by quasimofo

‘Back away from the brightness
cause the brightness
creates blindness’ it said
to me,
as i F E L T in my arms
an in-love-with-love
c a l m  k a p l u e y
into my ice cream ear,
kissing cornered sweat
from my post-partum neck..
her hand easing
like resolved inebriation
down my jack-hammered
chest cavity
releasing pent-up steam.
My heart’s been
stamped by
a cookie-cutter
and the only
sounding board
is a lonely ‘twack’
scrounging thru
the unmedicated dark
of holistically partitioned night.
Redo, Revamp, Rewire
me and
Patch me for the road, please.
I cannot tally all these
Harry-met-Sallys (congenially),
When I’m on the ropes,
it’s a bad time to show me
the ropes;
and as a benchwarmer,
i often set new
benchmarks with a
long dead
meat carving knife.
There is no wiping
the slate and
forgetting religion,
society, in it’s
wave – pool
of cosmic repercussions.
If you can’t keep up with
the Joneses, you
should not, in other words,
blow up their house.

I hear sirens sirens Sirens
and only howling dogs…

0 thoughts on “nun-the-sabratical-wurst-for-where?

  1. I’ll howl to your sirens sir. As an adult I am wrestling with similar misgivings about the makeup of my identity and the integrity of my personal will. Am I who I am because that’s what I want or am I who I am because that’s what this factory produces right now?
    Like Tom Stoppard a’la Richard Dreyfuss in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead-
    “It’s what we do.” Hardly conciliatory when it comes to worrying late nights, wishing that worries and wishing constituted self-awareness.
    You tell us in an advisory tone to ‘wonder all you want but don’t take not knowing out on the neighbors’. Sound advice.

  2. Intriguing as usual, but kind of short-winded for you mofo, isn’t it? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe the cookie cutter. Anyways, I’d just go ahead and blow up the Joneses house. I mean, seriously, they probably deserve it.

  3. Razor-thin mint Girl Scout Cookies mince immense words to silvery thin slivers of tongue, on rye, white, or marbled bread and wry wit, ribald bred with a generously smeared (though perhaps not onerously prepared) mayonnaise of miasmic malaise.

  4. Lmao at feedback. Yeah, sorta short winded, true…i’m slowly dabbling in concisiveness…not that i will be totally converted or anything. I am tempted to blow up the Joneses though, or at least the Haggards (lol). This was originally a facebook poem so characters were limited is what brought on shortness…i beefed it some with some extrapolation to put meat on the ribs.
    Once again, i am in awe of your gentleman/scholar knowledge, Mr. Halifax, you astound me at every turn like an American Gladiator bred on Wheaties and Encylopedia Britanica–gravity is only a theory they say. Nice bounceback bebops…liked em.
    I haven’t seen the one on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead-, will have to check into it, and i’ll recommend an old flick called ‘Sirens’ with Hugh Grant and Elle McPherson…awesome church dream scene where the pastor’s wife shows up stark-ass naked…turn your hymnal to page 69 please. lol.
    Glad you’re feeling better, Misener! Where’s that sponge bath with Aunt Jemima poem?

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