The Griffin

The Griffin and Other Poems
By Alice M. Baskous

The Griffin

No matter where we are, what time it is,
A man refreshment seeks, a woman too,
From water, from fruit by waves of light shot through,
To varying degrees. ’Tis no man’s biz,
If cold or hot plates make the fryer siz.

The savage ocean promises, pursues,
Fills a mind with curves and forms obscure,
Teases, leaps, and prods, stays still, demur;
So characters come from this zoo,
By sins ensnared, one tasty morsel, two.

Glasses, cups, plates, breads, and sauces thick and light,
Venues for entertaining long and loud,
Make men forget their woes, wax sick and proud,
Rascals by day while leaving drunk by night,
Acting in masks by rote, cons out of sight.

The salt, salt sea still roars, it never stops,
In the influence o’ the moon, it rolls its shape,
Crouched like a panther, stretched out like an ape,
Sending mists all o’er the high and green tree tops,
Turning loafers to hungry, lustful sops.

Sometimes, a lantern comes in handy, cross.
Without a lighthouse, ships in storms are keeled,
Destined for darkness, saddest fates are sealed,
Without a guiding light – there’s so much loss!
Prompt acumen means much when tall trees toss.

The Bible tells us, wisely, of a snake,
The shape of Satan, came to strike out Man,
From the saintly yard where human life began.
The snake upon the Man doth make Man ache,
When he has a craving or a thirst to slake.

He sees an apple first, his life turns red,
Grabs what he wants, acts like a sultry fool,
Inflicting pain in blindness with his tool,
Till all apart from pleasure’s writhing dead,
With rampant cruelty cursing every head.

Long time ago, a while, I knew a chap –
Doze off forgetting simply who he was –
Who loved fish dinner, peaches bearing fuzz,
And more than work, enjoyed a dreamy nap,
Summoning afterwards some girls to sex and slap.

The gent was caught one day without his slacks,
Purportedly a rapist, using rooms
To sling his lady underlings like brooms,
A glutton earning wages as he wacks,
Filled flagrantly, whereas the whole world lacks.

What justice would do, ay me! With such a dick,
Would throw him to the floor, expose his arm,
Beat better sense into his brain, do harm,
But a penitentiary ’tis which seals his prick,
Despite the blood and milk that ran so thick!

The beasts of fields beat not their brides,
How, wit? They have not wit of upright men,
Nor do they write on pages with a pen,
But man doth abuse his check; he takes slick rides,
A wallet fast in hand, tans tender hides.

A white knight I saw dreaming, by a wall –
The high stone wall of a fortress high and strong,
Shining brightly in the glare of the early throng
Of golden sun beams – sporting quite a pall,
Though he looked lusty, seemed a fair lad tall.

It was in a clover patch he slept, in armor full,
Smelling flowers by sweet, warm gentle breezes stirred,
From an inner garden decked with bloom and bird,
Did sometimes from its branch a berry pull,
Kind summer ready too, to breed and mull.

Two doves flew by in mute complicity,
Exchanging seedlings in their bonny mouths,
Derived from budding trees o’er distant sloughs,
Chortling in harmony or ecstasy,
Though a downy hawk would give them cause to flee.

Ten greyhounds sported by an ancient oak,
Yapping at each the other’s tail, benign,
Not needing blood of fox or gander for their wine,
But in the shimmering dewy grass did soak,
Employing their muzzles to jive and playful, poke.

A squire watched over, fond and lovingly,
Leaning on a staff, attentive to his work,
Seeing that no dog should run away berserk,
While batting his frond-like lashes cloyingly,
Gazing on one tower window dotingly,

For that it lead unto his lady friend,
Who shewed her head but once or twice straight through,
Singing tempting notes which no man ever knew,
Filling all the courtyard, sometimes, end to end,
Like some letter a striving amorous mouth doth send.

The castle sat atop a craggy hill,
Adorned by heather, herbs, and wayward grass,
Where shepherds with their curly flocks did pass,
Letting their charges sip by a silvery rill,
Entwined much by webbed foot, crest, and bill.

Life dragged on slowly by the curvesome stream,
The banks of which sat silken as fine dust,
Guarding nests of eggs and daisies in its trust,
As fish the size of coins did swerve and teem,
Finding light, then hiding in some stony seam.

Design of recent footprints bordered round
The wet environment, of walkers two,
One print the larger, both all riddled through
By trampled reeds that crackled with soft sound,
A place where deer and warty toads abound.

It could have been, that lovers tarried there,
Beyond the common ken of castle life,
Avoiding peering eyes and needless strife –
Of love alone, comprised and keen aware,
With spritely, laughing step and unbound hair.

The sun was fraught around by shreds of cloud,
No way obscured, but beaming in full force,
Freewheeling and divine within its course,
The beacon of Apollo, dressed and proud,
Who hath a different Heaven doughty prowed.

These clouds rolled forwards, holy, long,
Stacked up and up, creating several plates,
More pale than grinding wheels or carven slates,
Governed, maybe, by witch or pregnant song,
Or angels at their work, flying along.

Uncommon as a rainbow, such high rings,
Incurring many winks and happy nods,
From the land’s small, bustling, ant-like peasant bods,
Not to mention Lords surrounded by their things,
O’er a peaceful square where ever laddie sings,

Not blown by breezes, holding hour on hour,
If lucky or portentous, no one knew,
But well beyond the way of luncheon stew,
Absolved of making meat or pudding sour,
A crowning gem beyond the gleaming tower.

Such bellies rumbled as would please an eye
From foreign soil, the people grew so fine,
Whose necks wore garlands strung upon a line:
Slight, bird-like folk, expert at making pie,
Who threw their tools down since high noon was nigh.

The sleeping knight rolled over on his side,
Itching either end, and twitching head to toe,
Awakening by increments and slow,
Since hunger wracked his body, ants his hide,
Using his nose as wet and hooded guide.

To wit, he was a stranger, thick and gruff,
More fiery in his eye than embers whole,
Who had a large, coarse palm and harder sole,
Because pole-wielding made his body rough;
Accustomed he was, to chores, both light and tough.

Thinking to get a bite from broad or bear,
He gained upon the shepherd in great strides,
Insisting that his growl be satisfied,
No matter if the people came to stare,
Ogling his mole-flacked muscles, dark and flowing hair.

“Of course, I can get ye bread and cabbage broth,
“And pitying your breadth, a chunk o’ meat,
“For, praise to God, a beggar has to eat,
“So long as none of him is sly or roth,
“If he be a travelling prince, or head to toe a sloth,”

The watchful boy exclaimed, ringing his hands,
Putting one above his heart by handsome rote,
Whereon there clung a vest of winter stoat,
Ermine trapped cleverly, devoid of glands,
Tenant no more of hillocks or low mounds.

“Wherefore are ye here, though? Have ye killed a man,
“Or lost your daily pittance gambling?
“Are you endowed or round panhandling?
“But say you are not heralding a van,
“And I will give you supper if I can.”

“I’m as solitary as a homebound saint,
“My poor wife lost, but I am literate,
“Doing services for board itinerant,
“A proper hand and free of major taint,
“Apt to mend a fence or plant or up and paint,”

The itinerant adjured, gloved hand upraised,
In faith that he would get his merry dish,
And polish it off as lusty bears eat fish,
Hie off at dawn, since only loyalty stays,
To chat its heart out with the passing days.

At table out of doors, within the yard,
Set up for picnics by a squire’s peg,
The hungry wanderer did cease to beg,
Rending into roast as deftly as a pard,
More thirsty, also, than the tuneful bard.

His shepherd, in a corner, drank some soup,
Cavorting with a scullion voix bas,
Fiddling jovially with some odd bit of straw,
Which bent into a crucifix then loop,
Talking of savage birds the hounds had driven up.

Light on the shepherd, bathed him rich in gold,
Unlike his plainer friend, painted in smears,
Highlighted the barley tresses o’er his ears,
Brunette whene’er the weather waxed it cold:
Rare beauty, his, though it was never sold.

Word was, passed back and forth from, ear to ear,
The countryside gave creatures harborage,
Called griffins, feathered, furred, and quick to rage,
Toward which a peasant would not come to steer,
Since they inspired nervous sort of fear,

So the young folk talked, as they dipped into pie,
Cut into cake, and filled their senses much,
On spicy viands – languished pleased with such,
For wine, their throats remained no longer dry,
For ale, their spirits circumvented high.

A griffin was a lover of the wild,
Endowed with scaly claws and yellow beak,
Ate more than tarts of fried potato-leek,
Deep in the forests, roved at large and wiled,
Deep in the meadows safely preened and styled.

Hatched from an egg magnificent, it squawked,
To fill its lexical and growing jar,
Until wise nature guided it afar,
Then imitating humans, simply talked,
Immune to ills by which frail men are pocked.

They grew as big as carriages, broad-backed,
Trim at the waist, however, all year round,
Preferring talk to silence, vibrant sound,
And hardy as the rose, quite tightly packed,
With razor barbs and poison glands there sacked.

How interesting! The knight mysterious now mouthed,
Stroking his leg while thinking to himself,
He’d been during his life a wily elf,
And hero of his village, not yet betrothed,
A strong man if buck nude or fully clothed.

He could aim and arrow well in archery,
Or wrestle down a monolith with luck,
Win favors from the rich with flair and pluck,
Seduce a maiden first to win her key,
And have her steaming hot upon one knee,

About anything to prove his valor vigorous,
Till marriage ended head first in abuse,
Which turned him out and set him on the loose,
More laughing, still, private, precarious,
An unrepentant bod omnivorous.

What a pleasure it would be, to tame a beast,
Somehow acquiring the upper ground in time,
If it spat upon him venom or gross slime;
Still it would bow, and he, not be deceased,
A newer man and hero at the least!

Rectitude, thou hast not ever touched this chap,
So blown about by strong proclivity,
He would bite a fish or mermaid of the sea,
Feel full at heart and turn to take his nap,
Taught with the muscles burgeoning on his lap.

He formed his hands into a triangle,
This earnest traveler whose will was all aflare,
A plot, a fantasy, a good romp to prepare,
Alone, or ’companied by band and bugle,
Delight residing on the flung net’s tangle.

Fancy, he thought, a crouching creature here,
Within these hands replete with potency,
A struggle he’d o’ercome with buoyancy,
More illustrious than the bagging of a deer,
A bloody fest attracting peer and peer.

O sky the white of bed sheets, heads did droop,
Full satiated by the friendly, decent grub,
In confluence with snores and belt-tucked thumb,
Soft noises issuing from the poultry coop,
And the patter of children rolling their iron hoop.

A lady playing music pure and sweet,
Gave ample entertainment, plucking strings,
A lutist met with silver jinglings,
From a lad bearing hefty bells sat on his seat,
Keeping aught the rhythm, calm, and passing neat,

Reminding one and sundry of the time –
How men and maidens must sooth age and die –
No matter if the life be drenched in love or dry.
Still might a heart rejoice, a singer chime,
While hope exists and energy to climb,

And then, a song of slavery they heard,
The vassals in the courtyard, joyously,
Remembering a tale of restrained ecstasy,
Betwixt a servant and her shepherd lord,
So poignantly performed, no one left bored.

After luncheon did the white knight receive news,
He would be staying in a special loft,
Above the stables where dwarf pages coughed,
And steeds were kept from feeling chilly dews,
If his demeanor did not shew a ruse.

Uplifted in his spirit, watery-eyed,
Our white knight tried to get a maid to dance,
Tempting her thought with kind words straight from merry France,
Licking his chops, and patting her slim side,
Whereon a thrill of matching lust did ride.

They languished arm in arm for quite some time,
Forgetting that more people walked about,
Amused, meanwhile, a virgin and a lout,
Who simply met at random, ’gan to rhyme,
In pastimes cool and sweet as fresh pressed lime.

The white knight called his damsel, crazily, chestnut,
His face contorted in a rugged laugh,
Resembling that of a monkey or a drunk giraffe,
Though he owned neither castle room nor common hut,
No shelter did he have, but how he’d rut!

“’Tis out of wedlock, wedlock! Devil sin!”
A passing baker shouted, critically,
Then turned a corner, grumbling cryptically,
As if he were possessed by ghost or gin,
Passing back and forth through souls in common din.

“The Devil grant us luck, therefore,” exclaimed
The knight with his feisty bundle, wickedly,
Sipping his bundle’s features sensuously,
A lion left at large, a lion never tamed.
No one was there to stop them – lambs get blamed.

So full and satisfied, a rabbit satiate,
The fellow clapped his hands, his eyes a-glare,
And saw his woman jump to take the stair,
Examining her fragrant bodice intricate,
Loth to let her leave but done and tired to wit.

Hestia’s servant, a wizened widow, bent of back,
Was slipping past this rough rogue’s special ken,
To get to the kitchen or a private den,
Whereupon the fellow, waxing rude, did thwack
The old dame’s body, as it were a sack,

Intending not to hurt but meaning ill,
His fun not over, still a ruffian,
Or a grizzled heathen, fancies he’s a ben,
Can shove a table over, girl like she’s a pill,
From a high tree branch or from a windowsill.

He called her crab, he called her several names,
For malice often proves it has no end,
And doth its seeds of seering evil send,
Seeking to trip the innocent – it lames
By means of rich and evil-natured games.

A great outcry this woman made, and fuss,
Not quite flipped o’er, but weakly teetering,
Facing the offender who coughed twice while jeering,
Who bit his nails so hard there would be puss,
Less prone his faults to mend than jibe and cuss.

“How dare ye, foolish stranger, put that hand
“Upon my back like I were property!
“No property am I, nor bad man’s tea,
“But best at sewing dresses in the land,
“A seamstress, not a hussy on the sand!”

“Get gone, get gone, all that was merely play,
“I did not mean to harm, I hurt you not,
“But sometimes eagerness o’ersteps the pot,
“And off I am; I do not mean to stay,
“Since there’s a griffin loose, a man might slay.”

The knight restored his armor, doffed for hours,
Made haste to leave so as not to homeless grieve,
If an authority around restrained his sleeve
And cast him off into the wildern flowers,
Instead of lodging him within their towers.

Importuning the morning’s shepherd boy,
He advocated taking off as one,
The flute in tow, to catch a beast alone,
And bag its ear with the laddie’s piping toy,
And rope its limbs for triumph, fame, and joy.

Benign of eye, the shepherd balked a while,
Assuming the knight had violent impetus,
So paused, to see if the other men would hiss,
Or else preserve his newly macho style,
Carry on, outside, in hunting mile by mile.

Not a threat was spoke the shepherd thus agreed,
Willing to spend some time in decent privy sport
As a flautist, priest also, and firm cohort,
Master of Dogs and sometimes expert on his steed,
Though leaving by the dogs, or spoil this seed.

He readied a horse for griffin-hunting, keen
To shield its head and sides with armor plates,
Lest the griffin lash out smart in fiery spates,
While lending to his friend a stallion mean:
Coal black it was, with bright and cryptic sheen.

There was a greener place, ten mile away,
Wherein the shiest creatures hid from sight,
Their nests o’ershadowed by old trees day and night,
That needing rest, the lot might downward lay,
Discreet and sure to have no price to pay.

The hare dashed out, a-flight, flashing its tail,
And squirrels did tremble in the heavy mist,
Whereas stags and cautious deer did sometimes kiss,
Defiant of the huntsman and his mail,
While boars stomped round by moonlight pale,

Smooth rivulets gave drink to parching throats,
Flanked by deepened moss and dampened peat,
Not anyone around, nor any seat,
But beasts of many sizes. Stranger notes
Came from the shepherd’s flute, long time afloat,

Charming and cajoling, enswathing and steering,
Soft music permeated all the woodland air,
Causing a denizen to jump and stare,
This atmosphere brand new and shimmering,
For the music that made its motions glimmering.

The shepherd worked as deftly as a mage,
A sorcerer with weighty books of lore,
The champion of beasts who run on four,
Standing alone with neither cup nor page,
Feeling neither resentment in his heart nor rage.

He’d not yet seen a griffin, nor a rook,
But a black bear he caught once in slumber fast,
Enough to wake it, make it dance, well sassed,
A unicorn as well, guarding a book,
Who cracked its hooves upon its shady nook.

And when he herded sheep, he did so well,
Using his staff but little, just to walk upright,
To fret and ward off vultures in the night,
Since his flute had on it a surpassing spell,
As good as gold: it bound and did not fail.

This precious flute was made of common reed,
The boy did pluck one day from a riverbank,
Punched out the holes and threw it, that it sank,
Into the river where its force was keyed
By a dripping mermaid, slim and scaly kneed.

Historically, so much did the mermaid love,
The look o’ the shepherd, smooth and strapping young,
’Twas for three hours afterwards she sung,
Would give him anything on paw or hoof,
Her heart embattled as a beaten dove.

Shier than men, the mermaid slipped away,
Bestowing kisses on the air she passed,
Her wit beguiled – but ah, her power was vast!
She could transmorph the sky to make the nighttime day,
Or bend an iron rod, as it were hay.

Such kind of flute, the shepherd carried close,
Against dire wolves a-prowl, to guide his sheep,
Blessed in his tracks by a dame he could not keep,
A singing star, disdained to be verbose,
Had gills and breathed not through her pearly nose.

Three steps away from the woodland edge, they stopped,
Dismounting not, but keeping their eyes wide,
To see if a griffin ensconced in green leaves hied,
Or through a meadow, watching field mice, loped,
As curious as Pan who piping, hopped.

“Mark me, that no resistance has a griffin, none,
“Nor any other beast or man on feet,
“But every living creature called must meet,
“Be captured or sent off, their service done,”
The shepherd laughed, snubbing his nose for fun.

Poor griffin! Free, it knew not human hand,
But mastery it had o’er all its living ways,
Did not accept the net or chain which stays,
Being lord or mistress of its happy land,
For faith! It did not want its own hide tanned.

A claw stretched out, lo! From the shadowy wood,
Then came the body, proud and muscular,
With an eldritch hissing noise and restful stir,
Crouched on the earth, for a griffin seldom stood,
Gazing at the men afore it, hood by hood.

The knight voiced his huntsman’s glee with clap and nod,
Surprised by this figure full chimerical,
A female, bearing not a testical,
But had a chest that shook where it did plod,
Though beak it had, and fur to shield its bod.

Green grasses smoldered at this griffin’s feet,
Combusting in its presence, crackling sure,
Since a winged griffin is not much demure,
Gives rarely up its den or quiet seat,
Unless it wants to talk or vanquish meat.

“So this is it, a proven fact, no lie,
“The beast that made me wonder on and on,
“About its coloration and its brown,
“Its mythic sounds and marks upon its thigh,
“If its orifices come out wet or dry,”

Expressed the knight, his hand upon his brow,
So close to wondering more that he might drool,
Blessing the flute since it was such a tool,
As could call the fairest game, keep it in tow,
Dangerous no more, but rendered dull and slow.

“How shall we have it, now or after?
Asked the shepherd, speaking cool as cellar wine,
Well pleased with his flautist work divine,
So voiced he, joy, on wings of wily laughter,
Now questioning if griffins need see a rafter.

Sad did the griffin gaze on both the men,
Staying still as stone, as roots grabbed firm its base,
But hating every ember of its place,
Remembering, meanwhile, the fond and pampered den,
Where it kept its mate away from bug-eyed men.

Low stifled this, a sob, lifting an arm,
Had been more than lions, strong, defective made,
And what impervious had been before, obeyed,
Respected not a jot, exposed to harm,
For which its eyelids fluttered in alarm.

“Men, cease; men, cease! You lead me into grief!
“A voice and soul am I, deeper than flax,
“And yet you rogues shall have us on our backs,
“For what? To brag and jest and wear a wreath,
“Feeling like heroes, though each cad’s a thief!”

Protested the griffin, beating both her wings,
While spitting fire everywhere in wrath,
Whereat the shepherd quelled the fiery swathe
By piping faster than an organ sings,
Wagging his ruthless tail, dancing in rings.

“You talk remarkable, for a spatting wretch,
“But we have plans to keep thee for a while,
“So the saints above can see your plumage vile,
“And also how we fellows give to teach,
“No matter how thy silver throat doth reech!”

The shepherd stipulated with stomping heel,
Raising his chin to cast as scathing look,
Whereas the knight gazed forth, his prize to cook,
Each peeper growing like a carriage wheel,
Or a confit orange with more rampant zeal.

The fellows were not delicate, but red,
Of a sudden dissolute past principle,
Advised to stop – still were they bloody simple,
Intending their phenomenon to wed,
By roping it and beating on its head.

“Here, here! What art thou, mistress? Lover? Bride?
“You have a circlet coming, fie and fie,
“Such a fine and fancy speech deserves a pie!
“Men wearing leather see you have a hide,
“But in the state you’re in – no, not a ride,”

Claimed the merry shepherd, tapping soundly her,
Who ventured mournfully her grim defeat,
Flinging up its hefty eagle’s head for meat,
But hearing only a sick, insidious whirr,
Whereon it lay right down and did not stir.

Diana, where was she, when had their cake,
These huntsmen waxing proud as lordly gents,
Though more like horrid, heathen dissidents,
In letting a lonely griffin weep a lake,
Perhaps her pain, or more, her life to take?

Sweet dryads, were you out, the day men came,
Not knocking, furious, but threw a chain,
Cavorting as the gods had them insane,
Losing all their etiquette, no longer tame,
For the vicious pet they thought to carve or maim?

Attached, these friends, the griffin by its leg,
To the saddle of the stranger’s ebon horse,
Hoped to have it in the kitchen in due course,
Or in a cage so it might squat and beg,
Receiving dinner, or if not, a peg.

The griffin cried and shrieked, it breathed hot fire,
It made much sound and plaint, the spell was cast,
Held tight the beast and ay, was bound to last,
So the griffin did relent; it had to tire;
It slowed down, could no longer twist or gyre.

Another tune, much like a lullaby,
Enthralled the animal soon into sleep,
And slumbering, it did not think to leap,
Made no stir, what at all, with two men nigh,
Though sad it really was – enough to die!

Meanwhile, the jokers jibed and cackled long,
Thinking o’er the luxury they took to keep,
Power thus felt, tended to inward seep,
And mirth to last them whole nights long,
Around the yard, within the seasoned throng.

Stared they at the griffin’s limbs, o’erjoyed,
At the extinguished eyes whose heavy lids closed shut,
Considering its fleshy matter loot,
Lamenting that asleep, it was not annoyed,
Or browbeaten, balderdashed, or tapped on its behind,

Since greater mirth through cruelty lies upon
The victim’s consciousness of what is done,
E’en though it look straight up to frown,
At some heartless, monstrous devils quaintly grown,
Enough invective in them aught to fill a tomb.

In a trice, the castle gate was hailed, at night,
Darkness already fallen here and wide,
Cool for the summer, but the men were snide,
A quiet hour, but the smiles were bright,
On the huntsmen who had gathered their net tight.

The pack of dogs lately had pranced around,
Barked loud in unison, smelling new blood,
And would have come out in a moiling flood,
If their master did not have them safely bound,
Well fed on meat and justly guarding pound.

Lords and ladies, scullions, and common folk,
Peeked out their heads from corners curiously,
For the men had hunted smart and gorgeously,
Returning not with egg shells but the yoke,
A sausage diamond that had not yet broke.

Some names they blew at it, the griffin limp:
Monstrosity, she-devil, behemoth and beast,
The worst of god-made creatures and the least,
A flea-infested oaf – but not an imp,
Since it was larger, had a golden crimp.

Some, certain, thought to stone it good,
Upon its waking up, surprised on four,
Shrieking in merriment, happy with gore,
Excited ’nough to shudder where they stood,
Enough to drink hot blood, in that rough mood.

The children fancied they’d a hair to pluck,
Or toys to make from bestial innards rife,
Enjoying that it might be some fool’s wife,
This griffin, who, of course, was out of luck,
And harmless as a shot and bleeding buck;

Whereas the hungry people called for roast,
A pickled knuckle, a crafty head on ice,
A pie of griffin that should well entice,
Indulgent and disdainful of the ghost,
Could be released by this rude, heady host.

“Three cheers to knights and shepherds, now,
“These valiant souls be praised, the goods are here,
“Look ’bout as wide and frothy as dark beer,
“A fit for gravy or a fight, we trow,
“A bunch of dogs to use, our kitchen too,”

Someone declared from the chilly tower stair,
Uplifting both his hands in sport, a-grin,
Willing to guide the weary horses in,
Help with the beast: hit it or clipped its hair,
A celebration nigh, a sweet thing to prepare.

One eye, an orange orb, fluttered awake,
To pin its man and claim dominion strong,
Again, by instinct, set to tag along,
And catch its victory, a back to break,
Its space to clean with fire and ay, a lake!

On seeing this brow cognizant, the shepherd blew
Another spell by which to catch a mark,
His flute at evening seeming like a lark,
Giving a tune that no man ever knew,
Save the selfsame man who on that woodwind blew.

“Get back, get back!” he shouted with a smile,
Both cruel and eager, what his musing churned,
On thinking of the bounty could be burned,
Assuming what was vile was fair, fair vile,
A new man almost, luck produced with style.

The white knight, not foregoing honest play,
Looked all around, wishing his bonny by,
Longing for ale and lusting, no more dry,
Could swagger too, his quarry grand at bay,
On top of things, this man, so glorious gay.

Before the beast was budged, the horses kept,
All drank, exultant as the summer sun,
Ready for partaking in a cup and bun,
Entranced as well by the monolith that slept,
As darkness winked its eyes and softly crept.

The cups passed round were standard, made so bright,
By the feel o’ victory trilled through their bones,
And thrilled their feet to dancing on the stones,
Last glimmerings of twilight fading out of sight,
These dimming also on the griffin’s plight.

On the necks of saints, such din did not become
The sanctity of saints or noble beasts,
Who did not want a part in heathen feasts,
Born to the world, next morning cease to come,
The property of Satan and of loam!

The riot wending up was of a sort
Accompanies much mayhem above ground,
Where drinks add noise to rampant sound,
Reverberating through the house and court,
Such tongues went flying, greedy and in sport!

The gentry went ’bout picking ruthless stones
To toss and laugh well, drunken in their glee,
Rubbing skin and using wantonly their pee
To drench the griffin to its very bones,
Exposing through their britches thankful cones,

Eruption afterwards, when these stones struck
The griffin on the head, who writhed and wailed,
Experiencing full pain though it was mailed,
Tenfold for shame, that it hung stark and stuck,
Upon the horse, indeed, which had more luck.

Calamitous, the bustle, great the stir,
Matched by the griffin, breathing flames of fire,
Changing the court by dint of force to some place dire,
Where not a dog would bark or tomcat purr,
The tapestries effaced, the walls a blur.

The stirrup had its foot through, man his flute,
He raised to the griffin’s ultimate dismay,
For half asleep, the female could not play,
Stopped therefore, captive, had to give salute
To the captors, had her by the scaly boot.

“Do not bruise me, good sirs, leave your cause,
“For I have a right to freedom well and seemingly,
“Would profit all of you, most gratefully,
“If you’d let me fetch gold, bring it in my claws,
“There bestow it – grant this,” speaking with no flaws.

“Anxious to see your hubby, eh? What news!”
The white knight hollered, squinting scornfully,
While fiddling with his belt hook ably,
Despising that the griff should him accuse,
But gold – gold was the ploy he couldn’t lose.

“If you might conjure gold, then conjure it,
“Or I shall let these folk decide thy fate,
“If thou shalt live or die, provide at eight,
“The steak we need. A hollow is a pit,
“And beasts do serve good men of ample wit,”

Said the shepherd, working on a spicy drink,
And waving his slim reed haphazardly,
Giggling at some rosy maid, while expertly,
Each hand did balance at her beauty’s brink,
His darting eyes in hers to softly sink.

“Shall ye release me?” asked the captive, ripe
To escape into the night, be fast and free,
Meeting her mate on some ecstatic lea,
Far from the mean-eyed boy who would his pipe,
Though would she fetch his gold or come to gripes.

A long time did she hiss, bound more to bend,
Than ever she cared to do, her muscles strained,
That o’er the hot and reeking courtyard trained.
She flinched, thinking on how mere meat was penned,
While she had thoughts, that she would Godward send.

“Ensure that thou hast promised gold, or God,
“I shall demolish all your clan with this blithe trick,
“Sucking ay, drops of blood through this, my stick,
“Till thy very ghost shall shiver by the rod,
“That conquers sure as dead men hit the sod,”

Thus went the monologue that lent a score
Of nodding heads a rule by which to gloat,
Rendering so much bliss, the cads did float,
And having some, their hunger pressed for more,
Loving the sport by which their rain did pour.

Nodding the griffin, hiding prudently its fire;
It plead for its release into the trees,
So sore misused, it fell unto its knees,
Panted with open mouth and did perspire,
Who normally would neither quit nor tire.

A fresher wind blew into the courtyard rife
With hotness, tempers, animosity,
Lending somehow to Hell its sanctity,
Not called upon by piper or his fife,
Strangely enswathing travesty with life.

The people un-aroused, cracked ope the gates,
Not sensing diminution of their fun;
Thereon, set free, the griffin had to run,
Lamenting all the while, man and his bates,
But cursing those white devils and their fates.

Swifter than stallions, hares, or forest deer,
The griffin ran fleet-footed, then could fly,
Into the air that was not sere or dry,
Licking the dew and shedding one small tear,
That a noble beast could ever feel such fear!

The devils wanted gold, this for a fact,
Or make the pinions wretched of the fleet,
Upturning all its labor and its seat,
Disdainful, bloody, what the tree limbs thwacked,
Smell on their own but with vile magic backed,

So the griffin dame made haste her vow to keep,
Or fall against the mud of one man’s will,
Which might transform a bod into a pill,
For the sake of kindred men and bloody sheep,
Much haste she made, for those misgivings deep.

First she her lover greeted, parrot-like,
With beak agape and eyelids bright aglow,
Laced by engendered flames which welled up slow,
But quickly augment, billow up, and hike,
Surrounding both in flares with sundry spike.

A drum became her heart, as loudly heard,
As is the cloister bell that’s sweetly rung,
Hushed sounds escaping from her tender lung,
Well lion-like although she was half bird,
Heated by love and by its presence stirred.

Her mate was two hands taller, staunchly set,
Upon four claws that violently did clench
The dust he gladly shared that had no bench,
With his Valentine, who for her tears was wet,
And weaker seeming, glum and in a pet.

His chest was broader, in a rage did blaze,
From which a noise emitted stoically,
Not drifting here and wide, constrictedly,
Of love admixed with hard and jealous craze,
Rendered his life a wild and worried daze.

To his lover, he then spoke, plying his tongue,
In a language most refined and delicate,
Behind which thinkings ran on intricate,
Of how to distill love so it was hung,
As grandly as the moon, gained rung by rung,

How to appease, confide, and vindicate,
Make cozier the home that held their joys,
Dispelling, what perplexes, dims, annoys,
Prepared to e’er his vows reiterate,
Entwining lasting love with noble fate.

“What ails thee?” Cooed the make into her neck,
Who’d lived with him in close to perfect bliss,
Bestowed two and three and four a kiss,
So fondly, would their inner warmth connect,
Slick tongue on jowl in order to protect.

“In all the years I’ve known thee, half a life,
“I have not seen thee sick thus, mute and pale,
“Thy fire almost quelled without a tale,
“So tell it! Speak thy mind to purge out strife,
“For art thou still my white and perfect wife!”

Emoted this, the husband, with his heart,
In a voice to lucent honey not unlike,
Passion there enough to load an empty dike,
Turning nature’s tone to what resembled art,
Sincerity beseeming, part and part.

Condition was, he wished no suffering,
No iota, not a jot, of it, on her,
Who formed the pleasure caused his heart to stir,
First bright impressions, live and lingering,
Since which he’d pledged his life in offering.

Nor had they parted, ever, till the day,
The female out of wedlock was forth called,
In the deepest dire chagrin, smoothly enthralled,
Disgusted that her leaves had turned to hay,
And that her wildern soul was held at bay,

Since it was proudly, these two paced abroad,
Connected at the haunches, never far,
Playing each the other like a stringed guitar,
Bringing their utmost out to show and laud,
Stretching their tendons, quick and silent-pawed.

The female flinched, she had so much to tell,
Of import ponderous, which gave her shame,
And implications of some nerve-felt blame,
Converting men of natures crass and fell,
Who’d skin them in a trice, their hides to sell.

Commenced she paly, barely breathing, sick,
Her story of the capture underwent
Due to enchantments by some flautist sent,
Rotten to boot in being, hot his wick,
Profanities from which made her wrath tick.

Explaining he would kill them both, deprived
Of the loot she promised, face to face,
She curtsied to her soul mate with much grace,
Assuring him they should be left alive,
Minus a certain sum attained when he had wived.

“What does gold mean? ’Tis now a guarantee,
“We’ll have no more marauders at our steps,
“Not the shepherd fellow or his henchmen schleps,
‘But what, to us, is a cricket or a bee?
“Too small these men, yet have they set a fee.

“More glad I’d be to burn the village gates,
“Bring petty thieves to justice with one toe,
“Blow sand in all their faces with my wings,
“Than feed a blasted man who snores and sates,
“Tear down his shelves, my dear, upset his crates;

“For in my heyday, I was such a one,
“As would roast a pig or two within my breath,
“Crush opposition with my paw to death,
“Or take a brown bear as it were a bun,
“Looping victoriously beneath the sun.

“What type of fiend hath wagged his tail
“In spite of our good name and domain?
“Who wages war so that we must complain,
“That a cad doth wear our gold in place of mail,
“Abusing thee. Must he not kick the pail?”

“Your words impress me well and utterly,
“And yet I do lament, I have to say,
“The flute he bears allows him have his way,
“No matter how one fights to remain free,
“Giving the other, loss, the player, ecstasy.

“Temptation lay within the shepherd’s friend,
“Who dressed in white and rode a stallion tall,
“Laughing as if in the midst of having quite a ball,
“And toward us execrations came to send,
“Made crazy eyes at me till their play did end.

“I mourn, and yet I counsel, let me go,
“To give within my outraged paws the sum,
“Demanded by the man who points his thumb,
“Who is the loudest though his ways are low,
“And feeds himself so that his pride might grow.

“I shall come back again, he made a vow,
“The man, to let me out as soon as he’s paid,
“Come right anon and cannot soon be slayed,
“But keen am I on moving, I with thou,
“To a land where men are sparser, so I trow.”

Upward her strong wings stole and twined around
The neck of her true lover, soft as fronds,
One finds in bloom besides the stillest ponds,
Who in his sweetheart’s absence, would have frowned,
Dissolved in essence, swallowed all his sound.

They sat there quietly, as pale dawn broke
Across the sky in gentle increments,
Not saying anything, connecting kindred scents,
Forgetting human cruelty and joke,
While the dewy ground bore up a haze of smoke.

