature / in a recycling bin / to be found
-how many means
- how many more years
- back away from the keyboard (east-west line)

e-courage

i dont want to attemptany sort of daily digest
humanity, largely composedof fellow colleagues
won't have it/ linked verseand the time-honoured
i am nothing but relight motivation
and so a complaintto the aforementioned stars
heaven heaven heaveni have not dreamt in a long while
lyric, result of large reading,by an open looking parking lot

*

just a record of terror
terror, well,
a just recording
fled, cassette, no story
just the straight and natural blues
just recorded, a record
of terror

Some Admonitions and Spring Cleaning

these are the ties
pastel do not mention spring
on the way

in the opera
grand and old
dont write an oratorio

do not be a pagan
lest
easter

nor harbring
the afternoon
long and long away

do not paint anything
sir
that blossoms

cherish too
no long heated fondness
women wine and home

do not allow confections
to leave here
the funeral

do not fear for your
yesterdays
conscience prescience or science

do not think
engraving goes beyond
line drawing on copper

these are the ties
heed a few
for a while

From the Vault - Laforgue and the Sun

A word to the sun for starters....

Sun! Soldier patched up with orders and coughings

Poorly raised planter, know that the Vestales

To whom the Moon, in her equivocal cat-eyeings,

Is the rose of the Only Cathedral.

Know that the Pierrots, moths of the dolmens

And the white lilies of the lake where rests Gommorrah

And all of the benefactors who graze Eden

(Always springlike with renounciations) - abhor ya.

And these especially despise you,

The Hunk, the Indian Giver, the Desperado, the Ruffian,

For the charms of gold eggs that raise them so high to

The world and their lunar Orphan.

Continue to furnish those drunken sunsets

The vomit of tommorrow's national showbiz

To style your seasons, to damn well trounce us

From the dramas of the Umbilical Apotheosis!

Get on, Phoebus! But, Deva, god of wakening riot,

Take a look time to time at these Port-Royal aesthetes ahead

Who, in their lunar decamerons outside

Speak of no less than putting a price on your head.

Certainly, you've got many nice days above;

But of the old customs, it grows, that senate

For what good? who will dream of art and love

At the far door of the inorganic Aggregate.

-Know that we'll say a fine phrase, sonorous

Bone, but quite weak as wet medullary ,

Of all hollow-in-the-end prattle: it's pathos,

It's from Pheobus! - Ah! No need for commentary...

O vision of a time that was punished sufficiently,

From a: "Hey! Get on, Phoebus!"will return your prayer soon

Of old Crescite and multiplicamini,

To inoculate yourself forever against the fresh moon.

Of Ball and Chain

The case of post-modern post-poetry is so...tricky...But since I've begun with it

I'll just have to run with it.

(Since I'm first past the post-modern, I'll be happy to pun with it.)

But unlike many poets nowadays, I always have a good time

With a good rhyme.

So let the post-post-moderns tout their petty schism;

I'll refuse no witticism.

Another thing I won't refuse is a request

And so I'm writing the rest of this poem about my girlfriend, at my girlfriend's behest.

Ah, my girlfriend is swell, she's better than any Lesbia or Beatrice

(and if I ever had to choose between them, it'd be she-I'd-miss).

She's as cheerful as bubble-tea

She's got good looks and subble-ty.

She's got a voice like nightingale

And she sports a headpiece like a mountain quail.

If there's a problem afoot, though she hardly did ask of it

(Complain though she might) she'll make a good task of it.

And though at first appearance, she's got a rather dodgy grasp on train schedules and their relation to the Gregorian timeline

To me she is merely illustrating the relativity of time as purported by Albert Einstein.

And moreover she's very forgiving of my foibles

So who cares if she don't know her Duchamps from her Elgin Moibles?

And I know she'd love me in wealth or in penury

Or whether my name was Norbert, Alfred, or Henury.

And that's because I write her poems, yes, all women love a rhymester;

No matter how lilting your song or guitar solo is, fellas, my writing is sublimster!

I'm just sayin', if she ever took off from me like Helen of Troy

It'd have to be with one a helluva boy.

But most important of all, she is so good at sleeping in, I'd say she's a professional sleeper;

And as I rarely see much of her in the morning, I think I'll keep her.

(Post scriptum, lewd fellows, I'll be her defender

Against any who think this is double-entendre!)