outlet

outlet
by ramakrishnan parthasarathy
What follows this is bollocks. What actually follows is this. This time nothing followed. Followed what? I haven’t heard music in a year. I mean music in the way I used to. Now I don’t mean music. I mean business. My head tosses and turns. Tosses plus turns divided by two gives their mean. I am mean. A minimum of two. My pride has gone for a toss. What turns is for Abyssinia to ponder. And about a cogent analysis of subcutaneous breathing on my part.
I cut my hair today. Or rather the barber did. The barber was not named Rather. I don’t know the name but Rather was in CBS. Rather, he was employed by CBS. As to CNN, it is impossible for the CN group to link to Nitrogen. That’s why they had cable. I have no hopes. All the hopes I had went through the cable when I stopped hearing music. I never have had cable. Who pays for that shit? I once paid 50 paise to shit in the bus-stand of the city where I went to college. Actually twice. Once I had shit my pants. 50 paise translates to a penny and more here. Shit translates only to shit though. My neighboring blue collar scientist dipped his stained hand inside the tub where I had to wash my passage. I pulled my pants up. My passage was unwashed. May be later they did wash. The tub I mean. My passage is only for me to wash.

0 thoughts on “outlet

  1. i never mind the bollocks anyway if there’s Abyssinian maids to be had. How do you get in this linguistic analysis frame of mind? Elixir, work/eat/sleep, geishas? The dual meanings and word-play are witty and funny. I’m sorry you had to pay to shit at the bus-stand…that makes no cents, but at least they didn’t release the greyhounds to chase you down!
    This is cogent Indian Pale Ale at its most excellence; the only subcutaneous breathing i’m doing today is Wittgenstein’s illegitimate lovechild due to sex with Anne Sexton. Thanks Mr. Ramakrishnan for writing something off the wall to keep me from climbing it. By the way, how did you single space? That is the coolest thing in my across the railroad tracks cosmos right now.

  2. Thanks so much for the encouragement, Quasimofo. It’s nothing but a lifetime of reveling in ironies, sleeping straight in chairs, and less egoistic things like having a head full of detail. By the way, I haven’t gotten over your Zukofsky-esque “Fondue in an Alternator Factory,” yet. Reminded me of the Electric Eels’ Agitated…but more beautifully agitated. Couldn’t reply but here I can.
    ps: The Wittgenstein comparison is an honour. Tractus Gastro-Copernicas (copro?).

  3. uh, i’m not smart…i just know a little enough to get me into trouble (sorry if i mislead you…i’m a good bullshitter), {by the way, do you know how to get poems in post to single space?; …and am not as well-read as Mr. Parthasarathy. But i will say this: “Nemo me impune lasesit!” Just kiddin’. I’ll have to check out this Zukofsky and determine if he coulda beat up Turgenev. Electric Eels? I’ll check into… right now listening to Silversun Pickups and Moldy Peaches…Kimya Dawson my new favorite indie folk singer.
    Tractor Gastrointestinal Copperheads (cobra?) ?
    2 tickets for the Darleeling Limited please…
    Istali Mashi…

  4. Electric Eels were Cleveland punk-freaks with a Captain Beefheart fixation (a good thing’s they couldn’t play, meaning us masses got tons of attitude). One of their compilations is titled, “God Says Fuck You.” Agitated reminds me of your Fondue poem Quasi, since your 70s guitar riffs, hip structure, and what-the-heck-was-that disposition is like getting crushed under industrial machinery. And yet simultaneously paints like the sophisticate Louis Zukofsky.
    Turgenev has nothing on you.

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