Uprising, the female crept into the den
They shared in long harmonious unison,
Collecting precious gold around the home,
That they had placed with esthetics of a zen,
Preparing all, in bundles, for her men.

Enough gold to replace the teeth of demon spawn,
Enough to stuff the cranium of Tut,
Or light the way of a race of anxious mutt,
At night, when drinking covers o’er the lawn,
And smut pairs up for aught to show its brawn.

The griffin wept, reflected, smoldered, scowled,
Burning rings in patches of the forest grass,
That she must hurry out to risk – alas!
The life still not endangered when it prowled,
But jeopardized became – so saints are mauled!

As soon as those abhorrent gates were reached again,
Which was accomplished in due course of time,
Though all her memories changed to Hell and slime,
Or the men folk boast of building her a pen,
Far from her griffin husband and her den;

And hurried she to pose those precious bags
Betwixt the castle and the open gate,
Quelling her wrath but vaguely, hard sedate,
Or have the shepherd play her into tags,
One on her toes and neck, till conscience sags.

Ah, how her eye did flare, a brazier grown,
A quicker light came in her brow a-furrow,
Bespeaking lust for vengeance, so the girl,
Might kill her prey and then be homeward flown,
Not plucked of pinions, not by slander blown.

The folk were cooking eggs, but weren’t they eggs,
These tender people, soft and miniscule,
Who ’gainst a griffin could not wield a tooth,
Away would run opposed on creaky legs,
If it weren’t for the flute, which turned bods into kegs.

“This is accursed stuff, monster, sirrah!
“None of this gold is what we wanted, fie!
“For don’t you see, the lot of us are dry,
“And cannot drink unless we have a paw,
“A drop from your vast throat or from your maw,”

The piping boy so argued, standing splayed,
A villain, seemingly, whose word was null,
Like a strawberry devoid of root and hull,
Who’d likely eaten well and wanton played
Among the maidens of his kind in braid.

It could not be, and yet it was, a fact,
The vow was broken, and she could not leave,
The creature, having reason now to grieve,
As long as she remained this much intact,
Inside a body that could well be hacked,

Nothing to do but wait for foreign hand
To stuff a hole upon a piping peg,
Making her swoon enough to weep and beg,
Or fall unconscious, die, enrich the land
That was with human worms so fouly manned.

Smaller than worms is dust, and great the drink,
Provided by cool rain a-summer morn,
Enough to wake the latent budding thorn,
But not enough to let dead form think,
Through cumbrous layers of soil that downward sink;

Pondered the griffin, mischievous but tame,
Closing its eyes while filled with soundless hate,
For so it knew this race was dripping second rate,
And yet was stripped of means by which to blame,
Just like a girl child now, benign and lame.

“What? Have ye aught to do? Am I your sport?
“I bid you stop before my eyes are shut,
“O coward who devours in his rut!
“O Satan mickle worse than his cohort!
“I am done, am done, dishonest rascal wort!”

Was what the griffin phrased, resounding shrill,
Before an enemy who eagerly did spear,
The topmost part of her high tufted ear,
And lead her shrieking to a windowsill,
Where net was thrown and yellow daffodil,

Thus rendered by a squire twenty-two,
Who with the shepherd planned this hot device,
Thinking of killing griff in no way nice,
Then gloating o’er her body that once flew
Above green groves of fragrant rue.

“Well, nuts, the griffin fainted; what to do?”
Complained the shepherd-squire lingering
Beside the body, their belts fingering,
In front of one, a standard set of two;
So nature makes of men a shameless zoo.

If love were ever belted, prostrate love,
Was belted on that summer day ’fore noon,
Seeing as some lady fell into a swoon,
Who had an eagle’s head, chest of a dove,
A tail susceptible, a will to rove,

Which made a dainty treat for sundry there,
Had ample time to dance in joyous rings,
Engaging in fantastic carolings,
As if their dissolution were all fair,
Since needs they felt, to sodomize and stare.

The revelry piled up, it gathered high,
A crowd of singing corpuses congealed,
In the fatal courtyard rife and many-wheeled,
Where many a feathered poultry bird did die,
For basic broth and for rich saucy pie.

Uncommon, all this fuss, a show of pride,
A feat to tell in gossip and in song,
Such folk assuming they did nothing wrong,
Though many knew the griffin was a bride,
Had conquest rare and would not let that slide.

Some thought that luck would grow from taking off
Her feet which motionless did rest sublime,
Or that an eye’d remind them of the time;
Pity it had no clothing aught to doff,
But nothing ay, to shield its wondering kopf!

Some said to whitewash it until it soaked,
Then set aflame its dreamy lion’s coat,
That parts of it might drift away and float,
Or let it lie for days, upset and cloaked,
Until the chefs could cook a morsel choked.

Not waiting to be choked or beaten, flayed,
Browbeaten, starved, or stabbed most wretchedly,
Cooked in a fire by man’s depravity,
The griffin flared her nose, so grim dismayed,
As wicked bairn around her pranced and played.

She had no way of telling her true love,
The worst fate had her crying, bound, and soaked,
Had almost come to pass, was soon congealed,
After the which there was no life betrothed,
But death had snuffed her soul where mourning roved.

Longed she to tell a bird or dragonfly,
A kindred spirit, some endearing friend,
That she was heading tortured toward her end,
Was thought upon dismembered, baked for pie,
But not a comprehending brain was nigh.

She could not voice a sound, too far fatigued,
Enchanted what was more by flute and greed,
The primal cause entrenched in human seed,
Where like with like in envy fast are leagued,
Desirous and smug, lustful, in need,

So not a sound did she emit, no word,
Whereon to tie her situation dire,
Fixate on love and take her message higher,
Allowing help to come on wings of bird,
The best and mightiest revenge once lured.

The eyes of God onlooking, though, anointed
That which was piteous displayed below,
By force of purer light and winds that blow,
In flower smells from blooming meads disjointed,
Demeaning the courtyard by man’s vice yet haunted,

Aggrieve for stunted love had yet to grow,
The female’s slow complaints, her mate in mind,
The thought of whom wrapped round the griffin blind,
That the deity judged aught to free her now,
Since hedons, thieves, and cads seldom let go.

Men marveled as a ray of sparkling light,
Straight from the sun but woven precious fine,
Began to cut across with its white line,
The bond of the bleeding griffin clear in sight,
Evincing work of God by way of might;

Not the form he sent, but such a spell
As would dumb the devil masses head by head,
Transforming their volition into lead,
So the griffin might break free and live on well,
In the forest as it pleased, in glade or dell.

Sparks graced her eyes from that moment and o’er,
A sappy vigor played through all her straining veins,
Transposing her from chilly windowpanes,
Some minutes at her leisure, making gore
Where men did wind about performing chore.

Her mischief righteous made a dainty mess
Of all and sundry articles at hand,
Incinerating wooden chair and sand,
In a roaring baptism, to gruesome bless
These standing folk without need to confess.

The priest was fried, the milkmaids scorched and churned,
Within the fires processing past vice,
Hounds, hags, and squires burned on a heart of ice,
That haughty people, bowing, quickly learned
Not e’er to take such stuff not rightly earned,

A swathe to Hell and none to Heaven, thus,
Including that vile shepherd tit for tat,
The female struck to dirt, as with a bat,
Squeezing from his foul head blood sans fuss,
A quantity of marrow, brain, and puss,

Increasing her oblivion at ease,
For that white knight, hatched first the precious plan,
To steal her gold and turn her into flan.
Her claws fell on him like one thousand bees,
Expelling parts which drank and that which sees.

Into the air after a grim ordeal,
Soared the griffin, aching in her very bones,
To sleep beside her lover ’midst the stones,
Wherewith to tell her heart to calm and heal,
And bite her husband’s neck with newer zeal.

She fancied in her flight a lion’s face
Formed in the clouds which brushed her steamy skin,
She relished, and lions are not far from kin,
A step apart in mettle and in race;
It pleased her with its light and transient grace.

This bolstered her in spirit till she came
To her lovers place by the cave of their sweet bliss,
Amused in flattering him with kiss and kiss,
But lately wild and vengeful, now quite tame,
Sparring soft, allowing him to do the same.

Great tears of joy appeared on both their cheeks,
Down-dripping where they glimmered on the soil,
Heated by hearts which throbbed in amorous toil,
As fine as poems, not at all like leaks,
Resembling diamonds more, upon their beaks.

No more perfect tears were there on living earth,
Than those which liquor-like, their lines endowed,
Emotional at once and mickle proud,
Of which was a tumultuous well it seemed, no dirth,
Or parallel in beast of mortal birth.

His throat was such a fruit, the griffin lord’s,
That naught but ardent anthems came from it,
Having feeling, measure, honesty, and wit,
Did resonate from true and pristine chords,
Deeper than rivers, haply, blue as fiords,

Matched by his mate in ample sweetness strong
Distilled, it could have been, in passion’s hearth,
The griff forgetting she was every roth,
Indulging in sensations chaste and long,
Both loved and vindicated well, not wrong.

O’er treetops, male and pretty wife were heard,
Cavorting, caroling, creating joy,
In place of sabotage or sharp annoy,
Beyond the skills and talents of most bird,
Beneath the sun where their own rhythms stirred.

“Life is our dream, my fair, triumphant beauty;
“Forget your pains in looking on my face,
“Then bind with me in just, eternal grace,”
Hummed the husband in his high and noble key,
Restoring to love, good dose of ecstasy,

In gazing on and on the aspect dear
Of a being he’d admonished, ah, long and well!
Despairing that her life had dragged on fell,
Who’d been so close to him ay, well a year,
Wherefore his heart and mind did seer.

Their eyes locked with their lips in sanctity,
Amid the verdant, dark tree leaves and grass,
In undisturbed repose; this came to pass;
These foes of meaningless depravity
Took care that they should see longevity,

The one, in constancy, surpassing fine,
The other, always grateful for the help
Granted, by chance, from aught beyond the self:
The mystic Lord, who can from water, wine,
Or raise a bod to head a pious line.

At Six AM
When all is rumbling outside, all purpose driven,
The people strive to have a jot to spend,
On children, pretty clothes, pastimes, and pens,
These things not made by us: they are God-given!

The husband exclaims his toast is stark as night,
The wife, she lately lacks her sugar bowl,
But they are the same, forsooth, with kindred soul,
In wealth or when the times have made them tight.

Immortal Jack received his bag of beans,
Buddha, his beetle by the peepal tree,
And now we pray those parchment lips will have their tea,
So far from knowing what good living means.

The sky is full of stars at six AM,
Fresh bread with goodies, fruit with vitamins,
All hail to the living Lord! Please let him in!
Hail Father Sun who shines upon the Lamb.

Sprout Joy

Lily of the valley, orchid branch,
Old sycamore that shades the brook,
Vulpine intruder padding ’bout the ranch,
Each privy – I see thee in my book.

Mes jambes de poète

Mal penseur, penseur du mal, de quoi pensez-vous,
Pendant les nuits obscures de votre réveil ?
Avec de l’encre, il me plait de dire, vous vous plaisez,
Malhonnête, voyeur, flâneur dans toutes les rues !

Je me promène réfléchissant de votre haine de fou,
Ces jambes de poète bougeant dans leur jupe de laine,
Eh bien, à l’hôtel, une femme couvrit de peine,
Se baissent toute nue en plaidant un sous,

Facon de dire, je me méfie des hommes,
Leurs femmes frivoles, leur régime de chair humaine,
Car j’en ai un cœur vivant de l’amour plein,
Rouge comme du sang, doux comme une jolie pomme.

Ils se tuent pour un jambon, les cannibales d’hiver,
Ils détestent les fleurs et toute cette herbe qui pousse,
Quoi de neuf ? Une tête c’est une pamplemousse,
Et sur les jambes ils appliquent une lame de fer.

Sur mes jambes de poète, je porte une jupe de soie,
Bon marchée, couleur d’or avec d’orange mélangé,
Sur laquelle, soigneuse, je ne verserai ni vin ni the,
Mais dit le scélérat : de quoi s’agit-il? Une femme est fait de bois !

Le Foc

O ciel nocturne rempli d’étoiles de lait,
Je ne suis qu’un bébé dans vos bras,
La vie se passe, je me sens comme-ci comme ça !
J’ai un joli visage mais Dieu me plait !

Je suis un foc blanc de laine de neige,
Cette contemplation que je fais toujours.
Que les nuages sont lourds, tous hauts et purs !
J’aime le monde beaucoup, très peu le piège !

L’été de miel

L’été de miel coule lumineux
Sur les églises de la ville, cerise en fleur !
Glace de cassis, les pêches sont mures,
Les amants se promènent, O bonheur ! deux par deux.

Les jours sont longs, la vie est dure,
On croit en Dieu, le cœur sanglant,
J’aimerais mourir toujours croyant,
Mais endure cette voix, ombreuse et pure !

Sur la colline, de la châtaigne replissant,
Sa tombe l’ombre froid de l’après-midi,
La lumière repende, mes sentiments sont gris,
Que les jeunes s’ennuient, affreux géant !

Un jour d’été

C’était un jour d’été
Dont je me suis longtemps rêvé,
Les amoureux au parc qui passent,
Les mains qui portent du thé glacé.

Je regardais les arbres grands et verts,
Leurs branches tordues, les feuilles dansant,
Et les fleurs autours très élégantes,
Devenue presque une femme-enfant.

Un jour d’été, chantait mon cœur,
Précisément comme l’oiseau en cage,
O ciel azure plein de Beauté !
O mer des fous complètement sages !

Hostility Matters

I made a salad eggplant stew at six
To see the evening through in peace,

I made a fuss about staying quite alone,
Keeping away from bees and big-eyed kangaroos,

Making it up to a forum, there to sit,
To hear idly what I might want to hear,

But Satan! The man in front of me spoke of Wolfe,
As if Thomas Wolfe were a living legend, wolves

Tending to undulate across black distances,
Because of habit, pride, or limber dancing genes,

When all of a sudden, he said he loved his wife,
He loved his wife – a kiss would then suffice,

A kiss beneath the page white waiting moon,
Would suffice as much as table salt or ice,

In his mouth or in my soul of poetry,
Which flew away to slumber and be free.

They sit like primroses, these wordy men,
Though the pen the write with is a hostile pen,

Since they do not care for love or Paradise.
What matters is their world of dance and ice,

On which I now begin to slow reflect,
In a snowy city where the birds are specks.

Zorro Means Fox

Who knows, but I might be like Zorro,
A hero disguised as a quick and common shadow,

With justice in his heart and brilliant battle.
There must have been, somewhere, a female Zorro.

It pads around with stealth, the fighting fox,
To save and love to live to save again,

And also, has never been cracked or caught,
Because then it would be tapenade, on toast, and not Zorro.

Zorro means fox, the creature sports a mask,
Godly creation, wily, on the side of those oppressed,

Not a selfish fox, but a wise and clever one,
Who loves to play and live, his feats unlimited.

Who asks for the living, breathing Zorro?
Many a maiden, many a man, since the world’s precocious, O!

Stranger

Reach for the bright blue sky,
When the snow is stopped and the leaves are dry.
Lean toward the most precious star you can,
In tender time, learn how to be a man,
Reflect on what you want and go,
But do not say they’re yours: the clouds and snow.

Obscene

What an opportune time to draw a shape,
And proudly say it is the perfect shape,
Hoping it will grow bigger, bolder, better,
Taking a pen to crystallize a letter.

So much is there that grows obscene,
Sucking red juices, stepping on heads,
Breeding as in a kennel or cage
Where fruit falls plop! Unripe on beds.

The lamb was but a simple shape,
And formed his words to match the world,
But they made such a pack of death
Round the clever boy whose hair was swirled!

Twin Joy Noodle Shop

Wherefore hath love faded with my mascara?
Will love be red toady, green, or purple?
Will girls have the right to define a circle?
A million people come and go,
But cannot find their way through the teasing snow.

I think there is a star to see somewhere,
With mellow eyes and curling hair,
If her passions are not quenched by fear,
Or drowned in a brigand’s brutal beer.

Men say they have a soul, essentially,
But fight like beasts and sing off key.
Springtime’s the time to frolic around:
Danger, though, has such a simple sound!

The Net

Open this door if you can! The room is locked,
And only Eustace knows how he is doing, broodlingly,
Taught as the clock ticks every minute, barely frocked,
By craven, wanton women he views lovingly.
Like a pizza pie, his face is pocked,
Staring like a vegetable, staring constantly,
At the rudest forms of scarlet ecstasy.

The needs of him become as pinpricks playful,
He darts at others so they tend to see.
His life’s a grotto; he is quite disdainful,
Finds property on which to draw and pee;
But he pleasures so in what is painful!
Calling upon Satan, Balthazar, and sex, at once,
He sucks his thumb at women, plays the dunce.

He is hard as a board, but dumb as a burlap sack,
Feeds his sexuality with fish and fish past reason,
Cannot smoke a pack – smokes ten then throws the pack!
There’s a morass, somewhere, black Eustace pays in.
In the world, there’s so much brutal black,
Whereas greed grows a giant long and serpentine,
Eats critters on four, because it’s lustful mean.

The fisherman, the bear, the spreading seed,
Yearns for a net by which to catch its prey,
Just such a net, adorned by skill and weed,
Where all will thirst alike and all obey.
Demons like Eustace come again,
In different forms and attitudes various,
So forgiving, the world! So hot, precarious!

Hypochondriacs

A knave cries that he’s thirsty, tired, and sore,
Because he wants some sheep to flirt some more,

Will drink his beer as well as female blood,
Since his world’s a fertile field, there is no flood,

And a hawk and hound might well belie the man.
Look twice! He lusts because he can.

These hypochondriacs say they’re the ones who thirst,
Though in terms of satiation, they’re the first.

Renunciation is not a word these men might love,
But lo! The sis there has the love-breasts of a dove!

The hottest claim they’re cold, the wettest thirst:
Someone to nurse them? Worst are for the worst.

I Have the Crown Gem

The crown gem have I, of my own will,
And it’s my grace to follow it,
Though head to toe, he’ll have his fill,
The man who cannot swallow it!

I go wherever my feet please,
To Hell, on earth, or Heaven,
With flies or dogs or bloody geese,
I have the crown gem – seven.

I’d throw some gravy on the goose,
If he gets naught but rowdy,
But who can see fleas on the loose?
They call the basest, doughty.

Epigram

He wants to hold girls on his knife –
What sense in marrying? Life?

Epigram

A donut is a donut, a pole is a pole,
One keen archer named Ulysses aimed through the high hole.

A Smoothie is a Good Talker

If I find a bonny smoothie, will he want me?
If I promise him wisdom, will he ever stand by me?
It might be frivolous to want,
But life alone can get so gaunt!

His bright green herbs are whispering,
His hard earned fruits are glistening,
Available to just a few,
And healthier than pie or stew.

A smoothie is a good talker, O!
That love can join a lover, so!
Promising better throats and vitamins,
Attached to lips – be sweet things, sins?

Epigram

There’s nothing as fine as a silk or spice;
So tell me, red, if the world is nice?

Epigram

Does Fidelus know how to return to its master?
Don’t ever listen; live faster, boy, faster!

Walking Smoothie

’Tis common to see a cow with silken flanks,
In India, so early in the day,
And crepuscule, when night puts on its pendant blush,
Trotting on its own or in the way.

Such things can pass; but is a cow a girl?
How, do I see a cloven lady trotting,
Smiling at ham and ram, smiling quite gay,
To laughter resigned, stood straight or tottering.

Vain, vain drinks men share, excessive rain,
The gloss upon a wanton edge:
Can’t this smoothie see men wish her pain,
Frivolous addictions, rape, death on a ledge?

She thinks she’s walking smoothie style,
Rich sushi, ho! A knife that cuts,
Transpierces ageless rice a mile;
He calls his own eyes gems, lives little ruts.

River Song

Ro, ro, ro your boat,
Down the wicked golden stream,
Turning once or twice to leer and gloat,
At a lady’s lovely seam,

Because like down they seem, my boy,
Because gentle down they seem,
Skies above, men still will want a toy
To brush up or to beam!

King of Sodomy

What does the king eat at his table?
A pie, with his eye and a fork!
Who says that it’s grace at the table?
His friends do, verily, concur that it’s grace.
What does he want his imperial promise to be?
Chickens, chickens, and more chickens for all and sundry.
How is the king’s board already?
Concupiscent.
And what is the domain of this king?
As a giant chicken, lacking grace.
Now we butcher hens who marry, O!
Now we butcher for Henry Livingston!

Pinkbook

Not being able to eat noodles if one canoodles,
These seats are reserved for the prettiest sex,
No matter where times and gender crisscross perplexed,
Since language is a rose on the road, text par text.

I hope the sun will be doughty to her,
The daughter of growing grain sporting skirts;
To yearn is to yearn, as mythic ladies did,
As their husbands purportedly quit throne rooms to flirt.

Pink peppercorn, ’tis neither meat nor fish,
Rolls round regularly if skies be azure or gray,
In conditions always sanitary supported secure,
Whether one says “hello” or jaya jaya hey!

Temple of Me

Rich people can act like beetles on anthills,
Shining in their own sunlight, gaudy as a bead,
Rolling where they will, vacancies to fill;
How now, are the blind so hot they lead?

No one to tell them their love is loveless,
Or there are fresher things around than cash,
There are colors more real than those of prowess,
Or not to stuff a rowdy sash.

If songs mean more than singing suns,
An entourage revolves around,
I do not know it – morning comes,
And all the woods are filled with sound.

The Temple of Me, this thing exists,
Erected by sticks, enhancing holes,
Outpouring of ants and amethysts,
Not making upward strides their goals.

To be lost in God! To earn his cloud,
Despite the wants of the choking main,
The craven bawds and boastful proud,
A temple exists; swept neat and plain.

The Temple of Me is temptation’s friend,
Où on a le droit de faire les bêtises,
Where fun and games will have no end,
Where sex has people on their knees.

A magic bird in Hindu myth,
Lapped only purest water up;
There is no orange made sans pith,
Or kindness in Gomorrah’s cup.

What Bread, What Salt?

After the incident, her parents were much aggrieved,
Worse off than December so far from weeping Proserpine.
What sort of rain had shaken loose the leaves?
What sort of fiendish fire burned all the bloody board?

What bread, what salt, did these souls have to eat,
Instead of varied food by day, by night,
Since the daughter’s silver was stolen in a rage
By a cruel gang snag – row, teeth, and shag?

Carnal, carnal, carnal, stole the meat,
Where beasts raid up intelligence,
And stiffness pinking every seat,
Such stiffness as bread that stales and salt.

O live to condone the boars some more!
Salt bread is bad for pigs, so take the girls!
Milk sops and criminals, O age of angst,
What innocents cannot take a tasty, rusty screw?

Tether

Lark or no lark,
The schedule of my days progresses insidiously,
Intense light or dim,
Used papers roll down the aisle,
Like brilliant balls of silver sylvan moss or sludge.
So what, if the coffee is stark?
The lips of loved friends still hold sweetness,
If they are talking in my ear or elsewhere dancing,
The swirling cosmos of the cosmopolis, the city,
The careful and the ecstatically romantic children
Of moonlight and sunlight, always open-armed,
O gift-giving lark! Gifts can also mean poison!
Better, then, to rest among the grateful green eaters,
Than be surprised or sly, slain, or pegged out of one’s senses.
Blessed lips of lark, long-eyed lover, come quietly!

Sweet Hebe

I tentatively gazed into the lakes of her eyes,
Wondering what is was like to be so liquidated,
Or have to please men needing to be liquefied,
Sweet Hebe, oxygen darling, each lake’s a ring.

They were so dark that I dared not look again,
On the head of Saint Catherine in her glorious tub of soap,
Dyed by blood beetles, dyed by ink from a pen!
I wrote of her death to the moon, where it did mournfully mope.

Epigram

All of these strings I wear are carrots Jackrabbit pulls;
Where I harken back on gurus, he thinks of girls.

Epigram

This is a philosophy of cheer:
The mad crowd isn’t real; only I am here.

The Madonna Sits on My Cross

He enjoys the sun and hales a cab,
Thinking of various delicious and fragrant aspects of life,
Soup from the soup kitchen, chicken gyros, wife,
But what a gyroscopic gemstone he will have!

The big buck winner sits down at a table,
Choosing between beer and water, not thirst anyway,
Almost too nervous already to up and pay,
These hills, not the hills, where Cain killed his brother Able!

Thinking, the Madonna sits on my cross!
He frots the itch and frots it till there’s fire,
Consumed in a precious Purgatory of man’s desire;
His moans are heartfelt – on this pie, a rose grows.

His nose is a chilly rose that blows,
As harsh winds wage dire war outside,
As drunkards dance serpentine, side to side,
But Christ, should men walk round with chilly toes?

They Call for Erections

Who knows where cities get them from,
The coffee sippers, the grizzly bears,
The territorial wolves and foxes, their cans of paint?
Each year crawling by, O dam so dry!

They say good things on the telephone,
Gawking at it – like it were a curvesome concubine,
Fondling it for flavors, breathing flakes of snow,
Requiring drugs and diaper prostitutes, Big Dipper!

They call for erections, Cloister Me Café
Dog earring telephone book pages on a Guggenheim groove!
So what does one do, what does one do all day?
Hang around elementary schools, wearing their elephants.

They call for more elephants, Hannibal, Cannibal,
Buy peanut dresses and peanut sized skirts,
Become birds for them to pick away their skins,
But loves, when desire erupts, it hurts! It hurts!

Penny Loafers

How many pairs of shoes outside
Dangle from yonder tree and pole
Over streets bleached white as a silky bride?
And through this quiet plain, stirring but a mole.

Not costing much, these slippers, hung row
On row, tell of no explosive event,
But cold are the white, white mounds of snow,
Through which those small feet slip in dip and dent.

Cold February marks its nights in romance red,
And Romans ready lust. Tell me where they are,
For they must feast and gloat and bed,
And I must run and hide my sweeping star.

Schicksal

I am a hot chick
Fillet
I will be a hot chick on Sunday
Fillet
I have good looks but
Cannot keep the guys at bay
On the Fourth of July or Woman’s Day;
For taking German, I am nothing but
Learnin’ and learnin’
What the male monster is
With a bubble and a siz,
Hopping around a bargain skillet
On Woman’s Day,
Deprived of skills and scales
The very next day,
As he holds
My gammes and gamut
To the tune of
“I Want It My Way”,
Red chick fillet,
Oh, skies so gray,
Taking a cabal to get there
Or riding on the martyrs
Of Rain Lady Day

A Hot Dog, A Lady

At Hunter College on 68th, a sign,
A yellow, pink, and crimson hot dog sign,
Perplexes me as much as vines or ruby wine.

In 2003, there was a lovely, laughing lady,
The grades of whom were high and gifted, glee,
She’d not go out and sat with both her knee.

The spring is come, I see this placard plain,
Say the lady lies, does not get up again,
Raped red with blood, showered so much proud disdain.

Men eat meat? Why, what comprises meat?
History answers, sauce buds swim to meet,
Above what they call meat, and seed it seat by seat.

Sentiment

The fool drools,
Disappears with his cap and flash of bells,
Was only here for his dire and dusty tools,
Smooth groove hooves, moon boat sails on.

I Adore You, Please Erode

What means this, when man’s reckless anger pops,
As his fist smacks into palm while passing by,
Which shatters joy, security also drops,
And what like water seemed is rendered dry?
What does he mean, advancing, flirting, living,
Telling one to wait and stay – no, never up and fly –
As if he thinks cool fountains keep on giving
If jealous swarms of humor pass them by?
This month that sang on Sunday hangs agape,
Weddings announced, chap wants her funeral,
Or for her transportation by some hairy ape,
So he might learn anew how to eat, love, drool.
Adoring once, he cries out, “Please erode”;
I think privately, here talks a bear, a bull, a nematode.

Opposing Drinks

Coca-cola: I am sure I slew a girl at eleven one morning.
Orange: I’m dead and can no longer study.
Coca-cola: I must have a rapacious appetite.
Orange: I weighed less than ninety pounds, now less and less.
Coca-cola: It’s nothing serious to be stuck napping in a cage in the Spring.
Orange: On a des graves nouvelles la-bas femme disparue, mari en larmes, c’etait une chinoise.
Coca-cola: Where is my dog? I miss her.
Orange: My love, he must miss me so much, as much as I miss chemistry.
Coca-cola: I’ll pray to Jesus and get out early.
Orange: Telling God my killer played the hurdy-gurdy. He nuns me. Oh, my, this is a long and trying love affair, seeing as I’m up here, and Armstrong’s down there.
Coca-cola: Drink coke, darling sunshine.
Orange: Dead brides watch wisdom. When I died, I had a thistle in my hem, crying lemons, dispensing sugar. I fancy sometimes, girls are dancing with a twirl, in their fashionable sight, not a single churl. God bless them!

Dark Place

So much brightness comes from this lady,
That I can no longer see,
But laugh that a braid should be so tidy,
Or paints, such honey for the bee.

Her face is black as soil – but chocolate,
Is what the rascal needs to eat,
That when he sates, I am sedate,
For this lump of cake, a beet.

I do not know what a dark place means,
Though fantasy doth guess,
’Tis where the fork doth spear the bean.
This cat caves; I’m in duress.

The day is waxing bright as milk,
As birds portend new nests,
A watch for one, some strands of silk,
Alas! They look like breasts!

Would He Take The Cherry?

With luscious lipstick on the darling’s mouth,
He declared he would take the cherry south,
So would he take the cherry? Yes, Sir!

If the cherry were a breathing baby’s lips,
He’d still be hungry for his TV dips,
So would he import cherries? Right, Sir!

If the ripe fruit were through a lady’s door,
It should only make him grovel more,
So would he get some cherries? Surprise it, Sir!

Well, would he take the cherry: cunt,
Tush, bread and berry, job and stunt,
Because he will have his bogus cherry, Sir,

Although the Lord did raise a pair
Before climbing the high angelic stair,
To be first Lamb, then godly, Sir.

I Can Gage

A man is sometimes always faithful
Who loves with feeling, ever graceful,
If it shows outside, or keeps it in,
His heart’s a river washes sin;

But I can gage through my own eyes,
The vagrancy of his dark skies,
The eyes of which burn with a fire
Must stray from me and stack a pyre.

I can gage that yearning carries him
Away from flames that burn too dim,
That which was bonfire, now a fag,
Makes prettiest damsels, cold love’s hag!

Two Oats

The children have two oats to eat –
You don’t believe it? There’s he plate,
The computer screen which time doth greet.
The cloths are dropping – dinner plate.

What gifts have adults given them?
A spanking lesson in how to shag,
That sins solve problems, problems, problems,
The commission o’er – Hell hath a bag!

Pakistani Violence

Authorities laid a mother bare
As the desert sand in plain blue air,

Although she had done nothing wrong,
Still adorned so many arms so strong,

As they slapped down and she cried out,
Being beaten from the water spout,

For her son slept round, or so they said,
Making grieve that frail and hapless head,

In a village where not a Samaritan,
Could protect a lady from the can-can-can,

She danced in front of one and all,
So the sadists could have a perfect ball.

Though the men’s actions were found impermissible,
Vile memories make life despicable.

In the States, men may give loose ladies rates,
But mothers should bake pie and swirl on skates,

Says a writer who stops to wield her pen,
To frame disgrace and tell what happened then.

What is a Policeman’s Donut?

I doubt if the purest water went into this,
The policeman’s donut, to raise his chalk white fist.

I question whether the icing cost as much as lace,
Though it might have glowed, falling off of someone’s face,

Of queen or princess, despicably,
In a world where children are taught to think maniacally,

That women can be dog or gift or car,
Which tends to rub off mermaids and their star.

What is a policeman’s donut? They will ask.
The gross of musk, can be transported in a flask.

The moon can see how large the mass becomes,
If no one else perceives how men do suck their thumbs.

If cut out or stretched into a random ring,
Why care? Dead donuts don’t say anything.

Fly This Flag from Your Mast

O city, captain, company! A friend is not a foe,
So why exclude God from your converse, on plains where it doth snow?

Only the leopards now wear leotards, so why break them on the bairn?
Taking his bike, where bikes pile round, by rivers with no sound?

Put the best foot forward, duffel pod,
Or all we do, we do for weighted rod,

Not minding if the rod belies the flag,
Accruing mournful sack and blood-soaked bag.

Fly this flag from your mast – if it’s from the loom
Of Mammon – saints’ cloths chilled within their tomb,

And what men do, they do most knowingly,
And where girls are sold, ’tis not always willingly,

So city, captain, countrymen! Does not the snow
Out do the red of sultry Satan’s glow?

Not cripples, why must we use paltry props
To pass out time until the bloody apple drops?

There was a hero once, stood on two legs, rode on four,
Whereas the infants here must whine and crawl upon the floor.

So Long as I Decide

The man loves loving a woman’s hair,
Staying just long enough for another stare;

He loves that it is curly, bright, and bold,
Not caring if it’s chaste or if it’s sold,

Because the mellow milk is there,
In a complexion of skin, in a subtle twist of hair.

The man loves loving a woman’s hair,
A lock of it out of place, though – no, you don’t dare!

He knows which part to hold aloft,
Of a woman’s body which once used Microsoft,

With hair, without hair, on beach or stair,
He knows how to use it and loves it. Where is she, where?

The problem being, be decides just what to do,
He decides which juice to pick, squeezes through and through,

If a pearl should be bestowed on a corpus bare,
O here and there, on bodies dark and fair,

Committing sins more deep than surgery.
Of course, he who lies enacts perjury!

The fine point is, the man decides what he decides,
If he takes his wife to be, or one hundred dead brides.
(But were they virgin and were they bona-fide?)

Cat’s Cradle for Naughty Boys

They danced the can-can at the Moulin Rouge,
In lights so red so long ago.

Today men carry daggers to their wives and spend,
But how they spend, on parties by the pound!

He thinks he has thunder and lightning festivities,
Can give away at will gross bullion,

But he would lose his marbles for a product!
Thinking the game cat’s cradle was made for him.

He could be fifty or fifteen, five – still frenzied,
Like a mad elephant on a playground for naughty boys,

Five or fifteen or fifty – too heavy
In his mind for heaven, with naughty notion’s naught.

Is Manhattan a cat’s cradle for naughty boys?
Then despite its errors and its toys,

So the lamb might play in blades of grass for joy,
The gentle lamb, if it be girl or even boy.

Talk about the cat’s cradle to Cain’s brother Able,
If it looks as sweet as love of God or man!

Talk about it to the mother buying milk,
Whose youth incurs glances from dangerous ilk,

Or villainess, it shall call itself the sweetest names,
Dress up in sass, drink cans of pains.

Buon San Valentino

I did nothing special of Valentine’s Day,
But prayed in the morning, said tradition’s straight rounds,
Regretting my skirt lost its string, to which I added a belt,
Buon San Valentino! People shop for their valentines.

