Impregnating Blow-up dolls and longest daydreams 86,400 seconds before slumber [Allegro Vibrato in D Major]

Impregnating Blow-up dolls and longest daydreams 86,400 seconds before slumber [Allegro Vibrato in D Major]
by Quasimofo Dali
i.
a moment in your mom’s world is meant to breathe wean
when K^A^P^L^U^E^Y!!! !!,
the next minute lifts its umbilical mini-skirt
crying for stipulations with stipends escraping the dregs
of doldumbs’ non-accommodations.
A symphony about a painting about a poem
becomes this here-there wacky spasticality
of upending Randomino quick-fizz tossed firecracker
poised traipsing coitus imagination with high jinx jingles
that blow your panties off into new dimensions
of the cosmoverse,
and standing there naked, you feel no remorse giving
G(g)od back the fig leaves…
.. the A.D.D. topples topless, plunges the commode
of conventionality whilst beacon lights lines sever in-the-dark
roller coasters wIndings …
LEft rigHT Uup S id E dowNN “@#$%^&*~ ! ! !”
[keep your hands to yourselves and hold onto your peyote milkshakes!].
Your time jockeys for position
on a Clydesdale with a Budweiser in each hand
[one for you, one for the horse]
{we are buck-ass (s)he-men Godivas, hear us neigh!}
and you gallop into a hair salon in a gunfighter saloon
for a bouffant and a whiskey
(talk about your afro—desiac);
but you don’t worry what you bring to the table as long
as it’s a table dancer full of life-equipment
knowing life is work until you work yourself to death…
You become plastered to the panoplywood
of whimsical reverie in a west goes south whorehouse warehouse full
of Hindenburg balloons full of luna-tic-toc notions floating
just below a ceiling made of hanging cacti rooted in lost and accurate rambling…

ii.
yes, yes, blaming creation for man’s misses is the Escher Dali Durer
grounding thunder holding your well-mannered forked lightning the right way…
the same spot finds an injuncture of the thesaurus rhyming dictionary
rolled in a carpet on the escarpment’s per[pet]ual escalator lulling us orbit-to-earth dodgeball maladroituses
into okey-dokey b-line…

iii.
let’s have an inn in heaven and charge extra
for blacklight sweet hot-tub suites mini-fridge
towel rack next to the heart-shaped one-eyed king sized
{after the deed we all need room to return to _______} .
Ah, go tell the motel there’s no more lazy lotion
for the mazy motion, ….
even though, however, nevertheless,
what’s one second on your mind is in another left behind…
and try as you may, you can’t beat someone
within an inch of their life with a metric ruler.
Hoist your appendectomy hot-dog cart suspenders
so you can with mustard muster the wherewithal
to weather rinky dink roller rink’s whirling ruts—
Oy! i missed any cue to queue and became
a fish out of water at a fish fry…
i skip funny dysfunctional, day dream for days on end,
and yet a 40 OZ. is not my forte’.
Existence is an endless cycle—that’s why
so many smartasses ride Harley Davidsons.

iv.
My sandy blonde and brunette blow-up dolls are pregnant from ménage-a-blah…
Can’t we not orchestrate some philharmonious intrafuge coupling some can do it
gauging the reels of Vivaldi Bach Handel ‘s
departcoming of the letting off steam getting you into more hot water with inadvertent addiction to a broke release valve ? . ? .
Delusion is the sub-chapter of fantasy, the making up after heartfelt wargaming on a plaid pool table while wearing pink polka-dotted kilts.
So don’t be a spotted dick, deal the deck my wrong-willed strong still-water halfwit amalgambler—for these violent violets are for keeps!
Plus, Peeking into forbidden Peking China, the joke in the Olympic coke might puts
you on the path
of righteous puff-puff pass.
v.
Lord Son of God and Man and Veterinary Clinic,
help me if you can learn love in the arms
of a French/Belgian woman who will cook
French toast and Belgian waffles on rainy mornings after
so i may ponder these taffy lucid-i-tease
at an Hecho en Mexico bistro table.
That’s when the sun rises and sets on either end
and either womanican slaps me with a home pregnancy test
waking me to realize i don’t know shit from shineola,..
..and that i surely can’t fit a sperm whale into a wishing well

7 thoughts on “Impregnating Blow-up dolls and longest daydreams 86,400 seconds before slumber [Allegro Vibrato in D Major]

  1. Reading your work has always felt to me like packing the station wagon to the brim for a long camping trip to the Upper Peninsula. Immense, daunting in scope, but once the first campfire is lit, it’s all worth it.
    Another demented mindfuck of a piece, Quasi. Loved it.

  2. It took me about 86,400 times to read this until i was convinced i wasn’t illiterate, but once I figured out your style and its purpose–i 100% loved it. Amazing. I particularly dug iii. It could stand on its own as something amazing, too. Cool. . .

  3. Stanza v. is the entire poem, and is the only thing necessary here. Stanza v., in and of itself, stands alone as a wonderful piece of poetry. The rest is, quite frankly, talky, esoteric, annoying, ponderous, and pretentious. Wordy, talky poetry is bad, economy is good. Remove everything but stanza v. and you have a nice piece of work. Stanza’s i-iv. are like four really shitty opening acts that bore the audience before the featured act comes on.

  4. I think this is genius in a way only Quasimofo can generate. Stunning! My next 86,400 seconds better hold some sleep. I haven’t slept well since I gave birth on Thursday. No…since well before that. Up every hour for the last 2 months isn’t sleep. Wait, I’m rambling….anyway, there’s not enough time in 86,400 seconds. I need more. And I need more Quasi stuff.
    this is real good.

  5. This poem should be recited by someone very loud and belligerent while walking down a street full of people on their way to work. It would help if this person were pounding a drum. I’m sure you’d blow a lot of minds. You might convince me to ramble a few lines. Unfortunately I don’t have a drum, but I do have a bass.

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