December 7, 2010March 26, 2019 Quasimofo

On Arriving at the Age of Forty-One in an Albrecht Dürer Kitchen Gallery

Quasimofo

On Arriving at the Age of Forty-One in an Albrecht Dürer
Kitchen Gallery
For Dane Haggard
by Quasimofo
i.
Milton Bradley Sonnetgram for Love Child:
If Time must be clock-wise and weld Human,
Then let Her be a lingerie model
With hourglass figure I’ve seen in brothels!
She’s my backdoor backwoods cottage woman!
Her skin simmers slow-cooking my mind’s sands,
And like a toppled metronome we will
Make sweet fragrant love from Hell’s Death-grovel
Breathing life into burglared red heart’s Heav’n.
…Pillow talk ripe with flowery love-sighs…
She has my back and she has me on it!
I am inside the Origin of Man!
She says: “You’re a prudish, licentious wit!”
And “Youth is yours only through a child’s eyes.”
–A Cavalier peg in a Roundhead jam!

ii.
..in a field of forget-me-nots i drift into 5th Dimensia:

Having failed as a carpenter’s apprentice to two stepfathers and a savior
i finally found a job at the Temp Agency for fill-in duty
with the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse. At first i said ‘no way, dude!’
But they said it’d be fun and i could ride a Shetland Pony if i wanted.
I’ll cover vacations and sick days.
Pestilence is taking off for the Bahamas, then War is heading
to the Australian Outback, Famine to Disneyland, and Death
to the new Twilight movie followed by bed and breakfast
at Nuremberg-Auschwitz.
hmm—what we do for the minimum wage of sin…
It’s been the best i could do, since you have to go out
and get what God’s given you.
ahh, they say the sky is the limit
but the sky has fallen and we’re walking on it.
No, i’m not in the ‘know’, in my articulately detailed
hare-brained still-water still-life
i’ve vivaciously lived vicariously drooping Melancholia eking silent
‘hells-yeah’ bells at humane centers draped in ironic iconic stale questing
knighthood in rosy Devil perspectacles.
What is written in stone or cut into wood
—our collared collaborances are a bore mating praying hands clasped on a damned evening of falling men
—blame the lamenting repentant
creator for all your kneeling feet ills
—what happened to life’s manual?
…and learning to love the nativity of martyrdom in an imperfect creation?
i am dressed for church and ready for my on-line nemesis and nature’s CPU.

iii.
?Wanderjahre …or are you just avoiding the plague? :

You must make your own coat of arms and hope to have amorous armour skin as thick as a Rhinoceros [not flypaper] in this Anno Dominatrix forging gold smith’s cutesy jowls peasant smiling/jiggling to so many small delights in so many self-portrait fur-lined parka personas evicted from the sparrow bushes of out-of-the doghouse into the 100ft. tower of birdhouse safehouse near and dear to pleading plethora saints with lucky-brain wiring and large horses made for riding whips and writing quips. it’s always the young who are, tempted, adored then betrayed, ravished, abducted on a unicorn wailing the sorrows of men & virgins (or both)
…i see naked hairy broken-down shock
in their sockets when they wonder ‘Am i in love with it or its love?’
Heed the 4 witch-bitch Kardashians who two-face two-step naked round a disco ball
made from lover’s skulls—an offer of love is often ill-sorted!
If you aren’t needy then you need to be—weep like cherub angel heads in your engraved passion time-share by the pond or mill {about} town built with skillfully carved sacrificial chamber music of commerce crosses…the glow of deceived gods who killed themselves in Mercedes garages gargling monochrome oxide taps your noggin
in a study with cross-bred lion/pooch nipping the doorways—
you fight with whatever you have even if it’s a cane-pole!
Sometimes, i am a smart-ass sarcastic/sarcasm satyr tooting baroquen-hoe-down cantatas luring Fortune-Chickadee to the poor-man’s penitent wilderness hide-out hide-away with plush bearskin rugs in pup-tents midst Pecan trees hoping to get to 3rd base while watching the World Series of Emblematic Cruci-asphixiations.

iiii.
Beautopia in a Redbox with Germaniac subtitles:

what rock are you shining upon what distant star? She certainly became tough but oh so dense. The worst empty is lonely and yes if i was a little dumber i wouldn’t know any better.
..see the bright side of things by looking from the dark side of the moon, we’ll have our day in the sun even if it takes a million heat lamps. To get to the bottom of things hit rock bottom and start a quarry. Just because you have a beef against the world doesn’t mean you should blow up cows with your Panzer Tank Squadrons, rommey!
the in-crowd/the out-mob—you have to outfox the desert wanderings!
we Neo-Imagist Poets create our own world thru words cause this one sux rat-rafters on hanging Mass balconies but it’s the best we can über-glue and it’s ours to proportion drinking power of creation to void our powerlessness 6 goblet Google goo-goo doll Barbie and Ken playing Malibu dream-haus.
YOU have to be your own best friend, father, neighbor, and lover! If life is a dream, wake up, and try out some of your studio workshop agony-protest dance moves on importuning honey-thieves!

iiiii. [the i’s have it]
Rebirth Borealis—Adoration Trinity of Painter, Printmaker, and Theorist [or in my case–Poet, Truck-Driver, and Sex-Addict]:
My one and fortieth year has pounced upon me like the curtain slung back
in an underwear department store dressing room on a naked idler contemplating deity- feigned purpose, satin-lace chemise, crotchless existence, and prodigal crossroads on this so-called great piece of Turf.
There are 12 sessions left for 12 months so cover your bases in whack-a-mole pic-shun-airy-cloud-in-the-heads work eat sheep and fuck like you’re 20
for as long as you can pray when you just want something.
No one blows cyclones thru spitball curvature straws on your tricycle tightrope trellis.
…A gentle jack-off escapade in your king-sized motorcade
living to social network like life is a red bull
and we are all matadors slopping
Oil of Ole’ onto our picturesque crude nudes Flora and/or Florins ~!@#$%^&*()_+? Loose Hair Furleger Lager!!! Save your cheap gas receipts junk
food burritos
and artsy Tea Cans with stun ray foraging pizza
in ‘grab a hunk’ box `craving`
the Vishnu blue counter top as wayward roaches quest in a bourgeois insect playground snorkeling kitchen aroma thru mindful exoskeletons in an open-season scavenger hunt for succulent sustenance. There are no mistakes; it just is what it is. In a bet one can merely fretfully regret. So somewhere between living each moment like it’s your last and living as if you’ll live forever, you will die happy and your house will be made a museum to the world.