Goodies today, there’s no telling what tomorrow will give,
On the head of Valentine who died for Truth,
And limbs of Sappho who died for bitter love,
Buon San Valentino! All forks are bound to rust!

I talked to a girl on Saint Valentine’s Day,
On expenses and rent and difficulties of living;
Oh, we might be lucky on one day of the year,
Too piteous the next, Buon San Valentino!

There was still bread and sleep on Valentine’s Day,
And warm rooms quelling outdoor cold,
Great bags and bags of purchased goods –
Our mortal flesh in the last – good San Valentino!

Silver Sari

She wonders if she will look good back and front,
In front of the household mirror her Daddy bought.
The sunlight has never complimented sequins more,
And she has never felt more exquisitely in love.
The salad lies in the kitchen, looking like a mountain,
Covered with dressing containing gherkins and ketchup,
Ready for her rumbling stomach on the ranch.
Her silver sari clings to her barfi-colored back,
So tightly it could be tree bark, she bought herself.
India is sorry, though, it exchanges flesh for silver,
It is sorry it has corrupted its bare pound bullion,
Men date and mate children who could have starred in silver,
Walking on a screen in V-necks, silver sari addicts.
India is sorry for its chauvinism that wrecks red wine,
That splits the backs of housewives on their way to market,
Says oregano has a sound and exploits cumin and saffron.
Even the winter is hot, and India is sorry,
The sultry heat of soup pots matches the heat of lobster broth,
That men who are carnivorous like bloody hot meat,]
If that means me – or Lady Elizabeth who wears a silver sari.
India is sorry in psalm and song; it is snake in the Savannah sorry.

Beware the Black Knight

Beware the black knight in his den!
At dinner, he is the perfect gentleman!
Because his chops are salt and pepper covered,
Yet he is awesome when the dreams are his – O!

Be aware of his caprices and his fashions,
Or be a crutch without a head,
Since frankly, patience carries pride,
As beauty must transport darkness faithfully.

By his hand, writing heads are overwritten,
Bears his imprint in bruises and bloody travesty,
So tender the princesss, so tense the time,
If black conks out wit – the stars still shine.

What News?

My feet were white rice one fine day,
Where the boy had snowy glances, grace!

My limbs were made of flowing water sweet,
Where the boy proclaimed he was oh, so dry!

The clothing I possessed – all pastries,
At which the boy’s throat swelled with song.

The ears I had were shell ears so,
The boy recited ocean chants for days,

The sand I passed was sacred sod,
The boy staring at it growing green.

But after several days, what news?
The eager boy said he had no news,

Only he had met an apple kumquat pear,
A year ago, and thought her striking fair.

Bee Ship

It is a ship in the ocean,
Surrounded on its sides by banners,
Swerving around like a loaded hull,
Wanting merchandise, merchandise of honey!

The flowers are its ocean,
Where it doth buzz, buzz, buzz,
Wishing only to be sated,
Sated but not drunken, not drinking mead.

A flying ship from an ant’s perspective,
A wee tottering ship from a person’s,
If fulfills its function in smooth Nature’s,
Commanding riches from port to mellow port.

The gardening woman sees it’s busy,
Calls to her scrawny husband who walks,
Better watch out where he is walking,
Since walls these days can talk and talk.

Quotes

If a guy intends to start a revolution, it is not by being silent that he starts this revolution. Knowledge is like marmalade, spread on baked bread at dawn. The victim says, there is no one now to steal my bread, though, my apples or my time. What on Earth is happening?

I would rather be called a shrew than be an ape bearing its chest on the strands of Absalom, for dogs calling themselves men to bang on and sodomize. I would write my hair in a million letters, selling the words and not the hair, happier than H. Miller, that foulness of nature is not eating me alive.

In a fashion, even practitioners of yoga pray well, if they think of God lifting their nimble legs, refraining from having sex as they’re doing it.

The son of man does not have to be the sun to someone special who believes in herself. Such burns weaken the layers of one’s consciousness, opposing one’s growth in numerous tear-inspiring onion peels of belittlement, not to mention, too many cooks spoiling the soup.

A gourmand man of sin dreams of having lavender jazz one day and clementines the next. Why dream of having his garden? Be left alone, as he grubs, to tend it.

A golden bird in a cage says nothing but “me, me, me”, whereas a golden bird smacked to the ground cries, “he, he, he”! Give no head to a wolf with a bird in his mouth – he plays, in a zoo intended for animals of instinct, not humans of reason.

The lobster man was born with a dripping bib: he lies on his arse and does nothing at work but fib.

I dread the day, when more Chinese women who want to practice yoga, be healthy, get married, and bear children, wearing white, will have to swallow apples with acts of enforced sex and pain, not being able to bend that way or ever wanting to do those nasty things. White is the morning and O! so cold in the snow, Hyde going with his satchel, wherever he will go.

He has an appetite, he says. For what? I ask. For whatever’s inherent in the middle of the word, he says. ’Tis considered the middle way these days, nothing to be shocked about, such milk pulled mildly.

Testosterone names who shall be the greatest one, in a world of one plus one equals one.

Bevis thought his foe was a spider wearing lace, wearing this lace because she was a lace weaving spider, wanted to strip all this off to come right inside of her, but she spat at him – the vicious, simple spider. She did not know a date could be so doughty about her.

Pole the Ano

Nine dogs chase a cat around a pole,
In a modern city where morning comes in chilly,
And snow might cover slumber, never sin,
New gold in regions O! so fast and hilly!

Adults shimmy and children shake, blue sapphire lake,
Trying to fill their empty spaces seeking through the day,
Whereas night breeds both crime and ecstasy,
Blossoms sick so men might have their way.

Throats vibrate singing of drugs and women wild,
Tunes dull and serpentine, as snakes, a drinking log,
Coke, dances, grinding, choses obscures,
Each singer a croaking, nosy frog.

It’s all about the ano, ass,
Slick dogs, have never met before,
Self-centered as an earthworm, weed,
But lo! Big drinks his blue, blue whore.

Pole Born Anno Domini

When he was given birth, birds sang in choir,
Squirrels came to bless his feet of daffodil,
Magnolias made his pretty infant’s bier,
And ladies came to listen, get their fill.
The pole o’er men, a leader true and smart,
Attracted thousands for his following,
But spoke unto his mother for a start,
Loved helping others, God, and wandering.
In anno domini, relinquished vice,
Called himself the lowest, took his vows with blame,
Was always proper, dutiful, and nice,
A saintly man from head to toe – he came.
Vice could not move him, fellow merry mad,
Since the quiet king in stepping, trod all bad.

Blue Butterfly Lips

The lips of a stranger, the bright blue butterfly,
That flew to deftly undo the buttons of a virgin saint,
A bride-to-be, in love, and free of taint,
Descending for her sweetness, from the egg chip sky,

Probing like a maniac and promising chilly murder,
This butterfly man who wore a wolverine mask,
His exotic quarry in the midst of some white task,
Carrying crime to rape then on and faster, far,

Blue butterfly lips tinct with fragrant flower honey,
How roving, banal volition was, to boot,
Until the leather hide did spill its loot,
Until laws said, four score times, the girl was not a bunny.

The Sub Countenance

If it is true the world is blind today,
’Tis because the bee has stung himself,
And the butterfly sips jagged to his death,
Whereas the pigeons spread out grandly on display,
While the shop clerks sip red cola through the day.

The clever blend in with a hidden craft,
Maintain an extra set of eyes for good,
And do not mind adoption of a hood,
Since the earth can be enraging, foul, and daft,
Chocked full of men who at our sufferances laughed;

So does it have sub-countenance, what must be
Alone, from maddening problems separate,
And the likes of thieving folk who “impricate”
Above their standard plates of biscuits three,
Engrossed in their affairs, so sumptuously.

Young Reed

Saraswati! The young are raised beneath the heads
Of parents madcap as the infidel,
Who sells his property to buy new lands,
Or dream at ease within a dewy dell,
Employed as vessels, gentle goddess! Then,
The heat put on, they have to work as churls,
Against their will, the pomegranate clan,
With tender flesh and soft conditioned curls,
Infernal darling dogs of man,
But understanding gods! They cannot play,
If all the elders give them is dismay!

When the world seems covered in wild drifting snow,
And fires bow behind their fashioned grates,
The wastrels work for gifts, is all they know,
Begging for toys while decking dinner plates.
The goes slim Solome in leather boots,
And Jezebel, Lolita, Apple Red,
Have taken off with droves of prostitutes,
To put their undergarments on some head,
As if good God were old and dead.
Perfume is incense, water cedes to wine,
The child who’s called a monkey climbs a vine.

O Spring, new lovers love thee, friend and flower,
In all the nation women paint their eyes,
Put on lush lips to greet some silent bower,
Wherewith to meet Porphyro, sweet as pies,
For rings all calling, giving trust and joy,
But, ah! The little slave pulls down her silks
To win the gold of man or measly boy,
Gives everything within a realm of milks,
A devil and no longer coy.
She fits the side of plumber, postman, priest,
Sets both her legs down for communal feast.

The mystic pipes his reed, wisdom is versed,
The pen is instrument, paper is white,
So many artful words are hard rehearsed,
From dawn, at noon, and well into the night.
Alas for stolen with that swallows seed,
Not knowing any better, Babylon,
The drugs, hotel rooms, jewels, and smoking weed,
The ragamuffins dancing, nothing on,
Their reed dance, marrying male brawn.
Young reed in mire, the years elsewhere aspire,
One neck is bruised, another’s made a liar.

Saint Paul and Peter had no common fishnets,
Assumed a congregation in good style,
A silver tongue, a man forgiving debts,
Where have they gone? Are modern players vile?
To carve a cave creating homes from naught
Is a feat by heroes made in history,
When glory, truth, and honor once were sought,
In faith, in soft and mystic ecstasy,
Acquired, not accepting fee.
If diligence abandoned modern climes,
This poet sighs, snide Magdalene, in rhymes.

What Wicked Wants

Black leather masochism mother says,
Since midnight’s in her wildcat grays.

She has an altar of hard core pie,
And wants her daughter there to kiss the sky.

What kind of grim medusa, people say?
A babe of porn must have her way.

It hangs on you, cruel nature states,
For which the dumpling masterbates,

For fickle fashion, feather dress,
All former virtue in duress.

Can a player play for fruity lips?
Yes, sir, donate to teenage hips,

By all means, tell the girl to crawl,
Because Earth’s a ball, fuck in a stall!

The foulest fetishes are fair,
Madonna hums, permits them there,

Daughter, be faithful, tender fool!
These pumps belong in you, not school!

What wicked wants is what it gets,
But prison, Hell, deploys regrets!

Golden House of Animals

The man said he had a predilection for foreign things and objects
As he twiddled with his belt while staring at a rope

Which hung in the corner of a haberdashery where the light was soft
And blond to the point of gold, the color of dry straw.

His wet lips were absurd and not voluptuous, where was a gap,
Between his lips and also teeth. He whistled breathing air.

The full, round moon was coming out, hung in completion,
Which he eyed not once but many times, leering through the window grime.

Frotting his chest, which swelled out criss-crossed flannel,
He said he had to go. He slowly said he had to go.

Only the moon’s pale eye saw his sunny expression
Exploding like clockwork as he approached his porch and door

Wearing dark blue criss-crossed flannel that looked like porcelain,
Drubbing in his black pepper boots sounds of no good meaning.

Lo! His golden house of animals, his fragrant house of glory,
Opened its accommodating doors like arms, as spare as fruitless jelly.

His golden house of animals remembered his circus master head,
O precious hoard of the storm-mad captain, who lived for scrumptious salt,

And cars moaned, wind screamed past the screen, singing birds fled,
The trees creaked dryly, tulips drooped, slender poppies bled and bled,

Unseen the Morton salt girls in the Golden House of Animals
In which Satan fed richly: on meat, on breasts, three female head.

Stolen Apples, O Bloody Pie of Satan!

Both noise and silence sound themselves
From African soil, from Nigeria,
Where the mothers are delirious
And fathers hang their heads impotently,
Waiting for kinder God to sympathize
Against the lightning rage of sodomy.
The soup is no good anymore,
For the ladle of love has been absconded with and burglarized.
Distasteful is the gloss of foreign eyeballs, hostile teeth.

They would rather lift up their heads and play again,
Make their bodies and brains hard with exercise,
Crunch data, rejoice singing to the summer sky,
For there are young and vibrant daughters here!
Brittle are the bones with which barge-big ogres play,
Locked up in misuse’s quandary.
Rather than going to the ocean, they know the heathen’s beard by rote,
The rat king who has taken them from their friendly board
For his own vile practices – tisk, tisk, tisk!

The apple face smiles not confronting apple sauce,
She cannot move amidst so many pricking tines,
Or wear as makeup gunpowder, or brush their teeth with swords.
The apple face is dewy, grimy, bashful, sworn
Into a pop-up cult of penthouse promiscuity,
Not so innocent or joyous as apple picking o’er the foaming mountain flanks
Or gathering sea shells by the raging salt-sea shore.
Life’s recently a chore smothering in Satan’s bloody pie
Of stolen apples, not prom night, three times the honey dread.

Cry Moon, Cry Venus

As if I were the only ragamuffin
On the morning’s bleary-eyed, delirious crew
Of birds and human sparrows singing sha-na-na
Wrapped in white towels and wearing jay blue shorts,
I shout out hoarsely and start to cry, cry, cry,
Since my wretched body’s not wearing joy,
Has no desire to be either sport or toy,
For which I start my bitter reverie.

The sky lightens by inches without this man-made ladder
Leaning against a white-washed wall, a stuck-up beast!
It brightens without me, who drinks the travesty of lemonade,
Not caring about yellow powders or people with ragged tongues,
Containing still the wakeful moon and silent Venus
Partnering because of some lofty, genius whim
Surrounded by their white, constellar diadem,
Not hearing my “Cry moon, cry Venus,” I sourly peep.

Climb to Heaven using a stepladder, they might reply,
Gaze at watery stars that are loftier made.
I do not tell them I am despondent, though my right eye bleeds,
Though my left arm comes off at its patchwork seams,
Though my mouth stays agape for ten minutes straight,
While my heart beats with the sound of the storm-wracked ocean
Without the help of spell or potion,
In front of the reckless crane, directly at its feet!

In a tattered lace cardigan I call out to cry,
To the moon and Venus everlastingly,
About as potent as a potted plant that’s stepped upon
At midnight, when a real writer’s cogitation is working splendidly.
My hair might be wet; I might be a damsel in a tower,
A Christian among lions, monk-mimicker or Zion;
High moon, I am what you cast your eye on!
But when I leave, the moon shall ever be.

In the city, the skin of Venus is salted, somewhere,
In bed, on a plane, threshing through some traffic jam,
Breathing breath of cotton by the pane,
Mingling it with a hot milk concoction at ten past eight
By course of necessity; ’tis a requirement.
At night, the restaurant lovers will be cracking lobster claws
As vagrant vandals run to break stiffer laws,
Watchful moon and Venus, living, abide by thee.

What immortal design fashioned you two, high, composite?
The best I do is clown around, tearing white on the stairwell,
Skid black on the floor, fall over the silver screw
And cry that I have stubbed a toe so viciously,
Spreading word of my blood to the gates of Heaven,
Or not gotten wear my moonlit gossamer to the ball,
However many, amongst us talking kids in thrall.
We fashion our lives so well, so fancifully!

Only a villain would cry after the ragtime jibe,
Not a poet or saint or seductress munificent!
Like a stranded chump, the whale is alien,
Blithe as a cloud and seeking kindred gloss
Throughout the live-long days on a shallow sea of sound,
Mounting the tide nor ever heading back again.
The stars shine visibly at half past ten,
Extracting moonshine from the tender eyes of a dying lion.

Saintly moon and star, packed mud gets tired of following,
Trips in the relay race holding so many lotuses.
Look, it grins now, showing its pearly teeth!
After a moment of stubborn, naked deliberation,
It thinks it can forge its way, smiling, to the gates of Heaven!
My clay cognition tells me it’s time to drink juice
Rather than wallow in mundane or salty sluice
Fallen from the eyeballs, all solitary and tread upon.

Good night O moon, O star, O chattering visages!
In desperation, many people daily cry,
In various positions, in love, in lust or hatred,
From greed or ominous envy that must turn green again,
Another day shall break soon with another birth,
And I become a writer in a rooftop gazebo,
Machine in the garret humming rhythmically and low.
The tip of my pen does not hurt so much as a knife, this face.

Bad Milk, Mad Milk

Susie never thought she would wake up in a field
Of roses or in a sandy garden with no cup.

The six year old within did faintly scream
Not having family sound or soccer team,

Lanky and limber first, then stiff, then cold,
White particles upon a salt-faced six year old.

Jersey who ate a scarlet apple missed her ball,
Becoming night’s most sleepy, misused starlet,

A brigand babysitter brushing her fair hair!
Sanding his snake through eye and girl and underwear,

Unstoppable as any muscle hard and milk mad man,
Who thinks that kids and sex come in the self-same can.

Bad milk, mad milk the years have given her
Who suffers hardships lewd that still endure,

Yoked by her neck to that male beast
Who takes the golden grain to steal the feast.

She could be apple, pear, or fuzzy peach,
Or water mineral she cannot reach,

Since this bowl’s on a table, bound to crack,
Because of some man’s vice and clean air’s lack.

It might want roses, yogurt, sweetness, curd,
Snow, raindrops, words so pure man never heard,

It might want sugar, jam, or honey, spice,
But girl, you’re all these things! Says Joe, not nice.

A star, a star, she says, I am a star,
Not from a porn shop or an all-nude bar,

Whatever be her bare and bonny given name:
The mad man doles out bad milk, all the same.

Ele Draws Punk

He slinks out at night
To draw like a cat
In sneakers white,
Saying, “I did dat!”

Wielding a punk paint pen
As a chit would a pole,
To make him a ten;
Marking up is his goal.

He marks up and down,
An elephant,
Takes off a gown,
To a gorilla chant,

Plays like a monkey
His word to spread,
That girls are a donkey
If he has the head,

In contraband paints
And contraband words,
He can a million taints
Leave like those park birds.

He’s ele, he’s ele,
A city elephant;
Eat my cock since it’s jelly
And never say “shan’t”!

That Girl on Fire

These babies were born naked,
One man says to another,
In a group of six – clock is set,
Where the rapist to the cad is brother.

This Christmas is for memory,
So snap a photo chum,
With your eye, it’s proclivity,
Ho-ho-ho hum.

O Eve, O Eve, she’s red!
Look, date her and get a stick;
She’s got no bloody head
Jack, jacket, candle wick!

On fire for us, eh?
The girl’s on fire, cunt,
Cheek and strings of hay,
Says even, “It’s what you want.”

On fire, captain? Boy!
The rest of us are hungry
For some flying meat steaks, hoy!
Shit, cat is angry.

It only serves her right,
For that vixen was on fire,
Let us laugh all through the night
And build a blazing pyre!

Bitch, bitch, do not snitch,
Or leave us wanting more!
There it is, burn pitch,
Open the geode store!

These babies were born naked,
And also, well, on fire,
Away from Daddy’s bed,
But Father- He’s the Sire.

Santa Claus

The children wiggle in the weather
Wearing knits and tighter wool,
Wanting oh! So much, a banquet,
And not to go to school.

They conquer like the lamb,
The sweet and gentle lamb,
Which follows larger feet,
To laugh so loud and jam,

With naught but trust and guided
By what seems most like light,
Not ever to be jilted,
But how the wild men fight!

They’ll offer sweets and pleasure,
Rich chocolates in a sack,
Doll houses and soft clothing,
Then whack! Today, whack! Whack!

He is not Santa Claus
Who has a club at hand,
Hoarfrost up to his brows,
Says his hides must be tanned!

Turpitude

How bright life would be
Without one wicked worry,
Just winking at the sun
Until the day is done!

How clear, the pansy there,
Has not been stepped upon,
But cultivated close,
By Heaven and who knows?

A thought that’s flourishing,
From dawn to dusk so mild,
An open book, a statement,
A soldier too, beneficent.

If splotch, there is a spot,
Which goes to show, the world
Is made of spots, spots, spots,
And violence, turpitude.

To think, to die, to eat,
To live, to mate, to rut,
What was dark rye really worth?
Words warm which give minds mirth.

If Rice

If rice, then work,
For not to starve or crawl,
But too much brings one down.

If ice, then sing,
In summer till spring,
Rather than hurt, lust, kill.

If thine eye remembers mine,
Do not both wink and stab,
For thou wert former friend.

And then the sun, when it rises,
Let me rise with it, God,
So I can build my mast.

Who Cries For Bananas?

What, ho! There is a starving boy,
Wherever one goes – he stays
A starving boy with waning legs,
And never says nay.

The sight of a banana would topple him,
Who would probably eat the peel,
Not perceiving any bitterness –
Such zeal.

The head banana man has pockets,
His scope across the sea,
That fuller get each passing year,
Cries tea.

Have ye seen privileged men cry?
Have ye seen mendicants?
They cry bananas, privately,
Die ants.

Hold This

The little girl, give her a book to hold,
So she sees the black ants crawl,
Maybe today, not tomorrow – thrall,
Unless gold in that there bowl.

Give her a toothbrush for those pearly gems,
God, water for the willow tree!
If she can’t earn ten times three,
Though, it tears her pretty hems.

She’s small. I let her hold the keys, though.
She can hold them for me ten times ten,
Or look at them through a spiffy seeing lens,
Until I tell her we have to go, go, go.

If she cannot hold anything else, a tome,
A tome and not a beeping telephone,
Till the mountains move and rivers turn to stone,
Because without elephants, Mongol’s cannot roam.

This dainty hand holds this; all wet it is,
And fits on her agenda,
As does this happy, straight-faced lender,
Who loves sis, loves her – kiss, kiss, kiss.

Lila

We long to know about his perfect pastimes
Who are in the service of the Lord
Who has created flower and fruit and forest.
We want the taste of splendor on our lips, always,
Ever peer at the true scarlet of the summer rose
With the intensity by which it is perceived in Paradise,
Trusting Him in the incomparable passionate throes of faith and fidelity.
He dances around us gaily, whispering to each, significant secrets,
Wearing seamless clothes and shoes the shine of which could kill a man.
Lilas are pastimes propounded on in study sessions
So love can be pious and long, filled with the night moths of mystery.
We who carry the pole to guide the ship of congregation
Are constantly anxious to catch a curious pearl when it comes.

Old John Two-Step, his plum blossom wine is not ethereal,
And he has crucified himself for years on the multi-colored cross
Of impious pleasures and the slight tricks of sultry stars.
Like a bull grazing on greener grass, he goes around profiting,
Steering away from forbearances which make him angry and bitter,
Leaving his wife at home to roam hither and thither, a rude rocket.
In his wandering, he has not the foot of wisdom,
In his muscles, not a fiber that can flex to infinity,
His aging hair is oily and he meanly streaks a graceless grin
Rather than a decent smile that can hold a wholesome gallant bride.
Who cares about old John Two-Step? No one on Earth,
Who’s seen his sordid face, and no one in high Heaven.

MCP
Hangs on Thee

Gentle young girls are going out tonight
As usual, to take a whiz out loud
Now as the moon sheds insubstantial light;
Ghosts then, the cousins, raped and killed and towed,
Right up a tree in India – hurray!
Angry the father, Mother cedes to grief,
Protectors wretched who with sadness pay.
Evil stirred, gang rapes and tore off two a leaf.
Home tells a child she needs to sell her skin,
Oh, my! To wear the best of garments hung
On mannequins that turn the eyes of kin,
Kidding, no. The mother has her wishes strung
Even in America, where women go to school,
Real ones – but guys and trees are so damn cool!

MCP
Chicken Sunday

Red paint on Sunday is the latest fad
Engaged to plaster gore lore everywhere,
Light sucks, and words of wisdom sound so bad,
Intelligence is groinal – ladies tear.
Going out to serve the men – the army fox,
In pumps and fishnets, minty teeth of pearl.
Oh well, the wife at home is just an ox,
New as the toddler crying like a churl.
Let us go and have a picnic while there’s sun,
Enchant ourselves with chicken, ice, and wine,
Goulash and sugar on the lemon bun!
So, chicken is chicken – that’s just fine.
Meat gets blander as the senses dull;
Only love the chicken, plumage, and the cull.

MCP
Ravaged Grace

Could the sky rain tears, then would the sky rain tears,
Lamenting student angels who have dies
In violent traps set for them through the years,
Many maudlin, the friends and parents who have cried.
Indeed, a girl at school is easy prey,
Not like the lion rampant or the bull;
Good work breeds jealousy and then dismay,
Intentional what happens, not a pull.
Violet clubs and flowers, rain ye softly down,
Yellow marigolds, clover, and buttercups,
Goes the slightest body up in some strange town.
Raped, God! To milk a cow, not old enough.
On Earth, the ocean rages, where the guard?
Where leopards slip and slide, their hides are barred.

MCP
Fish

Moonlight, within this garden is a flower,
Yellow, replete and gorgeous as the sun,
Mother loves to dote upon a splendid hour,
On to other things the lady’s day begun.
Two feet say she’s a woman, but so frail
Her fins when angry Father chastises,
Enraged by coffee like the Holy Grail
Regretting his choice made and then despises.
For what he feels, he twists her blue-green arm,
Inserts his tongue into her childish ear,
Shows scorn and storms away, inflicting harm,
However much the law’s presumptions he doth fear.
Red herring flopping round upon the floor,
Our fisherman is home if salt doth pour!

MCP
Thai Legs

Ten times a day, he thinks of having it,
Hot as a goblin in his gut and cruel,
Alive in darkness only – sucks the pit,
Immersed in thinking of sweet kids at school.
Lettuce and bacon lust, he spies on sun-bronzed legs,
Eats meals that fuel his flying dastardry;
Great is the grill beside these foaming kegs
Set up against so sour chastity.
For legs he wants to have, Thai legs and sauce,
One pound per person, bleeding raw or cooked,
Olivia or Olga, to scramble, stir, or toss,
Delighting in his porn, admiring that he looked.
Chilies were his fingers that must surely dry,
That called up crime, that flaked for dames to die.

MCP
Lemon

Long after lemons held out their allure
Enough for hungry men to climb the tree,
Men take advantage of their neighbors, sure,
Open in coveting a cup of tea.
Nitwits hang innocents so high, O God!
They search for prey within good families,
Envy the noble, cross their lust of dog
And law and then repute to meet loose ends.
Cousins coming from a farmhouse, not fifteen,
Over the ravished field in drapery swing,
Used harsh and vile – they were so mincemeat lean,
Sucked unto death like birds upon the wing.
Incest gives horned men much greater zeal,
Nags wiser folk abiding by the wheel.

MCP
Glitter

Going into March, the army stops to rest,
Loitering on street corners in heavy boots,
Inviting sex at night, their souls to test.
Time for the city, time for anxious flutes;
The satin rooms are loud and glittery.
Each man is such a soldier; fashion’s feet
Rule him to walk where fun’s not jittery,
Sounds do not startle – wine comes with the seat.
Florence, though, Florence gets trampled down
Long after morning’s birds have gone to bed,
One child beneath some tons of pussy, crown!
One does not see the glitter’s on her head,
Removed from glitter games for aye and aye.
So come the soldiers; kegs are never dry.

MCP
Cry

Velcro the love that lives to kiss then leaves,
Envious and vulpine if it hates to stay,
New then so old, a-glow then rusts its greaves,
Used and abused as if the hair were hay.
Silent starlets stay put on and on,
This for themselves and have no better cause,
Earn nothing more than privacy at dawn,
Are not as fragile, made of fire because!
Red roaming bears, milady, tempt sore brawn.
Morose and wet with tears the wretched girl
Over her folding table tense and lately crying,
Opposed to temporality – this curl –
Now splendid as a waterfall, now dying.
Bare naked moons might please then cease to please,
But Heaven’s scope persists and outlasts these.

MCP
Picking

Sin, sin again sailors, the sea is bilious bad,
Ten times one hundred, modern makes ’em mad;
Rule one or several women, hum-drum lad,
Acute’s the finger point which makes them sad.
Wandering o’er the prairie is the wildebeest,
But it is full and tall, a pleasure there,
Encouraging his eye to have a feast
Round ’bout the splitting tendrils of its hair,
Robin red breast, fruit at dawn, and yeast.
Yummies hold this vessel, every bloody inch,
Yams in the market rich and fit to bake,
Yellow in the parlor of its eye, a hitch,
Yet still it moves amongst the living – heck!
Yank out the strawberry or quit this deck!

MCP
Is He Owner Evaluating My Gem Hair?

It is possible to feel he likes my mind,
I do dream of it; it gives me so much glee
In thinking that he’s honest, true, and kind,
Just like a gentleman who comes for tea.
He calls me pretty, if for manners, method,
And interesting when times are slow and drear,
But I don’t know what goes on in his head
Or why he wants my supple body near.
Braised meat is also shiny, for a fact,
And stones men pocket surely gleam and glimmer,
Boys at heart like girls, so grown men speak with tact,
Yodeling at gemstone hair, a waist that’s slimmer.
Only tell me, friend, if he likes or bread or gloss.
O Lord, how will the world survive its dross?

MCP
Lab Fruit

Young love, it comes by like a physics law,
Elegantly pronouncing words of tenderness
Late at night or when the morning birds do caw,
Letting loose its rhythms slow or dangerous.
Forget me now – the dying breath of saints
Remind a distant ear that wakes or sleeps.
Ugly fingers have a score of precious taints
Inside and out of lab fruit lest it leaps.
Tell friends, tell family, the fruit desists,
Engaged in climbing once, it has to fail,
Let monkey hop and play since it persists,
Lose sap and flesh and coating too of mail.
On top, mad Humphrey bites an heirloom orb;
Wits speculate he neither passed nor liked the Lord.

MCP
Milk and Tears

Both you and he are simply flavors formed
Under the heat mad gaze of a bolder solar flare:
Take off, take off, this country has just dormed,
Thirst beckons, and how wet these children are!
Taste of modern milk on the tip of a stalwart tongue
The thong to match and cheeks all blossoming,
That you can be God’s butterflies among,
The dampest and most awe-inspiring.
Erector sets become a maiden’s measely flesh,
Red eyes, red lips, a stony aisle to boot,
Florida alligators, aren’t we, here to Bangladesh?
Love-Joy has no pockets, balls, or loot.
X-ing babies bake the tulip bulbs delish,
Yet something ’bout this female made the dish.

MCP
Apples Produce

Aptitude in mathematics cannot save the soul
Pilched during a war of gore and travesty,
Picked from some nest to fill a bowl,
Like in Nigeria – O sounding sea!
Even birds know how to fly off from the tree,
Sell nothing and are happy in the world,
Preach roundabouts their way of liberty.
Regions can often be so rabid squirreled.
Old nasty laws restore barbarity,
Dust in the wind, ripe riches soft and swirled,
Until men cry for grim severity,
Class is cancelled, newer flags proudly unfurled.
Elk watch apples, produce, apples produce,
Even children, pity, know apples can produce!

MCP
Bananas Perform

Belts enter politics, O steamy, sultry beings!
Amplitude is in the physical physics of a groove physician,
Not a scientist, but nurses after teethings,
Accepts milky cash and pretty peels for ten.
New bananas perform, older fruit can learn, and tea,
Assuming all the responsibilities of a playground clerk
Sunset to sunrise, earning, never free,
Preferring married needs and jerks – then, twerk;
Everything is easy as pie, a peeling peel discloses,
Red berries sometimes in, sugar white or brown,
Fragrance is mutual, but honey, dear, which noses?
Our honor, if pigs kill, we track them down;
Rather than eat the banana berry muffins of mother’s fame,
More honor goes to, somewhat, the lamest game.

Chinese Coal, Bully Coke

The children do not know; but will they ever?
Smog fills the air like a furious fire-breathing dragon,
Blocking the nostrils, winking lover-like at luscious grime,
And the simple of heart must survive the squalor,
In a place where simple yens don’t make a dollar.
Proud is poverty, still proud is a person’s place,
Yet when administrators say there is no space?
When they poke out the eyes, carve through the face?

Will the children ever know which ones will shiver?
Which ones will know a room so cold,
For a doctor holding organs like lumps of coal
Because justified is deadly depravity – despair
O octopus, O squid ink waterfall hair,
When Doctor Evil comes daring the Devil to delight
All through the day, throughout the night.
Drinking rape like coke, men smile there is no fight.

Chinese coal, bully coke, the clouds admonish,
Gods grin we eat while they remain immortal,
Comfortable in blackness, blank space addicts.
Shall the children have an iota of breath sometimes,
Or inherit a world of lust-filled fiendish crimes?
In the ears of Earth, the young ones call out softly,
From dens that burn, importunating safety,
Not the loudest wounds, but the dearest lately!

Owls of Thee of Three

When the owl hoots thrice,
It hoots for me,
Though first, I know, it hoots for thee
In Nature’s ecstasy.

When I am melancholic dreaming,
Before the window pane,
The rain falls threefold for redeeming
All people, not the same.

Earth, Earth, like water
A broken body sore,
But in the air lies much more power,
God’s will and birds four score.

The proclivity of birds
Is simple as their sound,
Or blue or brilliant gay;
Soon wish I them to dance around.

Pigeon

Quite common bird, I wonder
Each time I see thine eye,
About the seeds inflicted,
About how you keep dry.

I find thy hues uplifting
Much like the yellow sun,
So I with thee am drifting
Until the day is done.

Thou shalt not last for eons
And neither will thy seed,
Though it is you I think upon,
Thy wing and voice of mead.

Long Hair, Loud Voice

Lion, lion, not like a flower thou,
Elsewhere thy virtue, honestly,
In strength and prowess, so I trow,
Claws sharp as stings of bees.

So loud art thou and large and fierce,
Hair on that noodle spreading bright,
Sounds spontaneous and not rehearsed,
Vibrations overtake the night.

Long hair, loud voice and pride
Are traits becoming thee,
Deeply as salt in spumy tide,
O unified! O country, tea!

I Found a Fairy

I found a fairy in a coconut,
And fair and black was she,
Who would sing so sweet but faith, could not,
Just moaned unhappily.

Wherefore art thou in hairy shell?
I solemnly inquired,
Because I saw she was not well,
Shook faintly and perspired.

There is no joy on Earth, she said,
Except in hope of God,
None in the living or this head,
Which noontide has but sod.

I wondered at her anguish so,
Who lingered in my thought,
Who should have had a house, a beau,
Who in a shell instead was caught.

She said, return the coconut,
I then set on a tree,
Not asking even why or what;
My country, ’tis of thee!

Lamentation

Seven goes to Heaven
Is what some say in the US of A,
But this lass is never gay.

Her husband’s Sabbath
Is what sends her far away,
Like a beast to rot so gray.

Where are the wedding bells?
Tyrants tell her, go to Hell,
Since it’s your soul, you sinner, sell.

Muslim mellow, I love
Your face on the journal’s cover,
Cannot help you, true gold lover.

They condemn to death
The amorous Christian dove,
Pierced too the parent’s trove.

Why not command Heaven on seven?
Or vindicate the rights of woman?
I am not God in his starry van,

Is why I wrote with pen ink,
Whose kind did sail to win or sink;
So do they now – O goodness, think!

Is What a Horse Should Be

He sees it, longs for it to be
Under the patronage of his wiry legs,
The horse he would have wished on as a boy long ago,
The mane of which is better than butter, clearly.
He sees it as being enswathed in shadow
Or glistening under an aura of solar gold,
Having perfectly manicured hooves as smooth-edged
As high-reaching heavenly doors.
He holds a curry comb tentatively for its chestnut hair,
Will run it over the nooks and crevices of its corpus
More pleasurably if there are no other men or company
To detract from the spark he puts forth
Walking measure by measure.

He might call it cinnamon, sugar, or archie,
Esmeralda or Seattle Sunrise,
It could be a Lolita undercover or have some much longer name,
So he sets to thinking in a wistful, sleepless dream,
Can do so seemingly forever in a bolder boy’s ecstasy.
The wealth of my kingdom for a horse!
He kindly and quietly states, smug in his simper.
Currycomb ready, he categorizes,
Reasoning this or that is precisely what a horse should be,
From the gloss on its back to its symmetry,
If it runs in the sun in blazing argent or in chastity,
This daughter, this sister, this pauper or team player a horse,
Ready to return to where it should have been prior,
In ample due course.

For You to Have

If the baby has the body and mind
Of a soft serve vanilla milkshake with the thick straw attachment,
The sort of malt that clings to a man’s ribs
As if it had no other affair
In the whole winter mint scope of its life,
I should say, I’d not cast a pair of dice for her
Or put my foot down to smooth a path,
Or risk getting sunburned baring my shoulder
When the daddy doll chit turns on, on, on,
Thrice or four times a day for a wallet
Or some beefy hunk of bodacious male brawn.
No redemption, God, in the dew light
Of her cavernous cave ink crawl,
I am no menial cook for that beautiful partridge,
But life, indirectly, so aren’t we all!
The world pulls saltwater taffy-lollypop drumroll!
For you to have a decent forklift, the rest
Subscribe to endless Dole.

Apple Cheeks

Summer comes on year after year
As steady as the sea,
When humans jump into their beer,
And lounge upon the lea,

An apple on a pyramid
As tempting as a jewel,
Polished, as no man tasted it,
Good on its own or gruel.

Dissected into four, the fruit,
Or whittled to its core,
Carved twenty times because it’s loot,
Then we suspect a boar

So cruel and vast and gross and grave,
It lies upon its feast,
Or thinks to peel it in its cave,
Sweet apple cheeks – the east,

Gives groaning grandeur in the ground
To stunning apple cheeks,
Who played the apple with no sound
Because of brandished leeks.

If summer gives a piece vermilion,
I hope to graze o’er it,
The book which draws the sleepy lion,
Not apple cheeks. That’s pit.

Panopen

Yeh, ye would have been an athlete,
And worn your stars upon your hairy crest,
But something in this brighter shewn,
Pressed oil, the best!

Ye would have looked toward salad day,
A green dress in the closet, strings,
Wind up the sneakers of hot style,
God! Lasses, flings!

Child’s play, this bread and butter bash,
If my ball takes the alleyway,
Between those hillocks and the sea,
Crumpet, obey!

Panopen’s playing, joy displaying,
Fate’s fern gully fingers ten,
Victorious the memory…
Vikie, shall ye come again?

Traitor Love

His glossy eyes
Tell me it would mean the world
To kill me with a knife,
Upset my bowl.

He starkly thinks of it
For dozens o’ minutes straight,
Lost deep in reverie,
Not quite sedate.

The phrase he punctuates
With some enormous stomp,
Hiding the gilded sledgehammer,
The plotted romp.

The man is shady thus,
Inside his pigeon brain
That would snuff me with a thrust
Or wreck my mane,

And makes me idle, grim,
Reflecting on his vice,
Around the silent churchyard,
Protracting ice.

July 3, 2014

The brilliant white snow suit
This darling wears in summer heat
Teases questions from my marrow,
Confronts my meat.

Girls given o’er to baby talk,
Sweet fashions that shall flower
The longer that lust o’ertook them
In a wee childhood bower,

Incite my sentiment
To write pure poetry
Leagues separate from sultry sales,
With verbal vestry.

Morning Chant

Most charming lord who flora and fauna hath made,
Let those who from you take benefit rejoice,
That there is work and sustenance today,
And treasure for the mind and music, voice.

Let every busy person think on thee,
In cities, villages, and countrysides,
Because all time is thine and grand design,
So man gets better praising thee and wise,

Seven seas, and seven continents, one lease,
Dry ground to wander, ocean leagues to sail,
The stars in heaven aught to be night’s fleece,
The holy words of scripture for man’s mail,

Praise thee and all thy lovely industry,
Praise thee, the saints and profits of our hours,
Praise thee today and every other day,
For summer sun and firelight that glowers,

The simple praise thee, let them sing one song,
The early risers praise and ring the bell,
Since lovers are we, O most gracious Lord!
From regions many, Christ and Israel.

July 11, 2014

White Lion

Snow white lion soft,
I think of thee quite oft,
As morning bright ascends,
When we must make amends.

I wonder at thy bright,
Which shines through every night,
The bounty of thy mane,
If it doth come again.

The city’s often grinning
With cars and whistles spinning,
Across the seasons four,
When skies will shine or pour,

As much as my white muse,
Who paws about the pews,
As much as my great friend,
Who through the snow doth wend.

The Rat Message

If I do bend down when someone calls me
In the early hours of the morning, sun glowering,
Calls out as if they were on a ship at sea looking for sunrise,
No matter how angry I remain from yesterday or the day before
At thorns or fists shaken for no just cause, foot weary,
Tired of looking at the asses of horses and belly buttons of pigs,
I should not have the intelligence of a camel or high arched rat
That go on all four nudging objects with a nuzzle.
The world has room for prudence if it has room for imprudence,
And love comes slowly in whatever the wise or wastrel weather,
So if he has not the key to my door, he has not my living door’s key,
Thus, pretty am I, but not like a sleek-coated Afghan
Willing to act friendly and perform tricks for shopping in Manhattan,
For if I were to bend the second someone called for a scelerat,
I would not be an evolved rat, but a low down jiving ragged rat
With a heart of winter, O how bright the river gloss!

Follow the Idea

I think I’d like to follow your idea,
Since it is brilliant and jovial and probably good to follow,
Hoping the result will be of quality due to outstanding effort
Undertaking a project, a project, rather than idling,
Buying tools instead of going to the boutique to blend in,
For I should so like to take part in what looks like dedication
Rather than prevarication or degradation,
Out beyond the sweating summer air conditioned houses,
Past the river and its roving boats of pleasure,
On a rooftop with a plan and ingenuity,
Saying thank you, thank God, and sun, and moon,
Industry does not come without these presiding,
Or my four limbs, or my round head that writes.
Elegant lily, I like your idea a lot,
It is down to earth and subliminal of lily’s design
Five months before winter when tender hands can hold freely
Material that glows in the darkness, O so intriguing!
The stuff is good; you give it deeper meaning.

The First Time

The first time Todd Smith saw Rebecca’s shoes,
They were as pretty as lollypops melting in sunlight,
And her bonnet was a cotton candy cloud retaining coils.
He doted over them and drew shapes around them, dreaming, always dreaming,
Wanting to bathe in her sunlight and swim in seas of her shadow,
Take the yellow brick road with her, stop, go, and park with her,
So he settled with the image of her until sunset.
Sometimes a person wants pie, though, rather than cake,
Circumstances which changed Rebecca’s shoulder blades into death bats,
Her eyelashes into witch’s brooms, her cheeks into sallow oranges,
Whereat her voice remained ostensibly startled, no guilt on his face,
Setting up the proper dessert for the proper occasion,
As serious as a druid is above a virgin’s dreadlocks,
Playing his mouth with the audacious dexterity of Kind David.
If abuse, then so be it: Rebecca was but shadow
Stealing sunlight from the princess of Sunkist oranges
Who wore a baseball cap and leather sneakers, eventually with nothing on.
His pleasure and his boredom led him to draw the conclusion
That if three were in love, the old bitch would fall off her pony
And crack like a numbskull nitwit, bulimic and crying.

To Climb

In snows or skies sun-binding,
All striving keep on climbing,
Upon a rocky mountain bold
To get to suns comprised of gold,
Playing a flute like wood of reed,
As mellow as the fairest mead,
More scales forthwith of music’s leisure
Producing vocal virtuous treasure,
A goal of raiment fixed upon
God’s shoulder, sewn for his lean brawn,
Steps of a pilgrimage – must climb,
Steps toward a knoll – the bard must rhyme.
What scales were vanquished, day
Is given to God’s will and way,
Who hath created everything,
Whose work man exploits treasuring,
If fruit or flesh or mineral,
Or sundry pastimes versatile,
Around and toward the riverbed,
Go forth! Not one but many head.
Who thinks of climbing? Say it where
The kindest friends do drink prepare,
If fish must swim, so fellows eat,
When ways and friendships haply meet.
To climb and carve – an ancient broth,
Man leaves his mark dispelling sloth,
Therefore a word in ports and rooms ashore,
Ten phrases – writing must adore,
Stamping a path with footsore feat,
Now finding cool and quiet seat,
Most time spent climbing, for a few,
Others wasting coins, have not a clue.
One gets to places climbing clever,
Though doth he ample truth discover?
God speed us when most ruggedly,
The weather takes us violently,
Or in the mellows of some mundane
Illusion, reason’s softly lain,
Upward forthwith humanity
Ascending from insanity,
To bite again the bud of years
Rampant with longings and with fears,
For footsteps are all gently climbing,
Beneath cold stars, how long the rhyming!
Gracious is the Lord who grew the green,
Praises on Him who quells the mean.

Bloom I Gave

Child Susan blushes pinker than a tea rose
To have given a magnificent rose to her strong jock friend
With whom she had been playing quite a while, pacifically,
Dressed like a peacock, laughing for it, sumptuously.
The Hulk has his cartoon character qualities,
Which Child Susan admires a little at a time in slim discretion,
For the jock becomes jocular seeing it and smiles,
Reaching out as ‘twere to pick an apple from a tree,
O Mother, Father, God, and country! The sitter’s canine teeth
Bite lil’ Susan’s fig jam butt while sipping tea,
As grandiose as Dracula in his foreign majesty,
Unleashing his bathrobe belt tie for Sue to die,
As the girl cries weakly, “Bloom I gave, bloom I gave,”
A rose gift given to please and not deprave,
Misconstrued lately by His Grace the mad Goliath
Who stifles his young consort where she lieth.

Hole

I do not know if there’s a soul
In the form that holds a golden bowl,

Begging for beauty’s sake in league with vice,
In the burning sun and climes of ice,

If all it does is steal for joy,
Making mischief as a dog or toy.

A head can be so adamant,
Especially receiving compliment,

Worthy, not so, but stuck up, dumb,
Impolitely sucking on a thumb.

From Seoul there was a hooker ring
On 32 to have a fling,

Both men and women eager so
To play with cash and have a go,

Arrested, some of them, tra la,
Prison the form that fits the bra.

If soul, it would be base and low,
And hotter than a cup o’ joe,

The purgatory cleans the grime
Of egos for themselves do chime,

Averring now sitting downtown,
The poet wearing words as crown.

Be Mine

In a ramshackle factory building
Amid the whir and stir of myriad whirring machines,
The laborers sit cooking, very lovely, loving, and industrious,
Doing precisely what they have to do with precision,
Everything by rote and exactly within their best nature,
Humming like bees, projecting bird songs, each a godly creature
Respectful of themselves and of the world for which they sat working.
How, now, the Earth that day was not complying with manmade shells,
The flimsy exteriors and lustrous clothes and bangles that loudly went crashing,
Due to an earthquake in due course of time ruining last night’s bread and butter,
The embellished raiment of the newlyweds, their prospects, and everything,
The work and the long preserved wisdom, the crumb of the daily chore,
Washed away with the wetness of water – in blood!
In cement and silk and steel, the hellish haphazard flood,
For which the buildings, bodies, bustle, and stir no more remain,
Making simple cloth textiles – life being simple as a man’s brain
That doth not rain when it raineth or pour its own salt,
No matter where the love, of country, partner, or God,
Be mine is all, in a dusty treasure attic or a tomb in Bangladesh!
Be mine is the acclamation at the gate: behold this and then be mine.

The Reflex Complex

I cannot commend the reflex complex, so defy its continuation:
Tell me if there was this storm, sir,
During which your life and possessions fell back and went flying,
That the storm door to your house slammed shut and banged your head
One day seemingly a million miles away from paradisiac premises,
Of trials and tribulations tell me softly, but do not hit to startle,
Assuming that my hair rains down in a million bloody popsicles
As testament against your self-righteousness in clouds of soap and lavender.
Inform me about your stunning travels
On airplanes, trains, and ships in the absence or presence of danger,
If the weather conformed with the climate of your monumental temperament
Or ruined the bloody Marys of your neediest desires, chilly, transpired,
But do not upturn this on me in the meantime – a heck of hatred
Derived from the atrocity of having to travel sparsely and with gumption
Without a single suitable rug to clean off rain wet feet
Or a palm leaf tot fan the inferno of that fabricating forge,
The prevaricating numbskull who cannot stop haphazardly hitting
Targets that do not belong to him and have not travelled to see it.
The cycle keeps circling, see, bitter sadness, too odd ecstasy,
Your coke being the oil of ages, in the voice of this strapping girl,
Made only to drown lives with wetness, O weak and wanton churl!

Bolt n’ Body

She longs for the day she does not have to dread his dreadlocks
Or duck out of the way of each bat of his lashes,
Look at the screen of his telephone to scream about chicken pox,
Force a sultry, subtle change of satin sashes.

When the dawn discloses a brand new era of earrings,
She does not fancy sitting at home, not seeing anything,
Drinking countless cups of tea upon a husband’s earnings,
And considering the communal Sunday mass at noon a fling,

If, bolt and body, after this, he misses
The goal of egalitarian wedlock behind her brassy back
In waves of prostitution and of kisses
He takes with hotel chocolate as a healthy snack.

If, bolt and body, he opts to ravel
A tender harlot needing more than her fair share,
In foreign silks and gems to boldly dazzle,
She shall snip his whiskers for a lock of hair.

Taxi Cab Stab

I fell beside a cab, and no one grieves,
I live and yet my skin turns so ghostly violet,
Whereat I wished I was still at class on my knees,
Now surrounded by noise – but death must be quiet!

The signs pervade streets like flags, nubs, or bones,
Cock’s crest of a poultry beast a-rumbling plenty,
Wherever they go in states and their zones,
They are not bright as God – but steel can be mighty.

What is this, what is this? Let me stop to reflect,
Ran my heart in my mind up into my brain,
So that my daisy steps were no longer circumspect,
Therefore taking the fall that brought such stab wound pain.

I fell beside a cab, and no one grieves,
Perhaps I was not doing it properly,
Or buying their catch of breakfast grey teas.
When I write in plain English, I do so politely.

Meet Her

The chiming fountain gushes in a circle,
Where happy people go to talk and play,
As well as quiet folk whose work is clerical
In the shaded corner of a burning day;
The yelling starts and ends in joy and not dismay;

So many colors wear these lovers, does, and styles,
Flat-footed, arch footed, smooth footed, stop and go,
I think that some of them have walked for miles,
Taking drinks with them, indeed, alive and slow,
Keeping discreet in love or throwing mistletoe.

The face, it is familiar, plain or bold,
Emotive, less so, grave, sensational,
A changing skin tone but the words are old,
The voices various, vibrational,
Who speak more languages than national.

A young man starts, I’d love to see this, right?
My lady dressed in vibrant blue to boot,
Smiling with lipstick and her earnings bright,
Since men might like to know they have the loot,
A sexy cunt but not a prostitute.

He’d like to meet her if she wears his white,
His salt and pepper story, silver belts,
The antique lace his mother wore or silks of night,
Conforming always, or else wear his welts,
A sex slave in the end and never Vanderbilt.

I’d like her sideways, backwards, inside out,
In cut up gems or in a mind’s conformity,
And though a smile is pretty, so is a pout,
Not that I’m grand, but clever, quick, and witty,
Someone to look at, going round the city,
So that is how, so that is how it is,
The right way or the road – Sir, who’s to say?
A CEO can’t slice up her new biz
To worry over fashions in Bombay,
The Village or Milan, then pay and pay.

Ash Ram

Seduction blood brings, might weigh more than hair,
Around the world, in animosity,
From Thailand to the moiling Middle East,
In Africa, the lion in his lair,
They all shall say – the only ecstasy
Is being at the bloody dead pig feast
With heads we’ll use for garlands right and left,
The bedstead of that man, no brother was,
And send to Hell the hogs we catch for theft,
For a single loss, a kingdom, too, of loss!
Too sweet’s the cherry which on midnight bough,
Survives the plate to feed another row;

The words of prophets, molded for a war,
Grander than peaceful talk or revelry,
The only pleasures being taken spoils,
O sky above, the winds of Earth do mar!
About the bomb, the broken beam, the bee
Who stings to steal the honey of men’s toils,
How terrible, if sharks invade the sea,
Maw open every day, and fathoms wide,
Employing brittle heads to flavor tea,
Recruiting fish to purchase side by side!
The gold of Earth, it groans, and turns to bone
The poorest men who sudden, have no home.

Ask what the ash ram wants, not what he needs,
He has a world of wants from sea to sea,
Especially to sit in ash he longs,
And satiated the subtlest of greeds,
If he has word and shelter, arms and key.
Young innocents get blown to bits in throngs.
The devil souls shall justify for juice,
O simple apple, blender, chilly day,
Methinks the worst of screws has fractured loose,
Tells men to jive and bolts to have its way.
Black beast of war wraps that far hill around,
Blesses the silence as it bleeds with sound.

Ash ram, how foreign these rams really are,
Queer in their thinking as to be clown or crow,
That wallow, but will a simple swine not wallow?
It makes a whore of land, a coal black bear,
Until the countries, startled, turn to know,
With cock’s crow, sometimes, or a teardrop sallow.
Acting to quell the appetite of rams
Seems like a thankless job, a wild goose chase,
Efforts to stew in cola running hams,
But when the world caves in – which broken face?
Pretty cars and trinkets bend to break a lot,
O Hestia, babies in ash ram’s pot!

Rebolting

A bolt of cloth for a fancy dance
Or lounge upon the couch at lunchtime,
How mesmerizing, the luscious emerald gloss!
He buys a pigeon for his lady’s time.

To provide for one’s self promiscuously,
Flatters men who hand their folded suits,
Suits the whims of men in foreign clothes,
O food at Taco Bell, O prostitutes!

Some girls like wearing pompous packages
Or nothing at all, those strumpets at the ball,
So rebolting ’tis, if the guy has got a horse,
Cars stall for them – but death throws up a pall.

Manhattan Cupcakes

Sweet and curious, the bakery crumb,
A popular product almost every day,
Fist large, or tiny as a thumb,
In colors gay,

Manhattan cupcakes – common as the ground,
Plain pantry style, abstract, artisanal,
Man passes by, they make no sound,
Is matter real?

Blond icing, blue, or red, the cap is smooth,
The inside tender, spices add a touch
Of roundness or temptation, not uncouth,
The man, though, born as such.

Sometimes the Wine Bottle Falls

Sometimes the wine bottle falls and whips the dust,
Not breaking, even, but it costs so much,
And tantalizes since one cannot touch,
Turns what is mostly fair to standard rust.

It crashes down, and doth break men apart,
Shakes brave souls up and learns a boy to beg,
Demanding several cases for a keg,
To go with home-baked bread, kale, cheese, a tart.

What for a bottle filled with wail and wine?
Why comes it raging or with outraged moan?
’Tis simple in the glimmer of the gloam,
Or grew at random on a dusky vine.

Lawn, Dry and Gray

Throughout the barren country people toil
For water, linens, foodstuffs, child raising,
In a coin toss that the bitter sun has made
To scorch the skin and bones of one and aye!

So stubborn, dirt that does not raise a bud,
Or grass but gives sometimes a hostile blade,
No milk for children but the eyes be milk
And ideas, all milk, seep out into dry pails.

Across the chopping waves, the restless sea,
Cords scattered cross the city speak of loot,
Women on which beckon, giving candy cane,
To violet men who vomit vodka milk.

Surplus gluttony tells of a folk too ill at math
To figure into equations good from bad,
Or truth from falsity, if gold is there,
And tender hearts of coal are never gold.

The lawn is dry and gray in well a place
Where long and late is help in coming – oh!
Lion languorous that lies with lamb-a-kin,
Do roar sometimes for skies to love us more.

Dispensed Gift

Divide this leaf in quarters
And proclaim yourself king,
Since I don’t live to serve you,
Did not give anything.

You can wear the gift upon your head,
Or on your sorry back,
As high priests did in days of yore;
Of fire, I have got no lack.

In a Name

If his name is Ted,
I assume he has got no bed,
Since his name is Ted.
He was not made for my head
And does not have eyes of dirty red.

An his name be John
He might as well have nothing on,
Or eat to build up sultry brawn,
Because his name be John,
Is like Balthazar, a demon spawn.

They were not made for me
If they upturn the tea
Or wake up shouting, “Wee, wee, wee!”
It is not poet’s ecstasy
And verse is not so free.

Harm Emily

Though I despise whoever seeks to harm Emily,
I cannot say I know her whereabouts,
Or if her land is going through some sort of drought
That freezes moral nature, kills for free.

Whoever should harm Emily, may he never rest,
But let the blood from out his shoulder bone
Then keep himself in hiding fast alone,
If he’s not more than wretched at his best.

Ego His Fountain

A thousand people pass this way
And do not see the hidden animal
Writhing around the gentle water play,
Grinning phosphorescence in its marble stall.

Starts mentally, the sucking vein,
Then grows its highest rank at noon,
Ego residing in his fountain mane,
His headdress, not the greatest boon.

If fountains can be eggs,
This one doth nurture scales:
The foaming beggar begs,
Not having these same sails.

Perhaps the beast doth carry yolks,
Though none of them for its own skin,
More for those sweet as cherry blokes,
Or wretched wives, or next of kin.

Not the Ocean

You are not the ocean, though you are blue,
You are not the ocean though smelling like summer salt,
And despite the idiosyncrasies and caprices you carry,
The sea is wild and vast and totes flimsy things away.

I do not have to pay you for having seen you,
Nor do you have to give me a speck of dirt,
But do, do, do try to follow the guidelines laid by the patient revered,
Refrain from shouting out loud like an incensed Paul Revere.

If it is not your intention to net, why should it be mine?
The varicose sea transports ay and ay a fish,
The plain ones and also the heavenly divine,
So do not tarry, bother! If you itch.

Four Line Tine

Naturally, we run about praising the random blurbs
Of proud people effortlessly blogging
On standard portions of napkins and notebooks about fun,
What is meaningless coveting and envy of fork tongued proletariat,
But what about God, or the sensational candidate Harriot?
There is no use in repeating, we have fun in the sun.

Why is the four line tine’s colloquial vibe important,
If the universe is more vast and delicious than a man can comprehend?
The enticed man may moan and groan into provident napkins
Marrying many different colors by rote in record time,
But what is more sensational has the right to last forever,
Like the theme-song of loving ardor or the golden crocus
Of a young fellow’s sunrise.

Mind Song

Should I be sleeping? I am not sleeping just yet,
Yet well would I have been ignorant in slumber
If I’d not followed the couple to festivities
Which opened my eyes with song and filled them with wonder.

The lights are beaming, and the floor is beautiful,
Reflecting light in glowy places on well and well a shape,
Reminding me of the pride of Austrian winters,
The mind could enhance with a buckle, a silken sari, a cape.

These people are not sleeping if the world is sleeping,
And if the others are waking, the tongue projects prayer,
Not at all disorderly or savage in conduct,
Since noticing honey descends from this pear.

Bud-ist

He fancies that he’s the biggest man around town,
That is, upstairs in his own hotter hairy home,
Where his favorite smells are bed sheets and graveyard loam,
Which he’d fain nick with his heels whilst wearing a frown.

From his pot o’ ideas springs forth each time a bud,
Well covered with snow but not the standard snow,
And what he knows, it is his crime to know,
O beauteous perversion ’neath a budding hood.

The buds turn into beaks in Satan’s spring,
Slower than epic eons, but one life is fast;
They grow, they grow to overtake the mast,
Not letting lesser greens do anything.

Greenland, Iceland, polar white expanse
Within the coming of more hatred cold,
In warmer climates, downy flesh is sold,
And paid for in cheap wads of wilting tens.

The bud-ist man is not my favorite hand
Since fruit he grabs that is not rightly his;
In love, he’s not, not minding his own biz,
But sells his soul running from land to land.

The tower where his penchants crass reside
Is more within than what the face belies,
The shades of which show through is red-shot eyes,
But a toilet seat his head is – what, false pride?

The Bee Shall Be

What happens when the flower dies?
The bee remains a bee,
Despite the color of the skies;
’Tis he, the bee, ’tis he!

What happens when the blossom dries?
The bee shall be a bee,
Better than before, with honey bees,
So merrily by the sea.

About Your Wrist

About your wrist, O mighty Lord,
Is all and sundry, about thy wrist,
And every fruit upon the board,
Doth ornament thy pretty fist.

A lotus twines about thy wrist,
The lily and the budding rose,
Silver and gold and amethyst,
How goes it? Only Lordship knows.

The blossom over thy fair wrist,
In splendor adhere to thy name,
Along with languages that kissed
The line eternal of thy fame.

About your wrist, milord, the world,
Creatures and catalogues, cascades,
’Bout every fountain breezes curled,
Thousands of silent, soft aubades.

I Swear

A tree, the Lord is a mighty tree;
I am a pansy,
And Lord, would I grow next to thee,
So sheltered be.

A man wearing hat or mistletoe
Cannot come close,
Drinking a soda or dating a ho;
I am verbose.

I swear by this soft light I see,
Moon shining in its haze,
Without His grace there is no country,
No golden grain or tea.

Soft Moon

O delicious, I can state to the moon above,
Since no one hears me now,
It looks like fruit upon a tree,
Yellow bananas – this I trow.

Soft moon, my thoughts can’t plow through thee,
Not potent, my desire,
But I can donate three sweet fruits,
Beside the alter fire!

I do not want to carve the morrow
With weaponry of hate,
Debating over who will share,
Want wholly heaven’s gate,

If only sons gave days as soft!
Or nights were not as chill,
Into a banana year of feasts
And Devil’s Will.

Black Beggar

His eyes start to glow when the sun rises
With their own sultry mist like blazing black coals,
Not anywhere near from extinguishing,
Though gentle folk might look on without love.

Here, here, here, he iterates in earnestness,
Whistling and grinning with his swollen slug tongue
For a filly to come over so they can eat eggs and cheese,
Perhaps climb into bed rung by rung.

Black beggar, he can’t think beyond the belly,
Like a giant sucking baby stuck in sensual swagger,
Who moves both his lips as the birds fly a-twitter,
Slipping sometimes downhill, like a bull violent badger.

Mouse Bread

If there is a hungry cat, or I am a cat,
Then why not both of us fix up a bread of mice?
Or a cold dish of soft fur balls over heather and cracked ice?
At my convenience, is it not up to me to brandish a bat?

Mouse bread is the stunning specialty of fire warm houses,
And if a fire fills our merry hearts,
Can we not learn to tear a piece of bread a-part
If run by so many primeval fuses?

Mouse bread is the love of cats in bright Paris,
It is the clockwork wisdom of those in Amsterdam,
And does not make one fat like maple ham,
But such breads are not for Bhakti loafers – me!

Why Should He Strike

Why should he strike? I don’t belong to him,
As little as a rose unto the sea,
But the cad’s as bold as any bumble bee,
Which makes these shaken headlights weak and dim.

On Earth, there is a special animal
With a flatter nose and grizzle cheek to cheek,
That doth not have to seek if I don’t seek
Acorns aground to pillage, mouth, and mall:

Call it a boar with gray gorilla fists,
A barnyard bulldog or the Devil’s pet,
But I haven’t got a grip on reason yet,
But when a beastly body strikes, Hell spits!

I Will Hold On

I will hold on, for Heaven’s sake,
Though jackals throw up sod,
And bark like dogs if given rod,
So that the Lamb might come and slake;

For the rod of Jesse, shall I hold,
That justice from it springs,
Despite Nature’s distracting rings,
Or let darkness wax hot and bold;

Since if not I, then who? Alas!
Mostly the silent sin,
Allowing louder thieves to win,
In the name of all that’s crass;

So unto time I say my rhyme,
Or let sin slander sense,
Without a single recompense,
Let sense be bathed in slime!

I tie my hair against the crass
Not letting go of zeal,
Or giving a devil, steering wheel,
Or the hungry bloody ram his grass.

I will hold on, shall I hold on,
As the rain doth pour and pour,
For the brain to gain its better brawn,
For innocence to up and score!

I Want My Reflection to be that of An Owl

I want my reflection to be that of an owl
With deeply set eyes and kohl round the rim ,
In my Sunday’s best dress or wearing a towel,
Even for myself, or if love be him,

So that I might stare and say: Who is that?
Not moving my arms or twisting my hair,
More confident betimes I don’t look like a bat,
Then running, a renegade, down the straight wooden stair,

An owl doth not hurt itself looking to look,
Or worry red lips let one kiss by the book,
Whose own colors cannot give it, its complex or fright,
Or cry, needing no more than mice late at night,

So owl, fledgling owl, I must look like an owl,
In order to incur a precarious vow,
Or simply dry up, like a nightlight, lose power,
But God everlasting – who is Abe Lincoln now?

Siesta

Ten men on a hill
Eat their watermelon, slurp coffee, taking siesta.
They’ve got only the reddest of intentions
And swamp-wet libidos,
Whetting the sharpness of tasting tongues
Never endowed at all with intellect,
Whereas children do chores quite circumspect.
What a cold-blooded lizard
Would lap up the life of a curious child
Waiting to discover the world
And not obtuse oblivion!
It steals candy and caramels;
It takes bright, red apples
From stems that were skin but turn into stems
Of skeletons on a hay-strewn hilltop,
Little hijacked carcasses
Not wanting at all to serve tea
In the lucid adult sexuality of a devil dust spree,
So cold and so handy
The carpenter children of an exotic and brave
New world for me and me and me.

Duck Yogurt

A maiden may think it is special to have yogurt, duck yogurt,
The name of which she can say in French or Japanese,
Knowing just how to distribute egalitarian peas
On Independence Day in an emerald miniskirt;

She gives her love through duck yogurt, day to day,
Deeming the work at hand pure ecstasy,
Embellished with kefir leaves on one knee
To drop the jaw of people in the way;

But she does not know about the finer heart
That doth detest using a leg as spoon,
Or raising bridges to the holy moon,
If it gives her neither credit, nor a cart.

Snoz

His snoz, ’tis no more the tender, cute boy’s snoz
Who was a piglet wrapped in swaddling gems,
When he saw first, emeralds of the wizard of Oz,
And starlet’s diadems;

It is a longer snoz, une grande probleme,
Suspension bridge swinging o’er the rushing tide,
That when it gets provoked, the children come
At the river of his pride.

Most hate his snoz, the mother wants to cook,
Not caring if the pantry’s got old spice,
Although her kinsman’s eyes don’t cease to look
At a bloody block of ice!

The twilight comes and comes upon the land
With heady fragrances from open doors,
And curry for a hungry bastard’s hand,
Not the cad who sick salt pours.

Cad

A cad is a muscle,
A bicep, eats an apple,
Has reflexes with H2O,
Can be strong and dapper.

A cad can glean or tussle,
Functions also on tea leaves,
But making the smoke of sultry days,
Someone’s separate lungs might stop to grieve.

There is a butterfly of sweat
Produced by the working cad;
Who knows what sort of butterfly
Or what sport at a pin address gym?

Share the Watermelon

Pink fleshy watermelon, though the inside be sweet and pink,
Is likely to be first given to the favored boy,
Who will not be held a burden but a joy
As the vultures come again to take sweet drink.

So used to death, these people, some unsure,
In lands where the scorching sun cloys always hanging,
And flowers shall wilt so wise but sadly dangling,
Among old vultures tapping at the door.

She does not want to be the food of villains
Or despised as a work of artifice wily
Whereat the sensible will treat her dryly,
Excusing scavengers who rape and pillage,

So why the slander? Send this skim to school!
And let them dream of round and luscious melon
Who are much too young to let the lords of Hell in:
Rapacious beasts that lust and steal and drool.

Share the watermelon, for she shall share her work
And live to honor attentive ancestry
Expecting honey from the buzzing bee,
Not lies or needless chores or days berserk.

Napping Lion

The napping lion
Likes to eat, sleep, dream, and read first,
As he’ll carve the meat of the land first
And satiate his red, red thirst;

But he is a napping lion
And lazy at his best, the fleshy paw,
Poised at his nostrils heavily,
Not knowing kinder word than meat; what law?

Sneaker Tree

Ah! All these sneakers dangling from a tree,
They are not mine; what could they mean to me?
The troublemakers think their feat is gold,
Have feet that turn to stardom expertly;

But if those spirits at the jungle gym,
Where warm and needy at their time of whim,
It might have been to catch a ray of milk
The joey’s late cavorted with their ilk.

At crack of dawn, I relish seeing trees,
Think if wild honey sweet procured by bees,
For which the girls have not to fall upon their knees,
Since grasses play alone their subtle keys!

Ah, sneaker tree, yonder, when will thy looks be free,
Thy better form, thy branch’s ecstasy,
More free from sod away from shoes once sold
To material minds grown restless, hung, and bold?

Tan Joven

El hombre celoso y cobarde
Nunca es primero barde;
Que mis pensiamentos quieren amarte!

Ay, joven flaco, tambien silencoso,
El mundo es tan peligroso,
En la noche de hoy, yo te veo hermoso,

Mas come un nino, muy Moreno,
Y el mundo es tal vez pequeno;
La luna se lleva, mi Corazon es lleno.

El rostro d’amor se passa cantando,
A dios y todos un po’ vagabundo
Con la muerte cierto trafficando,

Pero en la soledad, la vida,
En el pecho, una nina candida,
Miel e todo, carinoso, carina.

Old Playboy

The old playboy chews with his eyeballs a butternut sandwich
Late at night with the snakeline cars still passing,
Seeing also books and olive woven purse – what thirst!
His family members say he must be smoking,
But ’tis such a dismal old man, ’tis death he should be marrying,
And climbing the steps long ways to Paradise,
Not tumbling down the porch slipping on my calm ice.
Bushes and trees do shimmer near the lamps,
Real luminescence from the Lamb of God
Pervading perhaps house and stick and sod,
If neither party has died yet after a year of opposing glee;
Defunct roosters! They do not belong to any bush
Or pail of milk or even near a key.
I will his eyes to be containers of peace
Which have not apparently outlived the magazine,
But they will be restless as rotting tomatoes fizzing to me
[Such apes should go back to tail and be].

His Temper

His anger increases each time his consort shines,
Hey-a-dilly, she makes a brand new bill,
But only to the rupture of her wines,
The greater pride doth kill.

She opens books for him to be a boar,
That if he may, he wants his say,
Hundreds of facts to study and go over,
Whole-hearted, in dismay!

This the presumption of my pen ink blues:
Perpendicular is hating parallel,
The gist implying, ego fills its shoes
Or will not feel so well.

So nightingale, so tuneful nightingale,
Dost thou keep a clever crafted song,
Although the stormy skies begin to hail,
In earnest, all night long!

This is Heavy Cake

August shows some mercy on this morning
That is rather fine because the weather’s nice,
But in the brain there is some kind of storming;
Life’s got its traits though passing in a trice.
Someone is hanging submission stickers sultry
On traffic light posts and by the buzzing road,
And though they seem so rampant, sick, and empty,
Testosterone makes men think they’ll explode,
One peculiar red light pic, an Asian girl,
Crouched in a lion pose with open mouth;
But the girl I see at picnic has a curl
That gently lifts and shows not so uncouth:
This cake is heavy, she starkly contemplates,
O’er a blueberry crumble – her hand demonstrates!

This is Watermelon

Watermelon is a pink fleshed fruit, the baby lies
Within the carriage eager for a ride,
Not two years old – what sort of alibis
Can justify a low man’s blazing slide?
The whole thing whisked away; what wilderness
Hath taken a girl like bounty from the tree,
If not a savage soul of emptiness,
Complaining often for its special tea?
The stripes transfer improperly, so green,
As envious as eyes which covet golden worth,
Could they be bars or wounds or slogans mean,
Containing flesh – but one side hath the mirth!
The seedy system waxes virulent,
As tired victims tally overspent.

Attentive to Sitting

Sit perfect, sing perfect, look decent and astounding,
Wear pretty trinkets – what is that propounding?
The meditation pose a woman scores
Brings her beyond the league of crass dressed whores,
Denoting inner bliss and sanctity,
Not the least amount of late dishonesty,
Least common denominator – good religious bent,
Then in nine months – look what Father sent!
A girl is attentive to sitting like a ten,
But swirls and floral patterns – comes he when?
At least the sentiment will increase now,
More quickly that the renegade doth go,
Belief in God residing, Mother sitting,
More prayer sessions at large – love never quitting.
Impressive, spectacular, marvelous, and good,
Not leavened bread, he says – this understood,
If birds after the summer take them flying,
God is eternal – young buck slowly dying.

The Baby Climbs

Baby, can you climb? A devil says
Above a little child’s pink ruffle dress
That has not yet been into yellow sugared daffodils,
Tea roses, chamomile, or wind swept hyacinths,
But somehow finds the escarpment faster than
An aficionado opens coke without the can.
A wheezing monster takes her, climbs her, breaks her,
Not asking her again if she can climb
But forcing a mile high naked pole
Into the grungy legs of what others claim
Is insubstantial frivolity.
Murder a puppy in a ruffle dress, unseemly.
Girls, though, are guilty,
And apples have no right to be that happy,
Not as much as bees or monkeys, seemingly.

A Baby Peers

A young girl in an outfit which is miniscule
Pulls at her bottom, blurting,“You can see my pussy!”
Referring not to the small domestic ginger cat,
But vaguely to what lies south;

Accompanied by a boy, and neither one ashamed,
Both hearing the inflections, quite inured,
Of a word that is not French or Siamese:
A purr so simply ’tis.

The baby tries to keep her peers at bay
By down-dressing and talking sweet as pie,
Putting straight forward what might matter most,
Not culinary, but spice.

It is not peerage, though, defined by wind
Exhaled by mouth, a pauper’s sacrilege,
Into an afternoon of golden light,
Two word, a talking clam.

Nicee

Pausing to skim over a sparse clothing rack,
Care notices a man surreptitiously glancing at my back,

Whence comes a word explosively from his lips
Which perhaps every once so often have chicken in nips,

“Nicee!” in urban jarble, his fleeting pleasure to speak,
As rambunctiously as drunks might take a leak.

What is so nice? I say, sky is gray, man is gay,
I’m wearing rags and yet I have to pay.

So skeletal and old is the arrogant chauvinist
That I pause to mark a promise on my wrist,

Write there in bracelet language, thickly on,
I am a praying woman not a don,

A praying woman who must pray for goals,
But oh! In cities, un-nice are some goals,

And coals are the eyes of mongrels, set afire
By wanton malice, fury, and desire,

Might disrespect a lady’s lace and grin,
Yet Heaven help me, no one cleaves them in!

Oh, Great! Is Sarcasm

Hardly anyone knows about the infant, O!
Or the toddler Z who has a wink,
But they have fallen through the quilt,
The net, and won’t be back again.

Forget the cone head Jesus Christ?
Not wood, his divine legacy,
But happy were the people then
Who took salvation gradually.

She was not wanting ring of eyes,
The crying baby on the floor,
Made bloody meat and trodden o’er,
Yet foes did cut the growing gourd,

In such a manner, makes sarcastic
Even the worldless mouths which pray,
An, “Oh, great!” saying to Fatherhood,
Preferring rather to be blind.

There is so much rat hair in the Middle East,
Sooty claws and talons miscreant,
The kids lose their talents and soft hair,
Plucked out from lands of rampant weed.

The Bighorn Ram’s no good at sharing, Cherie,
Thinking of cornucopias,
And rutting season at razor’s edge,
So cold at large and insolent!

Cold is the Moon

You see his face?
It is a four,
Belongs to an animal wild,
At large, sans grace.

Why hath he such a face?
For words that suck the scent
Of a rascal fox
As she sniffs his soft lapels.

The world, his rodent nest,
His dog house or his kin,
Since he hath erred,
The least of men.

We follow to the gorge,
The barely fuzzy neck
And leg of fox so vulpine;
The soil, sating with seeping swine.

Then, we go back again,
To house and hen,
Taking our sweet meats at seven with tea,
The hearth stone cold, but hot the steeping leaf.

The Lady Lion

The lady lion laughs to dance so much,
And people do not know she’s on the prowl,
But think the attitude is slim perfection,
Coming from salad, chicken, and panoply;
The sun sets quietly on winding streets,
And people still find happiness in clementine dressing,
Not to mention eyes of clementine that wink,
In boards and broads; yet the lion strolls right by.

She will never rush outside in winter wet
Straight from the shower carrying fruity gum drops,
For she loves her industry too bloody much,
And loathes the drugs that snuff out living light,
Carrying at the back of her right eyeball the tender name of God,
An entity she prefers to thank in querulous diction.
She does not, however, change her dress at sunset,
No matter what the deity wears o’er the ordinary dogs.

Lady lion regrets sleeping since she should like to reign,
And has not opened books enough, admiring pearls,
Nor can she see the bone white moon enough,
Fancying herself the proprietor of poetic dreams,
Fairy dust, landscapes, the crags of Earth, and pale moonbeams,
That fain Lady would catch in outstretched paws,
Rolled up into a marble, soft as mousse,
To think upon, then more, denying pain.

One day, a thorn might kill a lying lion,
Effectively preventing her ladyship from dancing more,
Crosshatching a paw as if it were a dough dead criminal,
Depleting the energy she replied upon,
Whereat she will say, “Water,” again, put out her tongue,
And dream the last dream of her waking mortal life,
Or someone will give her drink, or she get better,
To roam again among roses in reverie.

Sounds, sights, smells, snake pattern prints, and ridge back boars,
The sky as it was in summer simply storming,
The sable of flies and city streets at night,
Old memories of them linger, making some luster, light,
After years of activity and humdrum endlessless.
Sometimes lonely and sometimes loving, morose,
The lion lingers, presuming further fields
Where fruit trees meet the breezes richly blooming.

It is not so much the books she has not read
But better – the lives she has not touched by word,
Or pretty rolling of a well-formed curl,
Or placing petit fours for company
As incense binds the lap of luxury,
Holding treasure troves of comfy hoarded freedom,
Tricks her to speak aloud of many things.

Where has she gone? The people then shall talk,
Toasting and singing but also sad head shaking,
Perceiving a fleck of tan but distantly.
There are plenty who run around like laughing lions,
Claiming they are drunk on love or comatose
Or privy to the secrets of ancient epochs,
Yet the essence is not the same, sooth, does not stay.
Stars deck her constellation warily.

Heavy Metal Chain

The one man wants his faith to be of metal
And closer to his heart than heartbeats are,
As intricate as old religion is,
As simple as the glow of moonlight too.
The pricelessness of a heavy metal chain
Puts pizzaz into his coffee cup and reckoning,
So he will not sing so much of mundane affairs,
And call a clink the grandest of all things.

Piss Poor Scoundrels

There is public pissing
Into bottles on side streets,
Pissing also in the countryside
Onto a wild herb or daffodil,
Phosphorescent streaks beside trees,
Not quite slicing through these,
Near bulking rocks of heft;
Quick, quick, messieurs, a quiet theft!
The summers get damp as a devil cat,
So pervading yogurt curdles, deceiving,
And there is this murky supposition
A monster who outside pisses
Will try to bathe whores in insults or confectionary,
Or enact his own killing spree
Fed on shady fruits
On the count of three.
Spatterings of piss and blood
Do not count as Pollack art,
Or that porn, an Andy Warhol set of prints,
Or that dough, the freshest of garden mints,
But a monkey is not an artist,
Does not go outside for the distribution
Of art or needlework or wreath berries of holly.
Wherefore this wretched, lanky insult
Lying on the dirt bare ground?
Satan has a pissing expo, bottle.

Spurious Diamond

If the cad darts his furious hand around another girls neck
Again and then again, exhibiting never love but muscle,
And insulting every body part of his former bonny likewise,
With pristine quickness and zeal, then he cheats berserk,
Revolving in the shuffling doors of the shopping mall, O tender moon!

I am not sure I would fall for a hard-hearted cad
Who runs up to a lass bringing spurious diamonds with cum cream,
Instead of packaged frozen yogurt for splits from the parlor,
Bad boy – his ears are never quite guilty looking enough to clip,
And the chocolate fudge is not bona-fide; it tends to dance in pairs.

Who calls up a spurious diamond? He may say, defending himself,
Indeed feeling no collar around his audacity, no criticism to kill;
Though one could tell him, oh, apes climb trees for leaves and bananas,
An’ the churl be such a hairy creature to boot – being not wrong enough to blame –
Though he may not come out o’ it looking the same, so doth it rain.

3 Sparrows and a Brown Leaf on the Road

I wondered if a bird could be a rogue,
Happenin’ upon a sparrow triad one fair morn,
All pestering some brown leaf downward torn
By summer winds, as lifeless as a lode.

The leaf was small and crackled fairly
As it tumbled down a byway, featherweight,
For which the threesome never was sedate
But poked about the dry leaf eerily.

Portentous ’twas, I argued, making haste,
To cross the street and be not split asunder
By a passing truck in fear while going under,
Thus finding all my good works gone to waste.

So simple was the sight and yet so rare
O’ a gang of sparrows three around a leaf,
Though never was there blood or any grief:
A veinous leaf remains and is not mehr.

When the Hamsters Ate the Mice

Seven leagues down, the hamsters said, quite certain,
The trash goes back to sod, implying mice,
So then there was a furious display of ice,
Much head lopping and digging in, no curtain,
Since hamsters well are ravenous, not nice,
And have but words of war inside their seething brain.

When the hamsters ate the mice, the Good Earth shook,
Enraged that needles blood drenched several acres square,
And got the neighbor’s gold clipping his hair,
Since what in war is coveted is took,
Whilst heartless hamsters champion despair,
By bastardizing with chopped heads each nook.

Heated, the mounds of litter, great the ash,
What hamsters wanted, thinking but with claw,
Lamentable the gentle folk who saw,
For their neck chords quick were rendered mash,
Giving the bird of terror anxious claw,
In league with prospects of tremendous cash.

We all should know that hamsters play rough sport,
Yet always brooding was their grim device,
Far, also close, soft, also loud, the sandy slice,
Where hamsters gain through death a few cohort.
Permitting tasty conquest in a trice,
While some lean back, poor mice do meet tough sort.

Play Wiffle Ball with Goldie Locks

Men feel pity for a five year old
Christian as a communion cracker in company,
So privy to devastation as to be deviled eggs
Left on the ground in white silk stockings, sordid.
She was a headless duck-eyed girl
Still needing to be held but not hell-ed by moonlight.
In the West, we have amazing nests,
Yet also are these girls as duck-eyed as poultry
Behind the thin plastic film of market stockings so:
If clementines grow, they do spring in both places.

What is this, wiffle ball of shame? The holes!
A ruthless man bats the ball as hard as he can
And then feels righteous, tall, eager, and proud,
As if he were holding both sun and shimmering sword,
Businessmen in business suits revolving around, doctors, and artists,
The Welsh mother who churns both cream and lemon curd, the Sikh,
Thousands of meditating yoga practitioners on a padded plot,
And many more people who dance both long and earnestly,
But there is wiffle ball and zinging warfare and crime
And criminals who do not jive save to rape Goldie Locks of supper.

Who took that bloody tomato of a rotting head? The pickle did,
Bringing the concept of wiffle ball right in the nick of time,
Effectively putting opposition on a plate for luncheon,
Goldie Locks is in peril at the table or anywhere,
Even, for horizons hold rows on rows of bears,
Nor’s the table smooth, nor are the temperatures optimal,
But a baby might be boiled in hot tea or drowned in ice cream,
Or showered with a drench of nicks in bed, a slivered bread.
’Tis because the neighbors brought wiffle ball and were monstrous hungry,
Tearing up households like giant grizzlies – will treat locks poorly.

Alphabet Soup in Iraq

The tough men have had it with western romance,
And would not mind breaking wine bottles from America to France.

They do not pray, oh Lord! But say it Hell hot with flair,
Grabbing loads of soggy skin to lift in disheveled hair,

Showing to sun and moon what legacy they have writ,
The empty O’s and the accents, the smallest letter bit.

They do not think it is ugly, but how it’s ugly and cruel,
The letters left unwritten and children ripped from school,

The darkest act achieving foulest curse anon:
No more alphabet soup in Iraq for men of wicked brawn!

He Says His Name is Brahmin

He says his name is Brahmin – angry so,
In a dream I could have dreamed a million times,
Knowing the face and eyeballs large as limes,
And hungry aspect of a hunting eskimo,
Shadowed by humors passing strangely to and fro.

I do not want to see him, for so black
Are the arms he carries at his sides on fire
With lust or longing, plagues, strife, and desire,
And tongue that darts forth sharp in grim attack,
Seeing as he is on edge and devilishly has this knack;

Yet must I bow down quite insane for this
Bleak epitome, improper, violent gust
Of wind in the face or quantity of dust,
For Brahmin doth in entity persist,
No body real, but more like jealous fist.

What more wants Brahmin? I am just alarm,
A bundle of nerves, a pile of hay, no force,
Awaiting some vile spell to run its course,
Because Hell is in the mind and hath no charm,
Giving the blackest nights and tigers for the farm.

He answers me a-rumble, snickering,
That he has killed no less than ten score men,
All in one day, and then snuffed out a hen,
By setting fire to the tresses bickering,
As she sat at household chore, her parlor wickering.

On fire, he says to me, a lingering knave,
But I cannot remember Brahmin now,
Since sorry dream did not outlast this row,
And sooner will I have achieved the grave
Than Brahmin see – a cad fed full on cow.

Each Time

Sometimes, I wish a man might say hello
To communicate good will and be not proud,
Which is simpler than serenading or playing the banjo,
And if I like it, I shall wink at him while smiling,
Attributing his form to Providence.
Sidling up and smirking, though, calls a girl a guppy,
And is never a promise but an easy score,
Hurting each time I want to twirl around
The park on discount yogurt Friday vengeful
And deliriously happy the sun does not so burn.
On an upbeat, I say, “Hello skin,” to the silver mirror,
Reminiscing briefly since I see a speck of gold
In the dust of a molar marking – what, canary?

A lady paints her face at liberty,
Assuming blush will not be real or lipstick caught,
No more pallor comes upon the warm divine
Than what she started with before the stroke of noon,
It could be for herself but maybe not,
If the moon white face has a hot, presiding sun,
To give her skin a better glow with joy,
That a living girl is neither wench nor bus nor toy,
Or sleepless wretch who has a midnight’s light
Because of conquering something similar to ice
Derived from never having been that second best
Nor beast nor stalwart lamppost made to beam,
If it doesn’t want to grace some pale sea bream.

Coffee Bean

People have been addicted to coffee for ages,
As Johann Sebastian Bach’s daughter could tell you,
Being of an earthly disposition, having mountainous taste-buds,
The deeper the better, O knife up strawberry jam!
A field of coffee looks rich and very fertile
Though not often seen behind a gray city paper;
What depth of flavor from thence, polished perfect!
Beans that used to be Brazilian, sold inn bags,
Then in crafted cups swishing with sailor pluck,
As glimmering as coins on clammy customers.
Coffee beans can make stark beverages or milder milky drinks,
For men to take it easy wielding banana pizzaz,
Walking through doors to different climates – buck, what luck!
The groovy bean doesn’t ask to be tipped, but do men tip beans,
Expecting better honey than in the household jar?
Friend Fido slept on Sunday – look there, a chicken car!

My Teacher Prefers Boys

Give a star to Jonathan,
Little Joseph has a penny,
And Gregory is growing grapes on his jawline;
This is the team, the gang, the crew,
So why not sit in the bobsled and dream?
My teacher prefers boys –
What’s to do in Who’s Who Ville?
She prefers them all around her scheming,
Though they might not be perfectly pink or capable,
Given to brag, and talk somewhat outside of context.
Whenever Dame Right sees a girl,
The chit becomes fish or chicken
In an over blank white rice platter,
Or a murky pool in a fond French countryside painting,
No matter how soft the fronds – nothing in them,
Because there are no biceps in their natural curl.
Is this A an effect of nature, then,
When it pops up like corn puffs in a copper kettle,
Or is it a certain insidious something, a snake,
A pattern against clean politics, a smudge of old wisdom
That shouts: You nincompoop!
A is for apple which is the muscle that lifts me,
And the grade and the card I’ll be getting
By the light o’ the butter pale moon on Winter Solstice
As whiter wolves in specs dance in a ring for fetish!
It is time, time to be the eccentric gypsy in college,
The thinker turning under the stars, the philosophic gun,
But what is up with guru? She grows pale,
Bemused by fields of bending cornstalks
In imaginary epochs of hypothetical chivalry,
Whilst the doctor male gives table check-ups – ho!
Sweet Lord, hath the fish no salt?

Peanut Butter and Jelly

He was, many years ago, the boy at the breakfast table,
Dark like a cat and as talkative as Shakespeare must have been,
Sitting down to eat his favorite peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
Only halfway dressed by six but down by seven,
Handsome and debonair, destined for gallantry by milk.
One day, he would be seeing himself drenched in ego
Without being able to let go of the situation,
What, having a good day, and then wearing napkins
In the company of jelly girl and peanut butter mistress.
How ravenous man must have felt, how much in scraps though!
Nothing going well, nothing to be excused politely,
The household in shambles, crumbs in his nascent mustache,
However much he used to enjoy neat peanut butter and jelly,
When a better mind would wander, never stationary,
As free as a cloud and guilt-free as orange twilight.
Ah, one woman melts as the other sticks,
And she that loyally sticks hates the dawn of jelly fashion,
Both feeling underprivileged in knowledge of the PJ magnate
Who cannot succeed in cutting shapes evenly:
Hubby, hubby, hath not Hell a favorite elixir for hangovers?

Rainbow Gyro

I should like to tell the Lord, there is lamb,
There is lamb on a kabob with minted yam,

Which is someone’s favorite, straight from a garden o’ virtue,
Though it could have come from anyone, or me or you.

The lettuce gyro is ethereal over the Internet,
All dressed up in sauce already – Deus Det –

A package of perfection, spicy, hot, and cruel,
One might measure with a thumb or the sharpest plumbline rule,

Shiny, succulent, tender, outrageous as mash,
And more filling even than mother’s corned beef hash,

Destined to drench a pita bread at eight or midnight,
Set up with lamb as sweet as undies, bright,

On a light blue napkin – there is no more celestial matter
On Earth, except maybe a dance to vodka after,

Ordering rainbow gyro, the topmost of salesman privileges,
Since women standing up are only upright lozenges.

No! Pierrot Ate the Moon

Father, Father, this python fist is too heavy,
And there is no real enemy but sin – God defends us from these.
Mother says Pierrot ate the moon with a lady. Is that right?
She’s sick and under the impression it is always raining,
Wrecking her mood and garden and trinkets,
Confronting all her castles with a sand engulfing tide.
No! Glow not so enviously, Father, when I mention her,
Because I am not that sharp, roll like Butterball turkey,
And have nothing to do with the way you want your garments ironed,
But God is Sire, and you are Daddy, while I am just a boy,
Dreaming of being a squire or in a gospel choir.
You are not stopping, stop holding that God awful hatchet,
Won’t you? Since we are buddies, good chums forever, clones.
But no! Pierrot ate the moon, didn’t he? He cheated, like, twice?
I swear, I never asked for a python, only wanted to play,
And continue playing, see? Not telling, telling, telling,
Though you seem to be cutting my tail off, which is sicker than candied squash.

Side Dish Jazz

At every sermon, he’s the main meal,
The buff firefighter on the side of moral principle,
The music master, and lecturer with zeal,
Whilst she wears wool.

How can a man be balderdash, just boulders?
He has an amazing build, she loves his shoulder,
Feeling herself, meanwhile, old, getting older,
The lank yam of her lover.

She does not despise him hearing blues,
Because he’s on a roll, and she is not there;
Instead, composing sets of clues
To win him towards the stair.

What is a side dish? Not a lady love!
At the end o’ the day, though, molten chocolate, she,
Her gold leaf diadem, her treasure trove,
Trotting close, the honey bee,

Sometimes too quiet for the waiting world,
Still ripe and justly privileged
To speak about dim perils never told,
Growing a red rose hedge.

Good Morning, Glory

The plumber enjoyed looking at his love o’ the morning
As she tended to the flowers wearing white watered silk,
Sometimes in tresses and sometimes corn rowing,
Sometimes carrying buckets o’ milk.

He’d eat at noon, he’d eat at ten,
He’ll eat from twenty-two to sixty-five,
Not demolished, no, not even then,
Having bread and honey hive.

The dame o’ the evening in her crimson gown
Wound up catching the eye of a fishing man,
Who paraded to church and about the whole town,
Hale navigating Sam.

Who knew a dress could shine so curiously,
A neck so freshly of the dampened curl?
He sped up in dreaming ecstasy,
Taking glory with the girl.

Fish Don’t Talk or Walk

But ho! Who goes there by the twilight singin’,
Dressed in rose colors and bleeding breath of the lilac?
It is she, the great Elmira Penny Thwack
On the road, her gold locks lewdly ringin’.

She carries fish advertisement, girls are viral this way,
Dressing to be queens already or concubines,
Not even capable of reading signs
In all that headgear, airy pomp and sway.

Fish don’t talk or walk, Elmira! Samuel says,
And he was born to get his A++
In Sigmund’s psychology without the fuss
Of colors drifting in a dapper haze.

Dis

Doubts galore, we come complaining o’ doubt
Each time we step through the golden door,
That the friend hath eaten chocolate cake and slept a lot,
That Susan is a whore.

Creation and the world, the moon,
The sun that sets o’er twilit streets,
Under it all, we pray and play the loon,
To some dog’s teats.

There is God’s glory, there is Suzy’s crack,
In front, the yoga teacher’s back,
Of course, we’ve seen before, the song lip smack –
But Christ, what tact?

It Affords Our Stomachs Sharks, the Sea

Nowadays, people doubt if living’s satisfactory,
In an ocean of air and pollution and problems,
In the east coughing up phlegm and the west, contagious viruses,
Where Iraqi’s are throwing rocks by serious strife in Syria,
So much glowing proof, it is not the best of worlds,
Especially for hungry poppets who cannot skip at once to safety
And lose their heads in a trice without at all being crazy,
Who would rather sate on fish sitting down to hash supper
Far enough away from being kidnapped by Humper or Thumper,
As bright as blossoms, not for snacks or assault;
But it affords our stomachs sharks, the sea,
That rend and tear in carnivorous conflagration,
Not even caring for blossoms or ever walking on the brighter side,
Wrapped round thrice by shadow and their cold proclivity!
What does as poor devil do caught in the maw of a filthy shark?
Wait for the lark? Sing anthems? Look back on his dawns of paper news?
The ghosts of fallen innocents, array again to watch the pews.

Hell Hath the Hairiest Skinhead

The man with flowing locks is a bona-fide hater,
Since Hell hath the hairiest skinhead, he’d even date her.

He erects his minarets of stone cold stardust playfully,
And hopes the hapless herds succumb complacently,

Opinionated nucleus of understanding, a bone dry book
Of cherry chocolate futures for the lives he took,

Surrounded by wicked candles all the time, loud words,
Reverberating through the corridors where no good breath stirs,

As narrow as a seahorse, his understanding, to and fro,
His nature seeks to kill, a seal-fed Eskimo,

Sipping as from a straw, the pole of party vice,
The sweetest cream o’ conquest, hath drowned and run o’er nice.

Only Babies Suck, Taxi!

She cries in the pouring rain, the wracked moon bride,
As if the dismal sky sends blades today,
But on no other day did she have to cry, Lady Gray;
She has too much to pay.

Five years of confidential love letters litigating
The agony inflicted by eventual scissors, what squash!
The gentleman had a mistress telling no one, somewhat,
Till foreign body splash!

Why should a car owner need a taxi? The taxi comes,
In time o’er a fretful strata of taxes and grub,
Memories of movie tickets and ice box splendor
And chocolates for the tub.

Only babies suck, she iterates, aghast,
Toes toward the taxi, wrapped in autumn’s peel,
A lightweight raincoat for this weather whore,
Its fickle, selfish zeal.

If she has reasoned only babies suck,
She does not know the tender maw of man,
Or the ego romps of women wearing red,
The can which claims, “I can”.

Soft on Maw

After a slew of beers and breakfast of grease fried eggs,
There was no prayer sequence, but the chums were soft
On Maw who did with hands some meal prepare,
Clean and tidy making all, one carnivorous concoction;
For fleeting minutes sit the hungry sons
Who off to work and do not say a word.

He grows a soft mustache and does not talk
Of problems, pairs, or politics, the crowns
Of unarmed champions he might prefer a while,
The faucet leak, the way he eats his lunch,
Keeps in the closet cheap worn rupee clothes
And sneaker strings, stores magazines, no word.

The lightest music that the slim son has falls smooth
Upon his ears, a crooning lullaby,
Pronouncing pain, circumnavigating porn,
Residing in the mind for several months,
Mingling in a mixture he thinks is magnificent,
But is not central to the prosperity of other men.

Ooh la la, Baby Krishna!

He ventures a bold look of daring in the direction of a doll
Or stranger, or visiting yogi, or yoga dog,
Lips curling upward with amazing zeal.
The stranger is a blond, her back a bridge,
And tender eyes of blue a gateway toward
Whatever the upright man might there be thinking.

Dare gage the thoughts of a staunch and praying man?
His eyes glaze over with caution being caught
In a dismal corner of scrutiny by a Krishna girl,
Her tired pilgrim feet shuffling backward quick
Before he growls at her, his eyes so thick,
They could have been old supermarket pie.

Ooh la la, state the pilgrim’s thoughts in bitter French,
Watching the chocolate fine and Swiss of converse go,
Around the corner, up the stairs, abscond
With the time she spends in meditative bliss
O’er the glorious names of gods of livid blue,
While Jesus was a fisherman on bone bleached sand.

Le berger wandered o’er hills and vales to contemplate;
He star-gazed making nor a blasphemy;
He spoke unto the moon and steadfast sun
With love, love, love of many stalwart men,
A shepherd, Christ, Krishna a cowherd boy,
Sipping the quiet flow of sanctity.

What crown of honey-hive shall he wear today,
The bear of so terrible a Hell-bound fury
When he is hot and hungry, pilgrims flying by?
The deepest man is one of mystery,
Surrounded by his many books of lore,
Head deep, neck high, in bright scholastic pie.

A slender pilgrim makes a cryptic stir
Up the stairwell, holding an olive bag of hemp,
Bows at the hem of the saintly statue, stands,
Would even do a handstand, write poetry,
But she has climbed to outer space, she has,
In seeking mercy, culling leaf dry smiles.

Love Under Arms

Life used to be a private party
In glorious gardens of flowering gourds,
And birds would fly them happily,
Singing their word;

The arms o’ the lover raised up high
To dance a merry jubilee,
In circles and in rings well nigh
To his lady o’ the sea,

With naps and canapés and clothes
And drinks of juice and foods as spiced
As a river bleeding twilight, loth!
Day’s end so nice!

He met his lover and embraced,
A dashing, daring gentleman,
Both bright as suns and fair of face,
Sporting a tan.

Then they did break his arms, the blokes,
Binding him fast to crucify,
Joking around and spitting forth
Curses to fry.

What They Wanted to Wear

It was a tale of terror, happened but this summer,
In the year of Our Lord 2014, at war,
When genocide did lance a bolt of plunder,
When fled the working man from out his store;
Yazidis were the victims of an act
Long will exist
Among the darkest memories in tact
Though ravaged, burned, and broken was a nest
On shaky ground already, not the best.

On waking in the morning, making plans,
Grooming and analyzing plots of skin,
A fellow seldom thinks of racing vans
But wants to get his daily movements in,
Ah! Eating, sleeping, resting, working,
Drinking hot tea,
Attentive lest the children grow berserking;
He wants to sing his anthems three by three
Yet destiny has forced him to one knee!

How many times the name of God was spoke
By parties myriad as hatred spilled
The blood and bounty of a crying bloke
Until the rampant rams were sweetly filled!
It was not Satan, but the Devil, sooth, in ram,
Who shook a hoof
At one and sundry on a terror cam
As the kings of chaos said their prayers aloof
And spirits fell at large like dying leaves;

Shall she smell a rose today or he a star?
The Earth has got them trapped, the company wailing,
Because a raid has buried the children too,
The ranks of every age and size arm-flailing.
Some Sunni soldiers dug a grinning ditch
In dead of night,
Wherein a load of bodies they did pitch
Until the loam had covered them from sight,
But breathing dirt – dear Heaven, w
as it right?

To die before the moon in matter crucified,
Is not the best of ends and gives a song
E’en Mars, the god o’ war, should hate to ride,
If all the lines proved crooked, false, and wrong,
Victors, the gnashing, cold barbarian
Never astounded
By fields of meat from rooster, egg, or hen,
So much that some fat glutton must be rounded,
Yet the numbers of his pin are pressed and pounded.

Where was the Kurd? Where was the agile hare?
The lion and the fox, the helpful hand?
To stay and while away, they did not dare,
Thus let a herd of monsters wine the sand,
Thinking of whatever’s best for them, the kettle brood,
Slinking, ay, to eat,
Or else turn into fruit galore on wood:
A lady likes to dress well, not as meat,
But ghostly dyes do stain that vacant seat.

What they wanted to wear: flowers, riches, mirth,
A gaggle of buffooning kids, the moon,
A lifestyle of abundance and no dirth,
The fisher’s net, the huntsman’s honed harpoon,
Trinkets and makeups in sobriety,
The household key,
Doing what lovers do in ecstasy;
Sometimes the past, though, whimpers, “Woe is me!”
And does not give a hue or edge to see.

Pig Farm

The pig rolls around in mud to snort the fragrance
On the farm he knows and likes, his nose a flower,
So satisfied he likely has a follower,
To agree and show no hairy dissidence:
’Tis lack of grub, the greatest impudence.

He dreams of rainbow diamonds cyclically,
As chained up as the moon, greater, pock marked,
And like a dog, he has in life much barked,
For flavor, out of needy ecstasy,
The love of mud, his only constancy.

Convert a pig or cover one? With zest,
A pig is still a pig in nature, form,
The hairy things he doth with fervor learn,
Since in his blood is cob or apple nest,
And likewise, Hitler has not Heaven’s test.

The pig farm sees the pig benignly napping
But in his heart, a bean is gently leaping,
Is hoping, praying to enjoy good up-keeping,
The seeds of envy, shivering and yapping,
And all around, the ice comes softly tapping.

Dog Drool

The cup o’ joe is overflowing often
Telling hyper men to wax them bold,
Until the coffin,
A list of people bought and sold.

What good to be a lusty ham, what good?
It gets sugar, water, bitterness,
A board of wood,
And needs to fill its emptiness.

What sponsors cat calls? Dog drool with the works,
Some flavor with world poverty,
Sandwich o’ orks,
The dogs eat kids, drink weak brewed tea.

Dog drool doth do much harm, away fat Sam!
Who does not know beyond the nose,
Or slice o’ ham,
The streets – it salts and peppers those.

Was ist den so los?

The cat man chooses to lap up milk,
The dog man barks at windmills – ho!
It is not my happy ilk,
They come and go;

The red brain makes a hot sauce egg,
Whilst baking in dull flimsy foil,
A tender poet’s leg
With boil and boil.

If aught is wrong, I’ve got it wrong,
There’s nothing wrong from here to Hell,
Except in song –
Don’t write them well.

Bien comme la neige

J’espere qu’il y aura beaucoup du monde,
Comme toi, ma belle petite almond!
Chantant au ciel de bonheur et de peine,
Je sentirai au moins ta douce vervein,
Maintenant mieux, les poumons pleins;

Dans mon Coeur, gardant l’image de Dieu,
Qui est tou-puissant, aussi de tes beaux yeux,
O blue, O cieux, O anges, la vie trop vite,
L’amour de toi qui ne me quite,
Fremissment des eaux, que le Coeur ne reagite!

April 30, 2014

I do not doubt the Lord will come anew,
Springing the way of highest snow,
Through fields of lavender a-dew,
The berry bough.

The sun is strong a-glow for him,
A symbol too of steadfast might,
Darting a ray of splendor slim,
E’en through the night.

There’s no one dark or white as He
Who treads the rainbow spryly stepping,
As busy as the bumble bee,
And wicked clepping.

The bonny Lord, the dapper Lord,
Both low and high sings thousand tunes,
Never despairing, never bored,
More fine than dunes.

To pray for luck in polished verse
Is the best o’ my quick n’ curving knee,
For which I cared not to rehearse:
Life, love, and me!

The Tongue Once Divine and Glib

When I think on the tongue, had once divine and glib
Given to my hungry ears some healthy antidote,
As chaste advisor, turned into a fib,
The rudeness tells my candor to emote,
Transforming into shadow what was light,
Negating all the positive of time,
Promoting blindness whilst obscuring sight,
And wreaking havoc in fair rows of rhyme.
It does not practice what it preaches, faith,
Thus pain o’ertakes a soft, receptive pate,
Lest it be mummified in false and rotting wreath,
And take its good seed elsewhere – no black bate;
Else fish am I encumbered by crude cream,
Hot on its own but flagging for this team.

Cut Up Pancake

Wherefore cover the piping pancake, ho,
With syrup, butter, berries, cream,
When it hath said its “no”?
’Tis made of dream.

Why flip the pancake, when it wants the dish,
Sauce o’er the spatula, absurd?
It mimics wanton wish
To a T of bird.

Why waste the pancake cut ago?
What brings these knives and forks so dread?
’Twas white as winter snow
Or daisy dead.

The sabotage of pancakes sinks
A heart erstwhile hath long aspired
To write for babe-in-pinks
O world so wired!

Since not a pancake is the dame
Pummeled and cloven on the board,
If she must look the same
As a cherry Ford.

Thus take we crackers at the Mass
Without a pancake-looking friend
Prescribing painkillers, sass,
Pray ends to ends.

Speed Cam

Unpleasant, what hamsters can do with their cameras,
Since they have one track minds and cannot think so well:
To sniff up speed the bent, to feel the swell
O’ sensations in their loins and backs and bras
Until the Arctic ice cap heats and thaws;

The camera shines on blood and booty, hardcore dross,
But do not sparrows sing again? Sunrise,
And gourmet chefs of gluttons make their pies,
As the world scene crumbles, storms will spray and toss,
Long gone the wending dreams by the greeny floss!

There is a German function wields an axe,
There are incest days when babes with old men mate,
Affair of one or five or six or eight,
A muscle man controlling sun bronzed packs,
Thinking but with backsides, crunching backs;

Therefore, there’s little swan in a lake of mundane musing,
Much more of swan neck and hook toe fin,
A play of daggers dangerous once they push one in,
An accident, and who are we accusing?
The realm of Providence for never fusing.

Speed cam, there is such thing as a pervert’s record,
To kick the days or spank them, send them running,
And sins are sent for, needs one-tonning,
Binds Proserpina aught to starve and vex her,
Cuts at the neck – offspring of shiny discord!

Mighty

The amorous mind will fashion on its own
A king from a pauper given slightest cause,
Imagining his hands to be high paws,
The hair upon his head a starry crown;

Bloke is most noble, strong, and adequate,
Not like a lump of clay or common stuff,
And must of holy virtues share enough
Since his dearest face looks like the smoothest date;

What’s more, he wakes up most tenaciously,
And serves the world not like a beggar – standing,
Each time at table, comports him magically,

A fellow fit to live, gives reason to slow rhyme,
Although no gold is there in pocket gleaming:
Late sparrows teaming echo this soft chime.

Water is Blue, So also, Me and You

Our predecessors give to us the truest path
Established to stick a man to his cookie by the lip,
From model students to homemakers, saints and vixens,
The fashion show goes by the fairest hip.
Flowers conforming, and animals dorming: ’tis blue,
The water females need to drink, and you and I,
Blue like the lobster on the bottom crawls,
Blue like a piece of Delftware not yet cracked,
This blue, the brother, watches me and you,
To keep the curvesome close where banana brains are improper.
O Apollo, Delphic, take us straight to Japan – O!
The ears of Hestia shall never hear about our virgin exploits,
Nor shall Athena wag her brazen spear at war.
Sister: water is blue, so also, me and you.

Plumage

It is the age of romance, cheeks that glow,
This panoply of skin oncoming like the softest snow,

A time of fun in cycles vaster than the wash,
More sugared than the grub Mum made from squash,

Beer broken bucks, hot dates, and choice discovery,
Bag, gold and silver trimmings, private key,

Where you are but a bird o’ plumage, clean and fair,
Yet lighter, lighter still than summer’s rising air,

With feathers stuck on, moods are stuck up quite,
And fluctuate with liquors night to night.

So avid with the plumage, but so dry,
Drier than whisky, more mud deep than pie,

Art thou who live to wed a random look,
Savvy already, no news to read nor book.

Plumage is a thing of nature, on or off,
Only never did exist once old age ’gins to cough,

Sending carnal matter unto coffins straight,
That once was ripe as apples hung – that pate!

Lover’s Song

I am mellower than yams, in these marshes breeding fish,
Than the finest almond candy e’en mellower and more
Than the neighbor’s daughter and her maiden store,
Conform myself however to thy dish.

The roundest moons I send to you, the hills,
The glens in me and all the fertile grass,
With this arch o’ feet promoting breasts and ass,
From out of caverns unto those, your rills,

Chatting with bird tongue, mellow,
Losing sleep and food to the whiles o’ pleasure much,
Waiting to ask for help and fall upon your crutch,
Since the tip of my sweet tongue needs aught a fellow,

So merry, merry me, in times to prance and dally,
Forgetting pain in pleasure, nerve in tender dream,
Complicit in the mating call of seem,
Down halls of corn husks, in the darkest alley!

How softly curling, locks and hands of mine,
Like limber petals made to dazzle passersby,
Indeed, that both of us might stop and sigh,
Entwining vines, imbibing honeyed wine,

Despite the girl in the linen dress o’er there
As green as a prickly kiwi or cactus crouched
To catch the meats o’ the day with lion claws,
Organic beggar. What those fools must wear!

Ah, I bet ye have never seen hard eyes
Like these, sharp stones embedded in dry sand,
Or nails grown bland accompanying each hand;
Nature is telling thee, but soft! Despise!

Then might we sip from the same cup in night’s crepe,
Turning over on ourselves to keep the craft
Of idling in Eros by his shaft;
Dispelling duller image by its nape.

O Ye Would

O Adam, break ye this my dream in twain?
The colors made on Earth do separate,
Seeing disdain,
Thee, implicate.

O apple cobbler, where are ye headed, lad?
The pie is on the board all hot,
But cold’s the night,
E’en out of sight.

O Dionysian pastimes of a swaggering skunk,
The rainbow of my fancy fades for now,
O hyper hunk,
O mermaid prow!

’Tis not the saddle I had in mind for dinner,
’Tis not the bridge I engineered nor screw,
With love the winner.
Eyes pop. Who knew?

A million fairies on a twilight mead
Could not make up for this in song,
In dewy tweed.
The legs were long.

O Ye would tear my heart out for a bloom
O’ lips so red that Hell might blush,
Straight from the loom.
I’d tell thee, hush!

Before the bubbles of my fancy burst
In thousands of bleeding intricacies,
Red, blue, the worst,
White as foam wild seas.

Go to Pie

Gopi, I can see you like the dawn as do the gulls,
Sing like an angel and have got the names
Of all the forms of Visnu, snakes, and bulls,
Stay away from the angry world that shoves and maims.
Your hair is tame, your dresses look like jam,
Your shoes fall off at temple at week’s end,
Your singing throat avoids cold cuts and ham,
Because you have a gentle heart, O friend!
But at the tinkle of your bells, your sweet sashay,
The rustle of your silken pleated dress,
Your smell of barfi, I am in dismay
That you have gone to pie, cannot profess.
Call God, for all you do is call, and on and on,
Wrapped up in niceties, elsewhere the brawn.

Gone O Pi

Calculus class was all the bliss of Toy
Who was a virgin with the smarts, a star,
An avid athlete who did not need a boy,
To walk to parks or hang out in a car.
She loved her mother’s pie, and she loved pi,
She made the grade so easy it was milk,
The genes so hot she’d need an alibi,
Beyond the farthest feats of her own ilk.
Could this girl function, could she honor roll!
The air was brightened by her aura fine
Each day to class – and yet a pair of troll
Took her like pears from off the growing vine.
She is gone O pi, long gone, O church!
Laid low in mosses by the rill and birch.

Go-Go Pie

There is silver in the mirror, light so dim,
Pockets jingling for females slim, diverse,
Maria from Brazil, Korean Kim,
Thinking they have the fairest universe.
The world is seen from bar stools, all the lore
Gathered in bottles by a snaky chap
Who struts bird-like across his swathe of floor,
Eyes narrowed to crescents, dreaming, needing nap.
Go-go pie is made around some polar chill,
Providing what men ask for when they rip
Their wallets out for credit card or bill,
Like bees, embedding down to sweetly sip.
Cake walk, the women strive, being fools, to feed
All day upon the wicked parts of men and seed!

A Little Bit of Scorn and Hate

A little bit of scorn and hate
Each morning, for the treason fell
Like a stricken tree of date,
Promoting Hell.

There was no water that was plain
Each day, but sugared, mixed with fruit,
I thought mickle inane,
In my plain boot.

Well should I like to swim an hour
At my best club for arms of me,
But memories are sour,
Reeking of thee;

Therefore yon date tree’s in my hair
Adorning what already fruits,
Both here and there,
Sans prostitutes.

I Do Not Hate

I do not hate you that you have to leave,
But save these times for better memory,
Though a younger heart would grieve,
The older one finds joy in amnesty;

Autumn will come and myriad the leaves
Shook loose as a foot does off the bending bough,
Creating sundry seas
Through which young children in their boots will plow,

Whereon my eyes shall be two stoic moons of light
Bleeding but silver ink above a page
More pregnant than the night,
In softer lettering than growing sage.

Who Thinks of Emma? (to Emma Sulkowicz)

They were dancing, fox and wolf and hare
Around a pole in blooming May,
One remembers who sits and works out word
In deep dismay;

The milder books are by friends cherished,
Among them, Emma, writ by woman’s hand,
Protracting with old wisdom hours of bliss
On porch or sand;

But now, how rude the pastimes are
Of drunken folk gone tottering,
Hoping from bed to car to bar,
Mad teetering!

If a rascal takes a flower lying,
A thousand people shake their heads,
Sharp, cold, and critical, full sour
Outside their beds,

Willing to say, it might have been,
Or maybe not, who knows the truth?
So many students go to school,
Besides one Ruth,

Indeed, who thinks on flustered birds
In fear of being stalked the same
As happened once before on white,
For white, bloke came?

There was a girl and crucible,
Uptown connected summer long,
Sign obvious of agony
Though she was strong;

Carried this girl her mattress, seething,
To tell the world about her woes,
As heavy as a granite block
Within those lows,

A type of cross still carrying,
Since man erected presence there
Where scholars wrap themselves in black,
Keen to prepare,

Where green grass stretches wide and long
Unto a cupola and cord,
And folk sit learning deep in books
To jilt discord,

Comfort, all seeming, generous,
The open space and air so smooth,
In tea-stained antique articles,
By unique hooves,

Carved architecture classical
Arising as doth glistening love,
Not male or female, dreamily,
Though bleeds the dove,

By right improper triumph smitten
Beyond the creamy pillars chill,
Within her nest all unawares
Of foreign bill.

Thus comes the rain to wash the place
And cliff and crag and busy hall,
Honest in its endeavoring,
Not washing all.

If there be mark on memory,
Dark matter for a kid to bear,
Then were they dancing three around,
Down by the stair.

Whilst poets might Jane Austen read,
The trouble scouts connive to seed,
Possessed by more than normal greed,
Implying that good girls do bleed.

Silverware

Land of red and blue
And silverware,
Delft and ceramic stoneware,
The groovy placemat,
The eyes of man lick light
In rooms of empty coconut,
While thinking of lunch and dishes,
While betting on forks and knives and spoons.
There is tomato,
There is the broken plum,
The kumquat and the kiwi,
And many noodles, O!
A thousand eyes might watch in amazement
And a man not put down his sliver
Of jocund delight,
Until the winds howl to his lobes,
The seas erect a foaming mousse,
Or sands give crustacean creativity
To pacify the emotional emperor of Ay,
Who loses no silverware, not for Calvary.

Since Cocks Don’t Lay Eggs
Dramatis Personae
Christina Solomon, a banker’s daughter and student
Susannah Solomon, her mother
Sophia Boticelli, Chris’ friend, a student
Nadia Lebedev, a pretty laundress
Radha Omish, a student
Lisa Sorrelli, a student
Gwendolin Pfiffer, a student
Mademoiselle, a waitress

PJ Baxter, a vagrant
Albert Duchamp, a cabaret singer
Matthew d’Excelsior, a priest
Pastor Cummings, a rich artist
Charles Solomon, the father
Jean-Christophe Concorde, a student
Pierre Beauvoir, a student
Stephen Charpentier, a musician
Cop I
Cop II
Cop III
Act I
Scene I, Paris, apartment in the Quartier Latin

Christina Solomon and Sophia Botticelli sit at table.

Soph. The weather’s dismal, yet you make me calm and happy,
It rains and rains, but I cannot stop laughing,
The food is good – I love the way you cook
With garlic, onions, spice, fresh meat, tomato,
Has the effect of making one more spry and able.
Chris. Quite a nook, this place. But I am not a cook!
I barely spend time cooking half past five,
And merely swirled the portions as I wished,
As best as amateurs might care to try
Their hands at Bourgignon. Forgive my faults!
Or let me trade a cauda for a malt.
Soph. My cheeks would not take such a syrupy drink.
Fie, student! Have you not a regimen?
Chris. I’ll tell Mother, you’re here to preach more vitamins.
Soph. This, or be no doctor – ampler as a bride.
Men are harsh adjudicators as it is,
On what sort of moon God makes us, privily,
Or face to face, if we’re belittled bad or gay,
Their way will have, or step another way.
Chris. Give head to this?
Soph. If head’s been given, part or whole – we pine.
Chris. No, pining, sister! More of love and wining!
Soph. Direct, there’s more light in a cup of wine.
Chris. In wine than what?
Soph. Than eyes belonging to a beastly man.
Chris. Or destitute, belligerent, or bogus,
Or bound to take a crown and shatter it,
If an eye pencil is not to his priggish pleasing.
It usurps our sovereignty and makes us mad.
Soph. Faith, liberty, o’er madness, almost always,
Is the only road to reason for a city chic.
Chris. Decanter, honey bee!
Soph. Well, aren’t you presumptuous? Here!
Chris. I hear it well. Good wine makes mellow music.
Soph. The logic can’t be doubted: what’s good is good.
Chris. And destined to get better, Will o’ God!
Soph. I’ll see your glass is dry, to match your eyes,
Which lately bled, I remember, for a fool,
Who dropped his gold for silver. Tit for tat,
Angelic sis! We’ll quaff this heady drink,
Then ice our cake for sake of righteousness,
With a familiar favorite’s looks, as anodyne.
A leech cannot profess to have more will,
Than a woman graced by fifty attributes,
From wit to wiliness, from head to foot,
In countenance and bearing, like a jam,
Having pursuit of happiness judiciously,
As law, faith, lust, stage cue, and habillement.
Abandoned for a bar girl? Rubbish! Slaps
Have more significance than chicken soup.
Chris. Stated strongly. Better to be a feral hawk,
Than mouse afflicted by its cruel caprice.
Soph. You see me?
Chris. But clearly. Devils feast on treachery,
And court the pure of spirit dangerously,
Whereas dancehalls made for usefulness
And youths who do not lunge to bleed themselves
By rod of sucker or to death, so heathen!
I won’t be simple for a simpleton,
Or the jack ass of a lusty male on four,
Or led in circles by a weather cock,
Take baggage, plain, not beggared for a bud.
Soph. My dear, do we get out?
Chris. Who are not gone right out for candle wicks?
The idea’s sterling, lady – more than standard,
And I shall have my brand new soles rubbed off,
Dancing to the genius of Duke Ellington,
Sooner than stay a slave to memory.
Soph. God bless the changing wheels of Providence,
For girls as pretty as Christina. Joy
Gives clouds a silver lining that bore rain,
That life perpetuates and shall be fresh again.
Chris. Sagacity is a science.
Soph. The redeemed shall not be melancholy.
Chris. Nor shall the wretched rightly be redeemed.

Scene II Café on the Boulevard Saint Germaine

Albert Duchamp and Stephen Charpentier are seated under a shade tree, drinking coffee and smoking.

Alb. Mark that waitress, whose face is some hard granite block?
She loves me not, ’tis sure.
Steph. A cat has got her tongue, or goose, her brain.
Though silent now, she’ll likely hop and prattle,
As soon as her shift is up, in Catholic arms.
The dame is religious, villain! An she hears ye, quit!
Alb. If looks could decimate, she’d spear me dead,
Or burned alive like a Spanish infidel,
For the ugliness of my weary Flemish face!
Given the chance, I’d sing a song to win her, friends,
My voice uplifted like a nightingale’s,
By the chastity of her divine complexion,
And the mystery which falls upon her hip:
Not be this mute, this joking harlequin,
Who bites his tongue as often as sweets step,
A haggard minstrel, rife and niggarding.
Steph. A wife, and Al shall see the guillotine.
Alb. No bluer blood was shed than that of minstrel.
If history says no, then I affirm.
Steph. Wherefore this desperation reckless, friend,
Makes a chimney of your whining orifice?
This nicotine, no singer vindicates,
But pigeon-throated, maudlin silks your deal,
A wiser man would cut through hastily,
Before it pulls his cord to travesty.
Why be weak? Why not nimble-kneed? Why mope?
Alb. You see, the queen has almost kicked her heel off.
Steph. What business of yours, demented popinjay?
Alb. If she curses, she’s no angel – this to boot,
By which my conscience can be rectified,
No angel now offending with this eye,
But a server of the proletariat.
Steph. You are brainwashed, Albert; mind-boggled you are.
It makes me doubt your mental governance,
This opera poet’s whimsy. Dare to date.
Alb. The gal shall have my talent crucified.
I’d rather play my thinkings piano piano,
Than separate, like Christ, from goodly stardom.
Steph. How fine he emotes, the balking, lonely lion!
Alb. Though sick, this coffer does not house a killer.
Steph. A yawner, though, and without remedy,
So I only wish him love and ecstasy,
Who makes his day-scape into hapless dream.
Cease now, or cease to exist. True love is gratis.
Alb. Those puppets on the grass seem fruitless.
Steph. As if you have never been, soft-spoken liar!
Alb. A fire burns as quickly as thoughts grow,
Faggots of ignorance do supersede,
Spreading flowers to mask a bare and stricken place,
Such as a dead man’s chest who died for love.
Steph. Pale Albert, can it be? The horse eats grass?
Alb. What mean you by this?
Steph. Brooding belies lunacy, is all, is all,
It sabotages groove of industry,
Sets perfection at a standstill, dampens will,
Puts bell caps on the heads of courtly men,
Pulls hamstrings, spills blood, deepens dust.
Snap out of it, slim laddie! Lift this weight.
Alb. If humors in these veins cannot abate.
Steph. Resuming wistfulness sans lover, eh?
How many knocks before a flame is lit?
Spare knocks and be a hubby. Lover, soft,
The damsel’s dropped a glass and rubs her face.
Alb. How, now? The belle is panicking? What of?
Steph. Perhaps your decency will save her time.
Alb. I can surely pick the glass, though the belle’s not mine.
On second thought, I think she’ll smile for me,
Whom fate misuses. Thus, here, mademoiselle!
I bring a handkerchief. Be not afraid.
Mlle. I’ve got it, Sir. Please hold your charity.
Alb. At least those dainty hands of yours aren’t cut.
Needn’t charity? I do not condescend,
If that is where you’re going; but voila!
The mess is cleared, and I’m oblivious.
Carry on, sweet, pretty mademoiselle. It’s dark;
To work I should be getting, fast or slow.
Mlle. Fast or slow, as you will, Monsieur.
Alb. Till we meet encore, Hebe of the curly locks.
Mlle. Drop it, and be not so solemn, if you tarry.
Alb. I but long to be kind, and make ye newly merry.
Mlle. Your eyes importunate, have here no bearing.
Do come again, however, sit and sip,
Tell jokes, or gossip, write or draw,
Assume your waitress is a primrose – off!
On earth, there is a loud and breeding sea,
Where I happen to live alone and comfortably.
Alb. I yield, I yield, this is brave dialogue.
See here, Stephen? The damsel calls me reckless.
Steph. The beautiful often give cold offence.
Alb. I tip, but am not tipping wantonly.
Steph. Ay, yet the best have known depravity.
To each man, his time; to each woman, her line;
To the children, their ball; now let us young souls play
Till midnight and after, seeking soulful solace.
Alb. Your rationality corrects. Onward!

Scene III On the street outside of a cabaret, in the Quartier Latin, at night

Sophia Boticelli, Christine Solomon, Pierre Beauvoir, and Jean-Christophe Concorde wait to enter a pub where Albert Duchamp and Stephen Charpentier, the musical duo, will be playing.

Soph. How soft the good man looks, like wholesome butter!
I should say it were my proudest mother’s face,
But then she’d wax all white and be no longer proud,
Celestial fairness being not the same,
As humans, or seem it gross, rotund, and much,
Outsold, the waistline of an evening’s gown!
Russians have worshipped it more properly;
Than the banter, gives marvelous complacency.
Chris. Remains to us, to rest by this pale light,
Till advent of our esteemed and eager company,
Wherewith we shall be saved from sparser speech,
By the grander jocularity of us all.
Soph. Will you have a drink?
Chris. It was such an action I was planning.
Soph. It entertains our mouths; meanwhile, what news
From your working parents? Is it posthumous?
Chris. This jargon is not the tempest you have used,
But friendship angers not so much as daughters stew
Awaiting happy word from Nature’s entourage.
Soph. Soda was not the favored drink of Yashoda,
Despite entreaty, how this flavor pleases!
Tell a girl to leave her ways, but not a harmless drink,
Tell her to hit the books, but not put down her tea;
This is not carnal; this is not gambling;
It makes the tired move, so they don’t weep.
Chris. There’s more amusement in the night than this.
Soph. Admitting it makes me admire you more,
For being truthful – kind philosopher.
Hestia leaves her hob without self-injury,
Otherwise I should lead her forth in deepest pity,
And tell her one and one makes mastery.
Chris. Look alive, comrade; the rest are now arrived!
Soph. How Jean-Christophe does drag alone like Jesus;
He swims and sways; he’ll want an octopus!
I give him approbation for his hue,
Which calls him homard, bird, or butterfly,
Although I shall not have him fondling me,
Since sense surpasses fondness. Here, forget!
He plays the role of saintly Nicholas.
Jean-C. Ahoy!
Chris. The sailor in him says to us, ahoy.
Soph. As ships set out to sea, just so, his lips.
Chris. The very pate of him sticks out at us.
Soph. ’Tis Pierre Beauvoir! The gentle giant’s up,
And not a dry book on him, not a sigh,
Not yet a sound, but I see hardiness.
Five after nine, and this rose does not droop,
Or hie it off to bed with cup and fleece.
It comes all strong and promising; ho, lauds!
Pierre. ’Tis your happiness informs me why I came,
Sweet Sophie, there is no candle flame, no lamp,
Can match the luminescence of your smile,
Which sauces both my dinner and my sight,
Within its limits, well and graciously.
This rucksack here, the bod of Jean-Christophe,
Envies your friendship, but he has lost his French.
Soph. Alas, wherefore?
Jean-C. The gist of it shall be restored after the drink.
Pour on more drink, and truth shall come to me,
Much as a horse back to its owner – loth!
Je ne me rapelle plus l’heure qu’il est, Sophie!
Donne-moi la main, donne-moi une bandage,
Ce que tu peut – de se tomber je n’ai pas envie!
Soph. Poor discombobulated Frenchman, why drown your bread,
When I have but two drinks with my pasta dish?
Those gammes of yours shall not stand up for dancing,
Unless we add a crepe or carrot with bold reason.
Full stomachs last the deluge, bands, the years,
Send bottles into exile, fix the measurement.
Jean-C. Cherie, you offer me too much, mon Coeur!
You’re giving me your hand? Propose it thus?
O happy day that takes man’s emptiness,
And ceremony makes from a sacrament!
I imagine all your kisses preciously.
(Tries to lift Sophia but fails)
Soph. I sign no license, you, sirrah! I faint.
Distorted wit mucks effortless, advice,
When what I said was eat a roll or marry one.
Jean-C. Good God, Sophie! Do not so lead me on.
Pierre. The rock in my friend’s tum is also in his ear.
Chris. It seems to be the case. Right-o.
Soph. Let’s not quarrel, or hie us to our casements. There.
Chris. Enter we now the cabaret, dear friends?
Faith, think I, the night is closing,
And soon shall we be lame and quite outworn,
A bunch of haggard leeks and brethren less.
Pierre. Christina, lead us lagging poppycocks;
Sophia, do uproot yourself to steer.
Jean-C. On such a night as this, a man can sink,
In bliss or swim, according to his make,
Take leave of all his dreams or marry them,
If dreaming is his Nature and his bridge,
Point A to B his greatest Will becoming,
On wandering feet, upon his vessel, soft!
These fairies guide me where my dull oars trip,
Toward close parly and come what may,
This pending midnight’s got the best of us,
Who class agreement as good manner’s tops.
Pierre, love, take my shirt, as it is soaked!
Pierre Imagination, sissy. Look, your back is dry!
Jean-C Alas, how can a back be dry and wet?
It was not wine I drank, not Burgundy,
But rum, the sun has waxed so tropical.
Bone dry, this white chemise.

Scene IV. La Passiflore Agrandie

The four friends discuss a stolen bottle, angrily.

Chris. Bottle briggands! Someone has stolen an ordered bottle.
Soph. And was it payed for?
Chris. Euros 70.
Soph. Hope it bothers the party has most guilt.
Chris. What shall we do to rectify the stunt?
Soph. Take the fish, and bend him backwards on the bar.
Chris. Methinks you jest.
Soph. The penitence goes further, mark you me,
The more outnumbered is that prodigal.
When was it pilfered, this rich bottle?
Chris. Five minutes, ten. I left to talk to Jean,
There on the floor, whereat the bottle vanished.
Soph. A pickpocket in Passiflore at night,
With subtle slights of hand, can make much mess,
Sliding ’tween the tables right and left,
Behaving deleteriously to line his coat.
Much cash is there, much cash.
Chris. And many winy eyes by which to guide
His hands which wander as much for prudish plaint
As for the profits, he, the knave, received.
Soph. Of course, sore indignation gives delight
To criminals who upturning, make merry.
Disaster pays them through man’s sufferance,
Feeds their ovenry with coarse, illegal fire,
That they the gluttons are, too ravenous.
Chris. Let’s ask Pierre and Jean if they’ve not seen
The filcher run off with his load or hide.
Too saddened, me. I could have been content
Pouring from my bottle on the leather bank,
Now wonder if I’ve ever been good fortune’s friend.
(Approaches Pierre and Jean)
Pierre. Mais, qu’est-ce que tu as? Have ya seen a ghost?
Chris. If only I had seen a ghost – a ghost, Pierre,
I’d be avenged as far as thieving goes,
Since a bottle’s been stolen from my bench, succinct,
That now I’ve lost both drink and mickle price.
Jean-C. I’d kick the chap if I saw his stewing face.
Pierre. ’Tis not the thief who stews but the proprietor.
Chris. It was no watch, but it was something.
Pierre. Pardieu! Perhaps he sat and guzzled it.
Jean-C. In which instance, I’ll be a grizzly bear
To his blanched rabbit.
Chris. What for, a grizzly?
Jean-C. To give a devil his fair due – in two.
Pierre. ’Tis only justice.
Jean-C. On my foot, I have a cob to dance around.
Pierre. On my arm, I’ll use his back as a prissy plow.
Jean-C. Fie, fie, fie, on the fellow we despise.
Pierre. We’ll break an arm on it, a ham bone, or a leg,
So long as he, the villain, takes his just receipt.
But waste we minutes? Look, the thief escapes!
Chris. What, have ye seen the pilcher?
Pierre. A scarecrow exists with a bulging pocket;
A niggardly wisp, but do his pockets bulge?
Chris. I have not seen this man with surplussed pockets.
Pierre. But here he is! Man, stop!
(The man’s surrounded)
Pierre. You take a leg, and I, ere he exeunts,
Ah, grossest pig! He does our Christine dirt!
Jean-C. I’ll get the top, if you’ve the base.
Thief. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I am most ill beset!
Jean-C. I drawl. You tell him, Peter.
Pierre. Our lady friend has had her bottle stolen,
And you have got it! Give the bottle back,
Or I shall have both back and paid for bottle,
Collecting thus, your briggand’s debt, so spread!
Thief. The bottle’s mine, brick wall! I ordered it,
And here, it says, it comes from Burgundy,
The vintage is the same, so it must be.
We have sister bottles, thus – milady’s wrong.
Jean-C. The Devil in you spouts false words, sirrah!
Pierre. Or you can fly across the table, foe.
Thief. Unfair! Unfair! But two outnumber me;
The future promises a swift return,
Jack wears a skullcap, Jill a golden fleece.
Now take your bottle, let my leggings go.
Pierre. Do you judge this be enough, or make we mischief?
Jean-C. Once a fool, a fool shall be again,
But as the heroes, we should keep the fool,
So by our hands, learn new humility.
Soph. He who wages highest, falls the smartest.
Chris. Lo, is this the wine? ’Tis a merry wine.
(To the thief) Wolf mouth! Quick arm! What would you do with this?
Was it for your throat or for your pocket, boy?
Thief. It was mine, I say, but ah! My throat does itch,
And I need some drink before the dawn, so off!
Pierre. He snubs us, friends.
Jean-C. We eat his dust, if soon he leaves.
Chris. A tiger caught by the toe, fie, let him go,
Lest police come bugging us.
Soph. Angelic Chris tells us to let him go.
Jean-C. A boar apologizes for his nose.
Pierre. ’Tis a ravenous and thieving, niggard nose.
Soph. There is nothing fair about him, now he knows.
Pierre. Off like a lightning bolt with sickly glow,
That showy matchstick. He does not turn around,
For sound or sight, but makes a hasty step
Toward townhouse, cell, apartment house, or hovel,
I wonder ’bout the business. Yet all is well.
Do we joke, friends, or do we jive?
Chris. I fancy that we should, fair constable,
Good constable, to profit from the stars
Within the sky, and in this pretty drink.
But the righteous have upset the weak-kneed clown,
Undoing his great swollen chest to boot.
Soph. Tango and waltz, salsa and merengue, jump,
For sitting with a hunch thins out one’s scope,
Deflates the mood, and likes to lag,
Where others brag the best; this flies the least.
(Albert and Stephen perform on stage. Time elapses.)
Alb. My heart is like a singing bird tonight,
I age, get better, no one looks at me,
Yet how that note befits the ears of all,
Gratis to hear, precious to dance around.
’Tis best, though, when a singer has a cage,
Ensconcing character when thoughts do sing,
Emoting, lending romance, making fair,
And melding words with action, song and prayer.
These ears, I water them, quench all their thirst,
Give food to daffodils and roses on the floor,
Just as the sun that stoops, the moon that beams,
The grass that grows beneath sore, wandering feet,
The cow that feeds the calf, ay, fish,
That leap aground for folks to masticate,
I do all this, yet am no altruist,
Earning more than sweat on a threadbare knobby knee.
Steph. How is my grieving boy spouting nobility?
He grieves and pines, and yet he sings and smiles,
Unmoving as the world takes bravely joy,
Receiving only air and water, air,
For himself, breaks the glass in holy increments.
Alb. Holy? I am not holy – dirty. I touch
Then save my notes for varied sultry things,
Times being overlapped when provident,
Not whores but rendezvous my sex does keep.
Steph. Does virgin voice have virgin word?
Alb. The word is kept but it can punctuate,
Though the man be shadow. Wiser, mystery.
Steph. Dawn waits for us and comes up faithfully.
Alb. I’ll eat my bacon egg with chastity.
Steph. Dancers approach. Lo, partners! Soft, cats!
The lounge is open to their gawking glee.
Alb. Clearly, since youth will scale a wall, though late,
To get where it is going.
Steph. A morsel meal. Have you a trap for them?
Alb. A trap door, whence magic peppers clubbing peers,
And glorious sweetness spreads.
Steph. Perhaps a friend for you, to hold the board.
Alb. The rent and everything, the cart before,
It’s horse for breakfast – king me, cap!
Steph. The caps are coming with their pens.
Alb. They are pretty caps. I do not talk for pens.
Pierre. Good evening, gentlemen. I am Pierre,
Of the Sorbonne, and out with these good friends of mine,
Sophia, Christina, and simple Jean, who mocks
The gist of every moving thing, not caring,
Since he is a carefree fellow; these, our queens,
Are here to drink to songs of quality.
How well you sing, Monsieur! I would have thought
You were a swan, or dove, or nightingale,
The words you warble come so silky rare.
Soph. His eyes are also deep. Is this not so?
Alb. You flatter me too much. It makes soufflé,
When better are slow Nature’s steps. I sing,
But not just anything. ’Tis from the heart,
That boldens with the years that wear at me,
My visage bearing downward, up my song.
Chris. What problem with soufflé?
Soph. This being what we say, a man is rich,
If he has passion, aside from wealth.
Steph. This lady has high sentiments. Albert1
She gives you more protection than a parent,
When all you do is take a word and send it.
Look at the gecko! Look at his sallow flesh!
Look at his haunches, how they stretch the cloth!
Special things are infinite and clear,
But the mirror here is smudged. Our cat is gray.
Alb. Brown, sir, or I shall correct you with a nudge.
Steph. Step on my foot, and I shall be avenged,
By setting a tress of yours alight, then praying
It does not rain, so you should feel the most.
Alb. See how this Jack abuses me.
Chris. Are you two brothers?
Soph. Are jibing at each other, like friends, not foes.
Steph. What foe? That thief escaped, was one,
Though Albert here steals nothing, earns something, and wins,
Being noble and not vicious, the Prince of Blues.
Jean-C. The Prince of Blues? The Prince of Jazz and Rhythms?
Well, show us all your mastery,
And offer us a song to shake our hairs,
Like wind and bard combined, for sake of grace.
Alb. You squeeze me like a fruit for morning juice!
I sing my voice dry, yet they’ll have more voice,
For not a penny; but on my affability,
My soul is in this pip. Remember me.
Steph. You’re a star, a saint, and a martyr!
(Albert sings)
Chris. His voice is strong, yet sweet; it yields yet keeps it high;
It shows more constancy than a river run,
Not getting tired, or more than natural;
So rare and pleasing ’tis, we must get more,
This week or later, if this midnight band concurs.
Alb. Seldom is a working man so pacified.
Your praises plant themselves in heart and mind,
Like seeds in a fertile field, time optimal.
Which is the hand, gives such encouragement?
Chris. Christina Solomon’s, who loves a gem,
If it’s a real one, white and fair and sound.
Well, you’re a gem, my favorite book’s a gem,
The park of Luxembourg’s an emerald star,
And all my sweet friends’ words are pearls. You join?
The rest of us will party if you join.
Steph. Count me in, gentry, students. I’m the brain.
Alb. He’s not just brain, but mind and soul and brain,
So his actions, as a whole, have better governance,
For which this soul uplifting music every night.
Steph. Rather than either drugs or debauchery.
Jean-C. No Hell? There is no Hell with these two ladies twin,
Who are morning larks and evening glowworms, smart,
Two clauses to a phrase, the selfsame cover,
Of the most winsome book on Earth. Their steps are blessed,
No matter if they’re shopping or by the sea.
Chris. He outdoes us in endearments for one cause,
We’ve assured him, me and Sophia, right or wrong.
He wants to see us doting, smiling, grinning,
And ultimately, grinning, when his pleasure chills,
And he shakes his foot toward warmer, better things.
Soph. Over our knees and faces, like a maniac,
A maniac and not a porpoise, sly.
Alb. If I join this group of friends, ’tis but for Jean,
Who knows where water is, and where he goes.
Steph. They’ve got the smarts who drink for thirst, amen!
Chris. ’Tis getting late, and I am half asleep;
More late, and Pierre shall have to carry me,
With Sophie taking turns.
Alb. Do we close? We close, as softly as the snow,
Or the fall of a feather on a parish floor.
Pierre. We’ll meeting at a later date, well fed,
Return triumphant, having shunned blood’s red.
Who goes with thee, Christine, Sophie?
Chis. We guide ourselves who are by no means guided.
Pierre. Good girls! Good girls and more than most!
Jean-C. A million pardons for our fragile act
Who gained not more than rain in place of beer.
Chris. What’s this?
Jean-C. We have not won a prize, despite our row,
Improving not in hording grievances.
Soph. God bless thee, sweet soul Jean-Christophe! Methinks,
Intentions weigh more sometimes than the fist.
Chris. God bless their veins of molten steadfast ore,
For the fire that drives out wanton infamy,
Good times to save. He blushes, look! Hum ho!
Pierre. To looks that pleasure give of softest grace,
We bid farewell, we bros, strong and apace.

Exeunt

Act II
Scene I

At La Petite Launderette where Nadia Lebedev, a young French girl of Russian origin, works, the Messieurs Pierre and Jean-Christophe doing their laundry.

Pierre. Have ye ever thought on marriage, gentle fool?
Jean-C. I sigh, I cry, I mourn at night out loud,
As blue toned as the wind in how I set to dream,
Yet no wify have I wooed, or leave my course
Unready and unpardoned by the forces
Saying: it is not proper time to fly!
Pierre. Sophia is no toad, however, nor Christine.
’Twould not be bad but proper gay and spiced
To take a lap to lounge upon at bay,
Outworn by all the violence of the sea
Flinging to shore each day so pretty chill.
The schooner is the girl, my reason states,
That should sail upon thee ay, a merry ring.
Jean-C. Wherefore think ye so? There is no ring on thee!
You are playing with my feelings, nosy cad,
As soon as making comment washing, sneering,
So all my suppositions should be washed,
Rung out and whitened like some sorry sheet,
To match the milk pale moon that watchful, suffers.
Pierre. There is no lunatic like the chap who dies alone,
His possessions stacked in his chamber all unloved.
He wails for his dog to fetch the daily news,
He seeks to have the café runner’s eye,
Weeps into breakfast tea, takes milk at night,
And does not walk but thinking, who knows me?
Jean-C. There are worser fates than being undervalued.
Besides, a hawk bows not to pigeons in a square,
And sitting down to brood, sits tranquilly.
Pierre. In what, a hawk?
Jean-C. In being plainly me, for innate plainness.
Pierre. But humans sometimes fall into complaint.
Jean-C. So take good care of me, sweet Providence!
I trust less in the vows of Santa Claus.
Pierre. There is the denim. The cloth’s thick as your skull,
You might remark, leaning o’er here for thanks.
Jean-C. And what to do?
Pierre. ’Tis damp as an eggshell and must I throw it back.
Jean-C. I will not look at the size, for better breed,
But size has got me valued as a pin,
No thicker than a rabbit at the waist,
Or taller than a dog reared up to smooch.
They shall not see me as a champion
But live to praise the devils who pack vice
Like a buck in their back pocket, putting on.
Pierre. The senate, meaning? Are you a senator?
Jean-C. ’Twas to women I was referring, but you blink.
Pierre. And do they so put on their jeans who lie?
Jean-C. The putting on is a dirty act, but heart!
I feel o’erladen if not carried on the nose
Of some precious face alert and never scheming,
Painting but for a word at sunrise of pure love,
Mewing at who the kindred master is
Of her beauty, brains, and spirit, true as gold,
Not crooning or performing for the sundry lot,
Behaving false when love asks to be true,
Mind-bending and manipulating thought,
Word, deed, and friend in whole, to cheat
Or flirt the ticking time away, two-faced.
A woman fair who keeps her form of word,
Is blessing rightly, and shall bless my hand
By putting hers unsullied onto its cross.
Pierre. They practice what they preach, the best of men.
Jean-C. I never have been two-faced or truth’s foe.
Pierre. Then what have you inside your pockets, Sir?
Jean-C. A candy wrapper at the most. What of?
Pierre. Methinks there is something lodged in the rearmost pocket.
Jean-C. It is a daisy petal or a coin.
Pierre. There is no trace of pie, therefore? Ahoy!
Jean-C. When I get drunk I’m not careening over
To idle patches where to plant my misty oats.
Mother started me with catechisms,
And Father, theories ’gainst plantation life.
Do not tell moiling monkies to get the banana,
And no rottenness proceeds from rising tree,
But the son is dull and never listens – yet,
I saw the life in all his words full early.
He is not here but I have business with him still,
Might well you mock, and I defend myself.
Pierre. He is skinny in what he swears, and different.
If he makes up, he does so past my reckoning.
Jean-C. You jest too much, tending to work too little,
Like a baby poking at a moving shape,
In rounds and never stopping. Fie, fie, and fie!
The fairies might well take such poking babes.
Pierre. I am no animal that I’m not red,
As an angry bull is known as being red,
Toward roses thinking, that my fear friend Jean
Might earn topmost position on my pate.
Jean-C. Time shall not this unbroke friendship dissipate.
Pierre. You speak as if we had a gad to earn.
Their bond unbroke, two men may well be broke,
Manner of telling privileges in rank and file.
Jean-C. Then marry you a girl of promise or a queen,
A dame of enterprise, a doctor ripe
As the fruit that falls from off the bough;
Court her to woo, and then you make the most.
That Christine is a pretty girl, though young,
She is young and happy as a shot of foam,
Whose disposition shall improve the more,
With visitations delicate and plenty,
Bouquets of blooms alongside sweet discourse.
Soon as her cheeks turn red – you grab the roots
And run with them as far as loving takes,
If she goes resembling the twilight
Or the shining star on Diane’s diadem.
Pierre. Do you preach to me or do you laugh, milord?
There is no man but God tells me to act,
In love or matters of the day that press,
Or be I pressed by other person’s will,
Not to divulge what my mind tells to me.
Jean-C. You balk in saying she is not the one,
If Christine makes your tender heartbeat race,
Month after month, a bonny priestess ’biding
On the altar of your forethought, decked in gold,
By all your animations fast bejeweled;
If she’s the object of your deepest study,
Turn ye round to tell her or be fooled!
The sealed up box does sit up miserly,
An it’s but itself the box is treasuring,
Whilst nuts shall rot in time unplanted,
More soiled for not being pressured for the cake.
Pierre. Christine we’ve only met this year, and this?
Our relation’s but an inchworm soft and green,
Prepared to share a salad, not the soul,
Dress deeply set to please in pastry colors,
But not bake pies for warm eternity!
And Jean has all the world’s audacity,
Not being vulgar, but the seat of privilege,
Waving his wand above this setup querulous.
Jean-C. Do you address me, sir?
Pierre. I address you not to dress you for the wedding green,
Or if I do, making equal is not seemly.
Christine’s ears much itch around our palaver,
And Sophie has a word, I want to reckon.
Jean-C. Already in his cap for reckoning?
Days by himself, the fellow is accounting,
While thinking of his friends and mendicant!
His yearning eyes belie affection’s heat
As he folds his arms in heat compelled submission,
Thinking on Christine Solomon presiding.
Pierre. She chauffest me who no ill will maintains.
Jean-C. ’Tis a slender reed warming that manly bulk,
A shy and yet a right courageous one,
More apt to bend than break or cling for naught,
Maybe for us, a spry and prescient one.
We are such mammals, braying at a reed.
Pierre. There is no better pole but the upright plant.
Jean-C. She makes my heart a striving dissident.
Pierre. And mine an ember, ready to ignite.
Bah! This laundry has no pinker cloth
Though the gut of me be flat as Disney,
The mind as fresh as roses, dreams aloft,
Indeed with mild thoughts woven dawn to dusk,
No fairer color do I gain, for care.
Jean-C. The privy lot shall go venereal,
The lover stay to eat his cereal.
Pierre. And Christine and Sophia make a pie
Out of both our earlobes, arms, cheeks, thighs, and brains,
As the menfolk stand conniving on their ends,
And smart women keep their ends, always conniving,
Sharp as the thorn that does not soon dislodge,
A paper cut that skips apology.
They might as well chop up our tongues,
Taking the taste out that does search for them,
Or be so tongue pricked ever, within law.
Jean-C. To be a horse chomping on fields of flowers,
Is not a paradigm of power yet bears might.
The hooves are steel if the nose does increase outward,
Carrying a soul away in fantasy;
Just so my straining spirit, wet or dry,
A young buck in its fullest ecstasy.
Pierre. Or a fairy in green fields of wavy absinthe,
Is what the intuition haps upon.
Jean-C. Just so, O governor! Just so!
Pierre. His nose is wafting common softener
That soon will o’er a shotglass itch to sniff.
Quite right! ’Tis lengthy as a horse’s blaze,
Or a bird beak harping for its cherished nut.
Jean-C. Flying or galloping, the sky’s the sky,
A bee’s a bee, and fodder is for fools;
The honey ’tis that does not dally, O!
Pierre. Naught runs so quick as your Frenchman’s sniffing nose!
Jean-C. Find better n’ I shall trade the softener.
Pierre. Eke you a plan, then be I listener.
Jean-C. Be we gardeners or gleaners, or merely wishful thinkers?
Tread we on this path and away from thence, if joking,
Or build our sandcastles in bone dry jeans.
Pierre. Shells to their meat, and we more stuck to reason.
Jean-C. Pierre! Get those two girls to marry us?
How much have we in common thus to bind,
Avowing all our souls to long complicity
When cupboard have we never shared nor meat,
The morning sink sees us in privacy,
Our music pleases but one pair of ears
To each man playing in his separate space,
And never have we needed sundry dish
But one to plate the dinner plain as bone,
The selfsame hand to wash as made the meal,
And never item broken for a bloody row!
At least we persevere with nightcaps on,
Off-taking of the which lets in the loon,
Replacing warmth with cold calamity,
Ice water in the face, rude wakening,
And transformation into bickering
Of serenity more strong for cautiousness.
Friends to the Commons who are most uncommon,
Taking to different ways when love gets blander,
Excursions to each other promising
Instead of battles or a broken ring.
Smart bro, let us dally in sagacity,
Not envious or angry being close,
Still scholars, not for love to slide astray,
Our feet in motion toward the righteous end.
Pierre. What chastisements you give to wedlock’s name!
You’d think there were no more constricting snake
Than unity which spends the changing year around
In love and converse with some kindred soul,
Not trespassing or tarrying where time
Be of the essence in protracting joy,
Keeping the sun up through the dead of night,
And gentle weather and the passing storm,
Rewarding kindness, giving like for like,
Not mean, relations which spring loving bounty.
Jean-C. Who knows, but love be most illusory,
As all accessories pertaining to the mode of love,
From home to flower garden to the car,
Racquets and balls, if flesh does feed the grass,
The nails stop growing after numbered years,
The works of man, outlive him or undone.
The world moves cyclically in seeming,
So who’s to tell if love or home have meaning?
Pierre. Your words are those of a lizard hot or cold;
The man exists cold-blooded, green, and flat,
Precarious upon an edge, bug-filled,
Relying wholly on the flow of days,
And so haphazard he might suffer want
Yet want no more than what the daylight brings.
Cling you to life with flimsy set of claws,
No better way assuming. Scramble on!
Sophie’s a doll, and Christine is her love.
Jean-C. Can I profess to wash myself of doll love?
Pierre. What reason, monk, so thoroughly to wash?
Jean-C. So’s not to squirm as snakes shall in their nest.
I do what duty needs to leave the rest!
Pierre. For want of courage, more a pawn than lion!
Jean-C. I’d like to see you this or that sis woo
Instead of versing on me persiflage.
Hormones are kicking in, and I must balk
Seeing the big man and his musculature
Emitting words as much as fountains talk
To bend a rose into its lineage.
Pierre. Less for the lineage and more for love.
Jean-C. Not blue as blood but red as apple peel:
The comfort he says, pectin skin by skin
To thicken household jelly on the flame.
There is a sultry word! What nice allure,
Condoning passion as it fits the dove.
Pierre. ’Tis not this that I said but rightly so,
As artist’s brains go forth embellishing.
Jean-C. What hope of home when men want vitamin?
Do you not see I am but skeleton,
A wisp, a mother’s wish, a shadow lisping?
The city turns around in gallons kissing,
But I who often drink am elsewise dry
Since I persevere to walk as good God made me,
Two legs to show without the varied four.
Pierre. Vain boastfulness, he crawls within his needs,
Like a reptile, for the jeans do bear the patch
Right on the kneecaps, faded for the wear.
Jean-C. Cad, think yourself a priest? Do pants confess?
Tell me, a lizard grew up I for fashion’s fix!
Fix me another pair of pants, fitter,
Then be I suddenly of that same make,
According to the man’s flamboyant tongue.
He puts me on T and guideth me,
Though he is not the genius of my life,
Who speaks at odds with nature, knowing naught.
Pierre. Then be I naughtier, and you are naught,
Dissolving into peevishness in play.
Jean-C. What lunacy, Pierre. I do not bend.
Pierre. Your mother called you by a Christian name.
Jean-C. Peter the Christian is a paper fiend
Sitting on top of what I say to dream,
Feeling powerful but is not pleasing, nay,
Since in his dreams I act a kissing toy.
Pierre. Not a skirt-pursuing harlequin, although.
I deem him gentle who does not make pie
O’ a living girl in fruity flowing fashion,
A hero too in this respect, bravo!
See how peaceful, I, and proper, I?
I know him to be sound in making sound,
Most friendly thoughts and prayers explaining.
Jean-C. Pray you for me?
Pierre. Omiting you from prayers, then would I err,
Another person and no more Pierre.
Jean-C. What do you pray?
Pierre. For your father, mother, and the Holy Ghost,
For he is passing thin, on edge, and niggardly.
Jean-C. I see not eye-to-eye on Earth, Pierre,
But I hope to meet him at the Pearly Gates,
Surrounded by pure clouds in mickle shroud,
Promoting neither lies nor blasphemy.
Pierre. One has an organ; then wield one a cello
To please the Lord playing in sunny rounds.
I fancy we might well be there come Sunday
If perish we for lack of finer hair,
Our best friends on our brows, the souls transfixing,
Who will not move to foster remedy.
Jean-C. Are you so eager, Cupid-stricken, boy,
You now presume quick death for languishment?
Am I to swing so high for a whistling girl,
Or her sister who chews gum and store-bought bread,
Knowing nothing better in the world but these,
So brought and tied by any less than God?
A banana peels more readily than I.
Good God hath given men to read and write.
Pierre. Well, good, or falsely have ye, Frenchman, written?
Jean-C. Much as a Christian man, not as a friend.
Pierre. Why not as friend?
Jean-C. Are you a boy to so persist?
Pierre. A simple question.
Jean-C. Need you a friend?
Pierre. Have I not got one?
Jean-C. In truth, I cannot tell you or be vague.
Pierre. How tight the heartstrings are of houndish wolves
Who would not stay along but for the night
And common pastimes or be scavenging.
You have not known me as a friend. What then?
A foe in slippers, oaf, or yodeler?
Have we no relation who both knew one yesteryear?
Are you a gargoyle suddenly, granite, green?
Jean-C. Well it is, if that is how I seem.
Pierre. How do you think of making merry for the girls?
Jean-C. Girls will be children, children, men and men,
The wiser fathers where we have but fooled.
Do you access me? Not much in excess, though.
Pierre. There is excess in thinking much – I but little.
Jean-C.The way you’re moving beats the whipping wind,
But how you think, though, there’s the finer line,
The bright embellishment, the spriest flare,
Ingredients to what you are, the recipe,
The gold or dankest dirt, ay fresh or foul,
Defining what ye be on Earth till Heaven.
Move to catch a gal and marry, smart for seed,
But richness comes afore the planted rye,
In flowing waters too and never dry.
Pierre. Good tree, good the fruits of that tree, sweet priest.
I do not know if you’ve not made a bag of me
If all I am is seed, no soul or spirit,
But for your spirits, must you ne’er be dry;
’Tis for the liquors you’ve got twice the heat
Of a sun in Autumn and be never dry.
Basso continuo. I, not perceive?
More than a trellis or write music’s staff,
You climb on wine shelves like a man at sea,
I see it verily. ’Tis not the tree
But the loaded vine which often pleases thee.
Jean-C. He is a pastor for the Hell he sayeth.
Pierre. Preach I? No sermon have I written, loth;
It is my yield you take as tutelage.
As an oak to a squirrel, then I to you,
Yielding in words that scatter randomly.
Jean-C. He is most unkind who speaks so kindly.
Pierre. Confer with me.
Jean-C. Like crystal glass, your hard, unmelted heart,
Reflecting what you think and feel, not I,
Serving your own lips first nor ever I,
Calling me wastrel and not giving ground
But for to hang me up then use me ill again.
Should I liquor have, when purer water’s poured?
Not liquor ’tis I love, but nectar sweet
From the dewy fields about Mount Helicon,
The fountain waters which old poets blessed
As better nourishment than gives a beast,
Mulled cider from the press to loose my tongue
And lemon juice to pull it back again.
I spy on them, and has a spider needs?
Less than the drunkard who must take his break
Disgorging surplus but to fill again.
Write I my verse in private bliss, a mite,
Before the crags of a gusty castle, O!
Pierre. You are O-ing with me, yet I cannot see
The castle thy discourse has well described.
And you, a budding poet, cad? Pray tell.
Jean-C. By nature do I write what comes to mind,
Of nature or philosophy or love.
Then, am I the fop that sweeps the castle ground,
Shedding all my tears for having spilled mere ink,
No blood in it but mickle gravity.
Pierre. Alone amidst a green, and standing grave?
Breakfast in bed turns out blithe aubade,
Settings at night, the serenade, quartets,
The crashing sea could breed a rugged book,
But death brings neither zeal nor honor, friend.
Jean-C. Then how does better routine make amend?
Pierre. Put out your eyes if you don’t see a belle
In the company that laughs to keep you well.
Jean-C. A woman but steals money, phone, and mill flour,
Asking for gifts galore then burning wheat.
Pierre. Heaven takes it as a glowing sacrifice;
What in the muffin but God’s full Leviticus?
Jean-C. I’d have Leviticus and woman for old age,
But not the son or girl of sundry flower.
Pierre. Why so?
Jean-C. I have but entered into Earth, methinks.
Pierre. In faith, to take a drink.
Jean-C. You go!
Pierre. If not a drink than woman, on the prowl.
Jean-C. A glass o’ milk with slender vitamin.
Know you me so slim, that ye color me ample green,
Then tell me Nature ’twas first made it so?
Pierre. Youth calls you green, not I. I, not a word.
Jean-C. I am not bilious, or I would blot your sound,
Make sense but of myself and pass the time.
Time passes, and you talk of love and hate!
Neither hate nor love do I seek to foremost want,
But the way to carry on full bravely,
In what I need, well stocked, in other things polite,
Not raising row or ruckus, forbearing most.
Pierre. Make good these words and make a goodly host.
Jean-C. Make good these shirts first, then advise.
Pierre. Indeed, ’tis time. My friend is wise.
Jean-C. Quick-handed and he’s sober, fie!
Pierre. Tie my shoestrings to avenge yourself, soft heart,
And I shan’t but turn the other cheek for reason.
Jean-C. Do so yourself because my hands are tied.
Pierre. A most morose message, this. Hands tied? Then loot
Is what they have come for, the scoundrels pillaging.
Jean-C. I do not list, marry.
Pierre. At war, heroes and mongrels. The moon aloft,
We come here back to back, and still men fall
To the light o’ yonder moon fulfilling call.
Jean-C. Most noble sentiment.
Pierre. I’ll get there first.
Jean-C. It evades me. Who shall finish first, wins.
Pierre. Declare yourself.
Jean-C. I am a badger.
Pierre. I am a fox-pierre!
(Nadia Lebedev approaches, curtsying)
Nadia. Fancy, I have never seen you at the wash,
But started working first thing yesterday.
My mother says to work quite straight
And not get muddled in my ways of scheming,
But I’ve been here well an hour, waste and woe!
Two days of working have not seen a dollar.
What love? I do but sit for watching dogs,
And babies in their cars, but here’s a star!
I found ye interesting and shook a shoe,
Not warring with myself but coming fleet,
In manners and on top of things. D’ye tarry?
The night is brewing splendid things, for ay,
The drinks are pouring German dark and French.
Children stay put, ne’er mind late taste and flavor,
Whereas a sparkling lass needs better game,
To dance and talk and play awhile, tale weaving,
Not caring o’ the hour or how tired she be,
Since gods keep reveling – then so do we!
Pierre. She’s spry, but in our eye’s already an apple,
Not less sweet than before, but red’s the peel.
Nadia. Hot apples make delicious fare, no lie!
In Paris, then, there’s an a gentleman
Does not take favors over righteous grace
Or spend his time committing perjury.
You seem like cherry sweethearts, though, no blame –
In such fair miens there can be little shame!
Pierre. Esteeming us too high is this bright soul,
Who in her virtue sits full goddess-like.
Jean-C. Caring for us in these dark hours, faith!
Think not too much on us, for all is well.
Two friends are we transpiring jovially,
Waiting as like for other friends to-morrow
Who make the arch its keystone fashionably
O’ friendship which pursues us heavily,
To have with us in close security.
Nadia. ’Tis better to have than not to have, sirs, rightly.
Pierre. Have ye many friends around, sweet girl?
Nadia. Some friends have I or should I be full lonesome,
Bent out of shape by work and passing time
In dull perplexity, nothing at hand.
Then would I look so old, tongue-tied, and lost,
An outer me, whereas the inner seeks its peace
Then withers from the world, abnormally.
Jean-C. A right pretty soul is what I seem to see!
Nadia. The city has none fair or good as thee.
Pierre. He is a simpleton and I a cad,
So take good care of where your heart is placed.
Strangers be they who bear an outward look
But inward writhe in viler vacancy.
Nadia. We are not made to live forever, friend!
Not being God, we know not where there’s mead
And where there’s poison but sit down to sip,
One prospering, one falling, youth cut short
And age declining till the merry death.
Going up a hill or down one late at eve
Gives fate another opportunity
To work the yarn as righteous master might:
All else, the ninnies begging for their bread,
Consumers drenched in cake, poets in wine,
Meek women scampering to spend or save,
Are born quite backwards, see but specks of Him.
One way we take, another says the Lord!
No point there is in musing much o’er problems,
Since lives are ready as the rainbow fly
To gage horizons and then find surcease,
All stuff on Earth, all Nature swallowing.
Pierre. Friend Jean, mark you? We are so wallowing!
Jean-C. On my lunch, I know but not to know or die
Thinking in vain distraction, nor a poet made.
A pointless poet bears no fine-edged point
Thus drifting out to squalor – slender sailing.
Pierre. ’Tis the skeleton says it, that his mind has meat.
Jean-C. No more than what we are by nature given
From dawn to dusk o’ the tender, daring day,
Extracted from us then by drag of life,
Banshees and ghosts who take from the butter dish,
Misled desires and short accomplishments.
Dyes of the Earth set in, run out again,
Made most of shadow, passing through time’s shade,
Where work we do, we might do brilliantly,
Put on the airs of peacocks pound for pound,
Then faint to perish in the world’s conditioning.
Skinny am I, but keep this reckoning,
Aught to be reckoned, hoping times are kind,
For lore and love do well to stand us by.
Nadia. My pockets, paltry here, but then to chore.
Pierre. The passion of a Puritan, by God.
Jean-C. By Jove, the foot o’ an angel here peace keeps!
To be elegant in manners, that is something,
Far over nothing, though we talk of nothing.
Nadia. A right colorful fellow is this anxious blond,
Who folds his clothes four feet in mystery.
Name being? My mind is roguish as the sea.
Pierre. He says his name is Jean-Christophe politely
But six feet under go his thoughts not brightly.
Jean-C. Look here! I’m not a twit!
Pierre. No, but midnight be his name if all is pain
He claims, a Gothic gallows on his crest.
Jean-C. You do me o’ philosophy devest.
Nadia. Have you not his letters? Has he not got yours?
Fractured conversation implicates cut ends
In woven wiring where the lines must meet,
The sentiments obscure and theories frayed
Each to each, instead of tender talk,
To timber thus, the jolly dialogue.
Pierre. We do not argue but for gentle sport.
Jean-C. Do not despair, my dear, there’s naught amiss,
That is not rectified by friendly kiss,
For when you see us somewhat slandering,
’Tis but to strengthen ties of brotherhood,
Duking it out, drawing it in, what not,
Nor former words of comradeship forgotten.
The spriest pair of cubs – just so, these men,
One large, one small, the couple garrulous
As fountain music, loud and querulous.
Pierre. Behaving for redemption, good friend Jean.
Jean-C. You were baptized in a winter lake, Pierre,
To make a Spartan, says these sumptuous things,
A cousin tries to craft his form of speech
To get the best of folk, no fool deceiving,
A fisher for the liveliest whiting – me
Who might be adept more at breathing sea.
Pierre. Nor any fault being from a frozen lake.
Nadia. I do feel kindly, meanwhile, toward the lake
For having turned out man and son at once,
A gent who speaks polite in privacy
To turn an ear – this good it does for me.
Jean-C. He is blessed, blessed! And thrice for having come,
Happenin’ ’pon this maid in destined measure eke.
Nadia. Then might I bless him more in asking out
Ye merry gentlemen for food and walk.
Jean-C. By the pale moonlight, I know not how to answer.
Pierre. Add I a trust – confiding gesture. Here!
(Holds out his hand for Nadia. Shake they then hands, all round.)
Fear I to go lest good friends hoodwinked be,
Left out, and given salt for sugar, loth.
We parlay, they are taking their desserts,
Or what they may, unready for dismay.
Seek ye others out, and we shall come anon,
Still open to your kindly hosting ways,
Remembering like elephants this night,
But like the birds at large, onward take flight.
Nadia. The man who my hand touches is a saint,
Since by his grace my mind grows free of taint,
Whilst the fellow in his company restores
A drying lass to health in honesty.
Jean-C. Nadia presides henceforth. We go to our beds, we.
Pierre. The world needs more finesse. He’s got the gun.
Jean-C. Out like a light to Sophie writing, blithe.

Scene II

Albert Duchamp and Stephen Charpentier, neither of whom have eaten, are taking a brisk morning stroll.

Alb. Paris awakens, all men eat; I shall not eat
But listen to Monsieur who’s always eating.
Steph. He’s got me by the goat and pulls the plate,
That I, like Cupid, hold my fast till noon
Whereat each crust of bread shall sound like Hell to me
And the tinkling o’ glasses like a sweet dame’s voice,
Because the day has broken into reason
While Albert lives, my sterling vocalist,
Whom no man takes from me nor woman, ay.
Gray as a seagull’s he – all for his mood
Which waxes wroth and mellow, light and deep,
Depending on the day and what he makes.
Alb. Men of quality enjoy more than mere gold,
Success innate and eked from lengthy toil,
However penny poor or silent proud – there’s light
Surpasses what a middling mind makes old
Dreaming o’er and grabbing, nor wont to reflect.
There’s light without us; light when we are game
To catch it in its subtle forms, expound it,
And utilize what does no good to waste
Without instilling blemish, safer surely,
Greater in rising to the test than letting loose
To moil in life’s distractions, misering
What fair we could have done by churning dirt.
Inclined to light, the fellows of our love,
The deepest and the worthiest of loves,
Rebellious, blind, and vagrant – music making
No matter what the cost, always believing.
Drink I to dung? To dung I do not drink,
Nor bury better sound ignobly
Against the broads who flirt and men who win
In spearing hors d’oeuvres, sat upon their can,
So base the unbelieving foolery,
All falsified, a glut’s prosperity.
Steph. Dim and grunting, men; your voice is aught your key.
Alb. I keep my key to shun bitter despairing.
Life’s source is water; water turns to mead
As clouds disperse, a strain of music hearing.
Steph. Proud, not a little; so, because he works.
A loafer is most seemly lying ’bout the works,
Inside a devil’s stardom, perjuring.
Pretend not we poor folk but send to space
The grace of a well-wrought anthem, industry.
Then, give to beggars, but not overmuch,
Such standard charity no way comprising
The common man who needs security.
A prayer at night, two hours scribbling,
Upon the arm of faith, genius reposed,
Wrapped up in doing all that’s worth the wait,
This tells our story, who no more reside
In indiscretion, dumbness, or false gold
Than any doting mother’s full grown son.
I would not break the cord by breeding discord
If praised a million times for working woe.
Alb. Hail Mary, who shan’t see suffering for his spirit,
Whose womb is fruitful blessed for the holy whippet.
Steph. Fidelus, Fidelus, Fidelus, his duty tames,
So we two minstrels have been tamed by Time
To sing our souls and act accordingly,
In league with Father Time who doth tongues teach
To lengthen, keeping dullness out of reach.
Alb. Thistles are mumbling rogues; the flowers play
More sweetly music, and the fox at bay.
Steph. Thorns are women scorning candid dialogue,
Attributing our words spake, to a frog.
Alb. Snide beauty gives no blessings to the brave,
Thinking no other bravery exists
But colors bold disguising inward want,
The outside pompous: inward, paupers keep,
Proud, angry, vulgar, selfish, rude,
Thin as crepe paper, O those flimsy fools!
Point they at us who have no pleasing point,
No kindness or redeeming quality,
Does no good turn but darns us dastardly.
Steph. He is hot around the year, a baked potato,
That people touch to make a different O
Of a visage, shriveling his eyes of grape
In their brazen sunlight, snipping off the ears
With sharpness ill possessed of better good,
Vain beauty only, standing, sophistry,
Transpiring in the way of his sobriety.
Alb. They are not my moon, for I’ve a poet’s moon,
Accepting nothing out of poetry
As something to embellish with white wit,
Not the maniacs who delve in mania,
Or tarts or empresses who’d buy the moon
To have a part of what I take in full.
Steph. Let them mix milk and alcohol at night;
The white man’s here to sing the Russian song
And get away like God with modern rhyming!
Alb. Then fall they on a couch, and I, a ditch
For having been to Death the most deceiver.
Steph. Ye keep me warm, ye friend and pessimist;
My ear’s a-tuned to darker comedy,
Which makes the artist ideal company.
The clouds to which I play shall know I’m dead
By the time I finish writing line for line,
And not be blacker for me – royal black ink
Standing in my stead o’er me in ecstasy,
Though I ’ave fallen flat. The pages, sharp are,
Stand them maybe years from hence unripped,
To show a friend of music died ago,
Amidst a world of stone and falling silky flowers,
While others lived a-mounting; the mountain sleeps.
Alb. He outlives heartbreak.
Steph. A premonition sound. I can’t say nay.
Alb. The lady was a fair yet monstrous trollop?
Steph. Throughout her life, she is self-rectified.
I do not hear from her nor would I,
If the chills of ages did my mind perplex
Persuading me to fancy that forsook.
Alb. Save not my flesh but all my breathing soul,
The standard proverb. Apart but rightly.
Steph. My heart song does persist without a word.
Alb. He marries mellows, promising good form.
And future fineness, gifted preciously.
Steph. And if you were to woo one day and wed,
Finding in someone else a light appreciative,
Not being too dissimilar, at ease,
What manner o’ women should befit your thought
To choose o’er every other female free
For wager, wedding, weal, and unity?
Surely, the hardest man is due in time to melt
In front of such a flame, the bluest force:
True love that doth make other hues full void
And fill the heart with pining, nor remorse.
Love in its prime shall be a shadow fondish
Like a hound for following, or it should morn,
Turning blue all that it touches, inch by inch,
As the sun doth rise and set, nor can it same,
Continues on despite itself or famish.
This has true life, and you are of the living;
This has an end in mind, and you are hale,
In summer, through to reddening fall, a shape
And type of tree can spring one, two, or three.
I would, should you be this wood, wax mild and warm.
Alb. My blueness is the wear of wending years
Right many artists have expressed in work.
It takes me by the hand and leads me forth
To do as lovers do without such love
As men and women share for intimacy,
Cook for myself, my heartstrings softly dragging,
Working and reaping, doing daily chore,
Imagining fantasies, though, in line
And one with who I am – a dreamer, dreaming.
Steph. A stallion on a hill are you, more like.
Succinctly centered are you not for ay,
A good and merry gentleman likes pie.
Alb. Wine n’ cigarettes more smoothly work inside,
Whereas pie can form on face or neck or brain
Where procrastination starts, delinquency.
Steph. Do lovers trip down roads and alleys reeling?
There’s much less wrong when bearing befits seeming,
Two act as one, their thought compelling,
To protract sweetness, jars around the still.
Alb. Then give the still to me, I will no jar.
Steph. Why, prithee?
Alb. Shall make my own nor lover please.
Steph. Look here – his cheeks are turning, O!
The same sweet blush as a scarlet tomato,
Keeping his ground, against perhaps the grain
That tells him it’s well time for heartbeat’s heaven.
The sun comes out and all his senses reach,
Becoming, O! so delicate and fine,
Not for himself but hiding tremolo,
The grace notes coming green and in crescendo.
Alb. He does not skirt the ground, he spears it straight.
’Tis this way; this is how men think
Is what he says to me who no wife keeps,
His eyes closed, then with history allying,
Persuasion’s art form never recordless.
So I am not surprised; but what a gem
He takes me for, a ponderous account.
I could do the same to him to move the sand,
Do hesitate amidst these morning weeds.
I say not much but tire with saying it,
My own undoing likewise prophecy.
Steph. Despair or death, which doubt reigns over thee?
Alb. I shan’t perform my songs as best I can
Judging by how the morning jumps me over,
This person stalling, waiting to go thither.
A-muddle am I and morose, obscure,
In such a burned up state the songs shall fall
Like poultry ’fore they higher limits cherish.
Without the uplift, work drags on impoverished.
Steph. Jack had a bean, then fortune from the bean.
Alb. Losing his wealth, a man might chance
To die using a string bean left and right,
As cheap as labor, vainer than the cross.
Steph. Why not a blade?
Alb. Why not a belt? The world’s a metaphor.
Steph. At least he is no money squandering
Who has a wise head, will to work prevailing.
Others will a sum of money soon depleat,
Enjoying pleasures which drag down to dirt,
Then woe! When envy takes him waxing wild,
Possessing mortal form destructively.
Alb. In muck and mire lives scanty industry,
Well put! Where the heart is brave, the head is firm,
And where true beauty, goodness also lives.
Steph. I harken.
Alb. And I am always talking. Partners, we.
Steph. Can’t think of a better one, but chose a one,
To be chosen by him for a morning date.
Alb. The down and out get by around-about.
Steph. I’d look good begging with a piano pack;
Don’t fancy thinking squash about it, though.
Alb. Nor I, but art transcends mere human want
And tries to persevere past timid means
If bearing seeds of greatness not to go
Expelled by circumstances trying wit
While telling weaker souls to hang or perish.
Art soulful, uplifts always, shedding light
Or else a dismal dungeon were the world,
Involved too much in woes, bleak habitude,
Regressing not progressing, hatred rife
Fostered by ignorance and bad preparing.
Steph. Great artists are the touchstone of our kind,
Leading out from nothingness the human race,
The emptiness of squalid ways of thought,
Producing over sand the succulent
And so toward success striving, pouring grace.
Alb. Good words of inspiration for a stroll.
Steph. Take us this bridge, our thoughts continuing.
Alb. Fair Sir, you’re like the sky, all welcoming.
Steph. Albert, he’s like a tree that gives good air,
Shade, shapely form, and tasteful topics
Wherewith to stir the mind to cogitate,
As in the open, blending nature, breeding talk,
Providing without sorrow, nutriment.
I’m meaning what I say, quite cheerfully,
No cause to cozin in the line of friend.
Alb. Earns trust, methinks.
Steph. Though I’ve a crooked nose and offset teeth.
Alb. I’m none your virtuous bride, wit also thinks.
Steph. But marry, we’ve got history behind us.
Alb. The right amount and never surplus,
Being as one full bird, both wings and beak:
I am the beak and you have splendid wings
Working the piano like an on-beat king,
No matter what the month, still caroling.
Deformity is going separate,
Where man meets shortcoming but as one man,
More beautiful with arms two pair a-pace.
Men wane without so smooth a road, outworn,
Not having more to do, delinquenting.
Steph. This wasting is a sorrow.
Alb. Such sorrows should all be wasted in good times
If man have motive given reckoning,
The roots of which be in God given grave,
More fair the output, less like rampant sorrow.
Steph. Alone, ye have established ministry.
Alb. No ministry without your blessed spirit
Consoling me, or else a cloister, I.
Steph. Am I so cloying, boy, thus keeping ye
From self-confinement, partnering these steps?
You do me more than justice – flattery –
Saying that you need; the neatness strikes a cord.
Alb. You sing along, and I play harpsichord.
Steph. Are we so old?
Alb. The oldest and the best, the youngest, most,
The shiest and the most provocative,
Artistic dangerously, sharp as the bee,
But to yield up honey – public panoply.
Steph. Bliss does exist for those who will believe.
Alb. I can imagine. Those are dreamy lines
Harder to prove when the going’s desolate,
And ends will meet not ends, the year so dry,
But from full mess a union – loth, a vision!
From out of turmoil, something to instruct
In ways of wisdom, balm is there and salve,
Not ever lost, with introspection gained,
The beauty is a diamond in the wastrel’s rough,
A legacy to love full separate,
A waiting promise – put off saving grace.
Chaos doesn’t come without creative gem,
Nor trees without up-shoots of glaucous green.
Hieing in the spring and new endeavoring –
Steph. To talk of nature is to know the soul.
Alb. Met I this phrase before?
Steph. If yes or no, ye happen on it now.
Alb. God bless you, Albert – such a nature’s friend!
Steph. Love it, or it despiseth you, God knowing.
Alb. Marry, he is a cautious cat ’gainst chaos. Hie hither!
Steph. What see ye?
Alb. A gull has caught a fish and totes it off,
Flapping its wings in crystal drops of rain.
I fancy it has lunch, not noon before,
Nnow higher lest a ship disgruntle it.
Steph. Or your pigmy face. Ho, here below!
Alb. It does not give the morsel or be starved.
Steph. I will the morsel, faith.
Alb. Stop we at a bistro or be damned.
Steph. Perhaps our friends will follow.
Alb. How they the eyes to so deft follow?
Steph. If we call them, sir. Ha!
Alb. What say you?
Steph. I say that we sit and call them, sir.
Alb. I’ve got their numbers and the will to speak,
But not an inkling of which ones will out,
Each to his work or we in passing
Have got them blessed and shown them our good work
Without a link or obligation, ay,
To wait upon our souls for old time’s sake.
Steph. We’ve known the fellows but a day.
Alb. A day can be a year, protracted nice.
Steph. ’Tis not a burden, Al, to think of time
When duty calls professing for more time?
Methinks a goblin’s got you by the throat
To make ye turn a day into a year,
Hoping for faster friends than fate can handle,
Who’re made for constancy, but also trust.
Alb. And if they chance forget of us?
Steph. But let em’ be.
Alb. A man comes bitter for the memory.
Steph. What, have ye lost yourself to idle dreaming?
A different man seem ye who heavier
Casts down his eye-glance, dry feet shuffling
As they were wet and stiff unto the bone.
Must ye be kinsman to the whole wide world,
And stranded in an eyeblink when things cool,
Sudden an island, split asunder twice?
Upset, fatigued, and ravaged? A man are ye?
Perforce the girls have got some witchery
Permitting them to play ye up and down,
My man become an instrument all stretched
Because their feet are jigging. Hard to tell;
But a reflective mood suits maddened men the most,
The saintly rock outliving common crumble.
Alb. O saintly friend, I have not taken crumb,
And you go blaming me for having shakes?
Steph. Then you were bitten by an elfin snake,
Not anymore the same, turned inside out,
Wherefore I say the outside’s gotten in,
Your better nature secretly exploiting.
Alb. I swear upon my life, I am not bit.
Steph. A sweet thing is the prized possession, Priam.
Alb. I know him not, this Priam.
Steph. He fell with Troy, and all his kingdom bootlegged.
Alb. They take it to the wheel.
Steph. You better learn you Greek than weep defeat.
Alb. I am not heartbroken.
Steph. Here’s measurement to quantify!
(Looks in his eye.)
Looking in your eye, the whites I tend to see,
No pupil anymore but dentistry.
Alb. I am uncommon, then; most passing rare.
Steph. Tell me, what thinkest ye?
Alb. It’d please my grace to be at kingdom come.
(Heaves a sigh.)
Until that point, your parlay pleases me.
Steph. You please me to the heart, me gentle lad,
As does this gentle time and gentle date.
Alb. The bridge we walk is one of mighty measures,
Inspiring as it is, more good for use.
Breakfast, I don’t regret not having it,
But fasting makes the morn go by so fair!
Steph. Well honey, shalt thou have.
Alb. The syrup yet inside my heart.
Steph. Wherefore?
Alb. Christine. Methinks she is the maid.
Steph. I did perceive your slouch to be sublime
As the weeping curve upon tragedian mask,
Artful and delicate, a moving piece.
There were no finer vase than the thoughtful man
Filled to repletion with a daisy’s dew,
Gone overboard if table, baked bread lacks,
That bread meaning more to him than the Seven Seas.
Straight vase, flat mask, the object is the pitch!
Straight quietude, this converse’s well disturbing.
Alb. Stay close to me and I shall be quite saved,
Alive again, regaining the mastery
Of myself, who have but knowledge of myself.
How think of more, if still I have not thought?
Steph. Her ear must itch. Do call!
Alb. Peace, peace, more peace must speak perforce.
Fool, rascal, rampant, you procrastinate.
Eight and twenty years or more have passed your birth,
Decking now your face with line and crease finite,
Comely, not homely; but how shall you grieve,
Once love, then missing opportunity,
Pleased more in art than products of that art,
Peevish, more than to wax in honor’s name,
And hoping for an answer without voice.
Ah, rascal, starve yourself but not the seed
That blooms a rose, awakes the sweetest mead.
Alb. Imploring for a girl does make ye suspect
In my intuition, says you haven’t one.
Penguin-pusher, politic matchmaker, bear,
I think you jeopardize my slumbering.
So worried, I, I will not sleep but dream
Of love, to languish softly with Christine.
Steph. Princes have done as like, and kings!
Alb. Though none of them to date me with advice.
Surpassed are they, by years, and I by fears.
Steph. Fear ye to live and breathe? Sit up or stand?
Take the bull by its horns; it’s your own apathy
And will to squander at large, modest time,
Sticking to what be known, denying else.
Alb. What squandering? Ay, richly live I, proper.
Steph. Like the petal of a pea plant, mint.
Alb. Not since I was a budding boy, mon pere.
Steph. I say ’tis so. Having much sung alone,
It is by practice you go onward wending,
Through winter cold and summer heat the same,
Not much at odds, bemused, your own self wedding.
Alb. Not salty as the desert or the sea.
Steph. A slim salt cracker therefore?
Alb. Cad, I shall not show ye! New or old, ye?
Steph. The truth of the matter – that I know not the truth,
But call you cracker if your record breaks
In misting up your humors regular,
More than becomes the dewy rose what’s more:
A wilting lily or a popinjay
Drowned out in silent sorry, wallowing.
Alb. I get by upon my looks, hero,
Like a bird in the morning – sing but to the sun.
Steph. How cherished, my dear friend.
Alb. How odd, my fellow, ye should not know already.
Steph. I know but what I need to know to live.
If Albert says he’s cake, then cake shall he present be,
Nor my job to any oppose it, bickering.
He does not bicker but turns a bloody fool
By overstepping boundaries, missing much,
Imposing his own rule, a cad as such.
Alb. More bread than cake – ye must not slice it wrong,
If I have not run today – I am no whore.
Steph. At least a whore bathes all her cloven feet:
Ten sets o’ lingerie for every day
And only stopping some days aught to drink,
As birds do bathe and drink, outgoing being.
Alb. We both are in-going, you smelling cad!
Steph. No man is so sun-kissed he cannot bow
To smell the hairs upon his pregnant chest.
Alb. Should you send me out to bathe in public baths
So as to serve your senses better, making close
Two friends who are in urgency
Their own value to prove by lifting scents
Up to their noses saying – this is thee!
Then soap my back and I’ll soap yours, content
That clean, we score – no more admonishment.
Steph. Here come a merry buck on the self-same road,
O’er six foot tall he seems – that burl, Pierre!
Alb. On my honor, I swerve not; I fancy men.
Steph. You must be, therefore, ay, a happy man,
Good men all honoring, a wondrous soul.
Alb. Envying the lot, Monsieur, is not my goal.
Steph. He’s not far different from you in look,
Alike in size and shape and peaching coloring,
Not pale and not obscure, could be kouros,
Or like Puck in the wild, flit twice around.
With men so spry, indeed, one sees the smile,
Position, walk, and grimace, right upfront,
Without turning away the eye – this type.
Alb. But love and hatred take I at the nose,
A stoic not possessed or be most moved.
Steph. I see not Sophie or Christine.
Alb. It moves me not to see them or be damned
To poor and childish lack of understanding.
Steph. Keep, then, the upper hand.
(Approaches, Pierre and Jean-Claude)
Pierre. Ho, fellows! Turn hence.
Steph. Could it be?
Alb. Enchanted be we.
Jean-C. Ah, quoi de neuf? Merci a Dieu,
Il s’agit d’une grande Plaisir, amis a rencontrer.
Pierre. We were not good but better are we made.
Steph. Not seeing ye, it gifts my sight to see ye
Manifold more now that the distance’s down,
Surprise being perforce the nicest sauce.
Jean-C. What an appetizing thing to say! Bistro?
Alb. He does not roar who has not daily food.
My meal I’ve missed, so too Saint Stephen here,
Which does not make us less than men but gods
For the stomachs quantity of rumbling.
Pierre. Thor come, Oden, come, there is timely relief.
Steph. Sleep those two Jungefraue of your company?
Or do they chirrup with the sparrows, well and up?
Not that I have a word precise to say,
But a tender girl’s a darling to have nigh.
Jean-C. They’re misbehaving with the tender world,
Most likely, though I make no certain sense.
Pierre. To Sophie, well I spoke an hour past dawn.
She had not left to greet the break of day
Yet spoke with liveliness and little pause
In talking of her friendships politic,
What Sophie likes about Christine and food,
And what less pleases her perceiving palate,
In voice angelic, yet as one possessed,
Frantic and gentle, speaking from the heart
But not mindful of constancy of thinking.
Jean-C. The bird, something has got her tongue, or else,
She was listening to music at the pitch of bells.
Alb. To better attain the sky through ear-ful bliss.
Pierre. By levitating or by falling – ha!
Jean-C. A case of gravity.
Steph. The world turns that we mortals contemplate,
When the return? When do we join with joy?
Though girls in autumn banter with the bees
And like the birds raise fuss and flustered stir,
Their words do ornament as ample roses
The neck of noontime forging link on link
With vocalized significance, adept
At weaving wisdom as clever quip.
I speak of them in earnest reverently,
Because they engage our pastimes more than beautifully,
Giving grandeur with the merest gesture – O!
Alb. I do attest, he may be right.
Pierre. Fain would I call Christine, but the line is dead.
Thus, ask I Sophie if there’s aught that’s planned,
Or if they might a dull group entertain
In full-fledged genius, not less gallantry.
Jean-C. What, Chris’ phone is dead?
Pierre. Flip right over, vain pretender, for you choke
Thinking o’ what the Devil’s done with Solomon.
Jean-C. It grieves not you?
Pierre. I’ve got faith in her life’s security.
But may I call Sophie and see what’s on.
Alb. [To the side] God bless the phone, for do I love Christine!
Pierre. Hallo! Hallo! Sophie, c’est moi, Pierre.
Je t’aime bien. Allez-y, nous t’invitons
A dejeuner, tel qu’il faut que tu sortes,
Et dit un mot a chere Christine en plus.
Nous sommes tous quatre fiers en attendant,
So ride a zephyr, ride the wind – but go!
There’s more life here than pruning in the bath.
Jean-C. O heart! It’s skipped a beat and now I bleed,
For ay, my truest love is sweet Christine.
How left? She should be at home in honor laughing,
Wanting to fly to us above all other things.
How mute or in despair? Her best friends call,
Persuaded there is still our old Christine,
Too pleased to come at once at our behest,
Not scorning, waiting, writhing: found, not lost,
The softest dove in all God’s panoply.
Pierre. Be a rock, Jean, or your veins shall burst,
And never shall they meet again the sea,
Like rivulets, asunder querulously.
Alb. In my eye, a tear. I will not have it here.
Steph. There is the sun; on us, the sun is shining,
That normally should give us steadfast glee,
Yet if Christine’s in shadow, so’s the sun:
The sun is but a shadow niggarding,
A ruptured eye, a mighty pock, a lie.
Pierre. A word from Sophie does us loafers well.
(Uses phone.)
Sophie? What news of Solomon? She has not shown?
You say she is not in, the line is dead
As a dormouse in a farmer’s stable bed,
This all night long, to do awareness right?
Light is the news, but falls it still so gravely
Upon my ear I have not erstwhile suffered
The heart of friendship beating without end.
Jean-C. No news, no news, no saintly honeyed word
From the most important treasure man has got,
But a stellar silence, cold and lingering.
I would Christine arrive to heal this wound,
’Cuz it tears my chest without a vessel breaking –
More like a million of them, leaping lightning fast
Toward the salty ocean of my dreadest fears.
Tremendous, savage, deep and bickering,
The queerest ocean, dark yet flickering.
Steph. I hope the papers bear no ill report.
Pierre. Or a perve convey her for his sport.
Alb. My stomach turns, an awful sentiment.
Steph. Likewise, but the blond does rage to win,
That I think he will strike his head upon a tree
To rid himself of his perplexity,
Orlando Furioso, his will possessed to fly
When conditions force him to the bench.
He weeps clouds unforced – I do not tell him stop.
Alb. Ethereal – yet Christine might as well be so.
I do not see her lie; she might be fainting,
Too underslept to move and roughly carried,
Stuffed in a sack or undone out of sorts,
Become the latest fashion a la mode,
For not a friend but some green n’ envious Joe.
’Tis vain to think – and yet, ethereal.
Steph. So bleeding is the velvet, ink black night.
Alb. And all her books and articles, like ice,
More cold untouched than an Arctic floe – O!
Steph. Off we, to fetch Queen Tut and bring her home?
Pierre. We know not where she is.
Alb. Nor who she is with.
Jean-C. Or if she has a cent to venture home,
Party rejoined, to bless my brain forthwith,
And end its thinking of atrocity,
The best bread being – wondrous fair Christine.
Pierre. You say it well, a Christian; others more uncouth
Do get foul flavors from that which they say,
Doing the evil – mix the icing for their mouths,
A proper pastry diamond living in.
The pearls of ladies need not this thick paste
Alive with virtue being, stalwart bread,
And we, too, bread, the best of breads:
Said otherwise in slang, stars simply fall.
Jean-C. Thank you for leading in remembering
My mind to think these possibilities
Aghast, my hands like two leaves vaguely curling
No better things to think or stranger,
Than that someone has baked my pastry girl,
Some Cronus slick, licentious, proud, and foul
In smell as in crooked proclivity,
The least of spawn and yet the worst of men
In flaunting prowess even by the hangman’s noose.
He has got her – nay, or they, since chums will share
A hefty hem as if it were a tart,
Or pie o’er brimming with their heathen light,
Tomatoes, what not, silver fry of fish,
Pisaladiere, wherefore my friend is prop,
Or made into a puddle, comatose,
Stepped on by dogs or fox, what’s more, or wolves
That sack neat Christian wool most savagely.
My darling Prosperpine, my Ruth, my rush,
My slender reed has got the green on her
Of a grown man’s envy, yet too young to die
Or be rendered into ribbons for his eye!
Pierre. We are thinking of it; we are not on top of it;
I would smash a knave and break him and be just;
If he wax wise, then would I poke out his eyes
To evict the cat and leave a boulder in its place,
The last dance mine, and crepes on top of that,
A bloody cherry – so the briggand’s nose is.
Alb. Be he thinking to be on top of a villain swine,
Like holy Saint Mike and filled with righteousness,
But the guilty fire is not as clear as dirt,
So a man may be guilty, whilst the maid is hid,
If gone to dirt, who knows? Christine’s away.
Steph. Due to an outbreak of thieving swine, we think.
Alb. Think we in vain without assuming grace?
A slender woman for late bread is grateful;
Too late in coming, though, can leave her doleful
Without a jot of sweetness but her sweets sucked dry,
Alive a bit today or gone for ay.
Jean-C. When pleasure was Christine, the nicest.
Pierre. Indeed, she should have been the safest kept,
In the arms of angels who wished no man ill.
Steph. Mad day, mad hour, mad fearful company,
Mad helpless dogs are we, the fox a-prowl,
With nothing certain – but the world does sin
As sure as Sweeny Todd made mincemeat pie
Or the Ripper made haste for his heartfelt antics – O!
Pierre. Are you thinking the same line as me? The thief resides
Who stole our bottle waging petty war,
And did revenge proclaim at once and craving
As much as a beast does, where to sink his teeth.
Alb. Could he have crept, a slinking shadow drear,
At night to swipe the dearie’s household nest,
Possessed by a gin or even Lucifer,
Or of himself who was no champion?
The dastard does it to himself. He dies.
Pierre. He does not live but with fear of me,
Is what I’m thinking, knowing him by face;
Sensation of being close should bring me forth
Like the most horrid bloodhound man has ever heeled,
Fair game for feat, these hackles up,
And for the prize – Christine’s longevity,
The peel of foes, nor their prosperity,
And the best of honors – doing on one’s own,
The self, maintaining; man the self, reclaiming.
Jean-C. You are thunderous, but have I mickle meaning
In these two hands; I would avenge my sweet
At her behest, the sea on shore to greet.
Steph. Hate, hate, hate, but sinners sin.
Alb. Helping Christine would be the sweetest date.
Steph. And us together, all rolled up into one,
Formation most delectable, nor a worm
To ruin appetite before the brink of noon.
Alb. What sort of worm? The thief?
Steph. From one to seven worm; we have not heard;
Yet he who jumps the contest is a knight
Who does no peril to his princess springing,
Or rend his eyes for never looking after.
Alb. French fry the scoundrel; will’s a dainty sword.
Pierre. A moment – here’s Sophie. I listen, dear.
(Hangs up the phone.)
The Mademoiselle has made mysterious shift,
Which leaves us to brood at worst, rock bottom.
Sophie informs us of the status quo,
And says, also, she’s shaking like a corpse,
Unlike herself, morose, deprived of health.
As it so happens, knocking on her friend’s door,
Receiving no reply for well a stewing hour,
Sophie abandoned ship to go back home,
But greener than a vegetable came she,
All sick with worry, barely making sound,
Since Christine promised she would call that once,
Then like a phantom, nowhere might be seen.
It makes me terror stricken, being but a man,
Albeit a strong one o’ steadfast loyalty.
Alb. He weighs more than a gram, who’s got smart hand.
Steph. What circumstance is this? The ship is lost.
Alb. Then set we sailing straits to rectify.
Pierre. Police and parents should have the news anon;
Gone is Christine into the Devil morn.
Jean-C. Niobe, I; I cannot think but weep.
Pierre. Upon this bridge, I would the worst man sleep.

Susan. O bitter day, thankless event, cruel year,
The nest is cold already. Where is she,
My sweet and gentle daughter? Not yet dirt?
Not more than twenty-two, my bright Christine,
Who has split from her safe and downy bed,
Which does bode ill; I cannot think it well;
And have within my heart, grief lingering.
Needs she a dress? She cannot be addressed,
Or touched to comb her gorgeous chestnut locks.
This world, this world, abhor I everything.
Pierre. All’s vanity but love; and I loved my cuz
Astounding, bright, and happy as she was;
But now revenge fashions my only love,
My life without, despicable deceit.
Sophie. Too young to be a willow, love is lost,
And I’m the bending willow set to cry,
When youth is green – uproarious does it seem,
A fire roars it up and takes delight away.
Jean-C. It does not make this thin man gay.
Susan. Confront me then our sorrows for Christine,
And be not overruled by Nature’s sway,
Doing instead, our utmost, saving time,
To find sweet love and bring her back again,
Preserving hope, not fear, maintaining grace,
Well shaken yet still grateful out of good,
Since envy of God’s lot is sick as sin,
Beholden to the day for missing death
And waiting for the future, Christine’s face.
Sophie. While guided by this note upon the lines
Wherever the willy leads us, right or wrong;
The message states with broken lettering,
We should hie to church, or Christine’s fettering
Shall be the price of our gross lack of care,
Her hair against the grain, so shaven bare.
Pierre. The man lacks decency who authored this.
Jean-C. With our strength renewed, we shall save her soon for this.
Sophie. The writer could have been miscellaneous,
But methinks it was the self-same man who stole,
Since he spoke stupidly, and here it shows.
Jean-C. That dumb? I have a thumb, so get us going,
Alive this day to dole out punishment,
And not give aught in ransom but a jab
To send the heathen whining like a nag.
Pierre. The wine he dreams is colored lividly.
Alb. Three cheers, three cheers.
Steph. If I had a chair, bemused, I would not sit
With yet to do though I be passing sore,
Bold honor being in my heart to hear:
Hear ye its beating? Pass it, boundaries.
Alb. What’s here at odds, the truth shall remedy.
Steph. The morning has me mystified.
Jean-C. Quite right! He does not lie, nor I.
Pierre. Snake’s venom dews the crest of every tree;
It permeates the air and is not kind;
Imprint of power is but false prestige,
Belying hellish natures as of beasts
Doing what they will forever or be naught.
Hate I his wine dark lips who moved to drink
What appertained to God, both fleece and neck;
Now weep these eyes, fain would I straightly pluck,
On seeing Chris degraded. Vilest day!
My own lips shake, but cannot shake this thought away.
Susan. If only Charles were here! He has amends
To make concerning business, yet he comes
To seek out sweet Christine; anon he’s coming,
His benign and gentle spirit bravely bringing,
Though age o’ertakes his lovely jet black locks;
It is his saintly nature, puts forth feet
Despite the pains of deep anxiety,
For what are riches? Nothing are they worth
If Chris be waylaid, scorned, and mocked.
Gold has no substance – this I rightly know,
Possessing gold already, white as snow.
Jean-C. My death if she is buried – awful death
That used to seem so distant, now more near,
Discouraged as I am and want to mope,
Care-ridden as new pains come curiously
To take the shine from out my seeing eyes,
Instilling tarnished glare. I’m suffering.
Sophie. Mayhap, poor Chris is suffering more.
Steph. How, then, restore the prize and priceless gem
To its rightful place within our diadem,
Leaving behind hands chastised if that we may,
Not to kill but split asunder Devil’s way?
The circumstances please me very little,
Since Chris is out of reach or lost or sick,
Meanwhile the silence, not a clue to reap,
Except the bar thief said he’d mischief make.
If only, O! This dimness bothers me,
And would I shake it into good correction.
Alb. The neighborhood is here for circumspection.
Sophie. If crooks are camel-less?
Alb. Then we should probably make a meal of one.
Susan. Removing my daughter first, to make the lizard tame.
Sophie. She says it just.
Alb. Friends, get we going? [To the side.] It shall snow, my instinct fears,
Before the issue is resolved that reeks.
Pierre. Police to their guns, and we to industry,
Or else lose everything whilst we sit and wallow.
Steph. We haven’t had a bit since yester eve!
Pierre. Eat, move, or stay to grieve.
Susan. O heaven! Too shocked, I am falling out of breath,
Dream on my husband Charles who does take heed,
Heavy in chest and knees and twisted out of sorts,
Having gumption; faint, alas, a-feared for Chris,
Who has no mother’s help, on the toe of God!
The world seems strange. I do protest this fate.
Pierre. Assure you, I, that Christine is the same,
That all of us are steadfast and committed.
Jean-C. Lose us not this race, but going, cannot fail,
It proper is and seemly to keep hope,
As opposed to tragedy as salt to tea.
Alb. Pray you for Chris, and I shall pray for thee.

Scene III
The pimp-thief PJ Baxter talk to Christine whom he has kidnapped in his solitary abode.

PJ. Silence to heather, silence to heather and Christians all,
They do not make to mock me but I know a thing
About the price that fancy fools shall pay.
Hear me, hear me now, or I will chastise thee,
With hand and stick and bitter tooth to date,
Since it is you and I together; quite inseparable;
And the sun shall never set but give thee just,
As you are bound to stay and I to swear
There be no other option – no, not ever!
But to be as white as falling Sunday snow.
You must think that I am rotten. So, I am.
Indeed, I am because you hunger me,
You greedy stomach! Roaring, fiendish hell!
Not a sliver of ham have I, not an ounce of jack,
But for myself and you included, curl!
(To the side, he spits.)
Not a friend can save you, not your father – O!
. Not the hand of fate or angels or dear God,
For ’tis inside of me to say I hate
More than a rascal ever hated dame.
Set you your hound dogs fast on me? You trick!
Thought you to quash my feelings for a drink?
I’ll teach a culprit, turn around and pay!
(He strikes Chris backhanded.)
The Devil’s woman, Christ, a child today.
Chris. Let me go, cruel rogue, base thief!
PJ. Give me roses, and I shall give to bury them in.
Dirt becomes thee, darling girl. The grass is greener.
Chris. Give me dirt for stolen wine? Too cruel.
PJ. Talk you to me? For blood, you bow to me,
Nor I to thee or be an average sop;
But rarer than the raging tiger, I,
Prove it by making discord, pulling hair.
Chris. The street shall hear me.
PJ. No teeth shall breathe me.
Chris. I stop! Cease, cease, and I’ll not say a word.
PJ. The rich, like you, are made of lemon curd.
In this broken house make I my muse my mate,
Evicting her proclivities to date,
And take her on board, nothing but a slave,
Depraving her who would my mouth deprave.
You do not see it through presiding squalor,
But know I well how to glean a fine French dollar,
As well as any man an eye might see,
Except I might as well derange my knee,
Than sit me down amidst a bunch of fools
Who starch their shirts, pull vain and vain these spools.
Chris. I care not watch, O God, O Christ, the land,
It groans and slumps to see such wanton hand.
PJ. I do no evil but against the foul,
In thought and hand excused; one, two, three – bag!
Chris. Desist, or get me water, marry!
PJ.. What shall I play for you – the waterworks?
Queenly saint Clea wants to take a drink or bath
When more go thirsting than she cares to know.
Christ was crimson, yet she knows no better words
Than, “Thank you, bless you, need I this from you,”
Persuading me to be a man o’ moeurs,
This gave to me erstwhile – a can of blows.
Cozin me thus with great and cow-like eyes
To make me think I need to water you,
With the sort of history of which I speak,
And me, the underdog? And me, the vile?
Get you to paradise or drop from hence,
Unwanted, misbegotten creature, foe,
The tit for tat of everything I see,
Ungodly eyesore – pretty, yet the price.
Chris. My friends shall pay for me; this can you prove.
PJ. Should I want dough if you are dough enough?
They make them doughty, dog Americans,
Very well and chipper though to no good end,
Breeding yet to smile, expend, and waste on smiling,
Not knowing what they have is cattle clod.
God, I am angry! Time to justify,
Whilst Old Man Time has not yet got my tongue,
Extended, polished, formed then worked some more,
But better to address our history,
Straightforward, without fear, to testify.
I be poor, yet rich, the best and not the least;
Dispute, and I be more than rich with this,
Since distance ruins what this chance designs.
I can buffet you, then eke out more anon.
Chris. Let me drink or there is no me.
PJ. From a glass? That’s nonsense! It should break!
Comport ye to a spigot and be chaste.
Chris. Ay, me! You, in the world?
PJ. I am the one; but say it.
Chris. ’Tis blasphemy; God harkens while I gage.
PJ. Tell him that he made the world when he made the man,
The sufferings of whom you remedy
By nature being but a foolish girl:
Small of brain and spirit, quick to blame,
As green as emerald grass and envious,
Unfirm on two legs, always needing four,
Yet capable of fitting craving to its need.
Here are you meant to shine; here is your craft!
Here do you unpervert your puddle head!
Bring me to what is mine, and I’ll not bark
So much as when you argue with my looks,
Pulling upon yourself the heft of seas.
Chris. What wish you me to do?
PJ. Feed me and say that I’m the man.
Chris. I’d rather feed the pigeons, insolence.
PJ. Your blood makes up the difference.
Chris. You tell me aught to work, and I a wretch
Who vomits sitting for her hunger pangs,
O ghastly devil! Keeping me a fish
All icy cold and in her side a stitch?
Destiny breeds you but your soul to catch,
Vain as you are and crooked criminally,
In morals destitute, a creature – lo!
Grows bubbles as I whither head to toe.
PJ. Shut up, you trap of Venus!
Chris. While I grow pale, this thief will glow. (To the side.)
PJ. What bother; someone at the door; Hell knocks.
I cannot say I’m happy for this line,
Not fed to boot, I have not any time,
No softer roses but the ones are red;
So friend, thou art my enemy, I swear
For my date interrupted with this hair.
Chris. Water, I’m wretched white.
PJ. In leaving you I have no certainty.
If only you could give me – buttersquash!
Chris. No, knave, what squash?
PJ. This be a hefty hand, am I implying.
Cry on, dear puss, I’ll see you’re never drying.
I attend to the door, however, presently.
(Enter Radha Om.)
Radh. O. Beef, beef, you are the King of Vagrancy,
O! None of us could find you. We were lost,
And more than lost as you would not be found,
For which we shed a tear, bawled each at each,
Nor got to rest till Gwen bought bubbly.
Have you forgot your friendship and your meal?
You are a tender fiend who seeks more meat,
When all you need is ever fast at hand,
Wise, feisty, and unflagging, gorgeous gay.
Can we not cook? Do we not beckon oft?
Have we no bedstrings bold to tie you in,
Serve you and hold you also to be served,
Closer than parents, compatriot as kin,
Fairer than sisters, also dutiful,
Prepared to fly and also keep right by,
Fill your breadbasket to bring home bread again.
O, do not tire, if it’s all the same to you!
Our blood and brains are thick that grew to you!
PJ. What have you for me, my sweet?
Radh. O. So quick to ask, Figaro?
PJ. I shall floor you if I’ve less than ten.
Radh. O. I’m not a flower to be floored, pal John!
PJ. Think you that way? Then be this way, sly fox! (Strikes her down.)
A girl in your position should think twice
About getting in the way of businessmen,
Or put up for abuse once errant word
Calamitous from that fox mouth fly to fall.
I would give ye words to break your eardrums, chit,
But I get better, girl – but give a kiss
As token of your tentative esteem
And I shall pull you up to love you once again.
Radh. O. (Wipes her mouth.) Hate I the fist, love I the man, egad!
In a day’s work, there is so much wasted time,
That a slender girl of slender means must make
Amends, that Jack and Jill might their thirsts slake.
Misapprehension, he does violent veer.
PJ. Go on and comfort me with a pure, white kiss,
With a lily kiss, a simple happy kiss,
And I be sure to garnish thee, my miss.
Radh. O. He vexes me to play with me, the dad,
Wanton forever, yet he is no stranger,
Yet simply, aught unheard of, shy at heart,
Not average but exceptionally bad or worse,
On par with the greatest at cutting pumpkin – ho!
I fashion something like a kiss – ’tis breath,
Unlike all other breath, it is the best.
PJ. There’s a lassie that does see me. Take a break,
Buy a trinket, gadgets, foods to make you spry,
Act limberly, your feet out of the rain,
But never tell me that you do not love,
Or else – or else, I’ll hate to tid bits, dove.
Radh, O. He wants me to weep so I haven’t got a claim
O’er him who acts both hot and dastardly;
The job is easy though, and pays for more than rent,
Keeps one in health if not quite perishing.
Let him alone, Radha, to think awhile,
Like a lingering lion prone to sweep a mile.
PJ. Does your wicked tongue not cease?
Radh. O. What have you got here anyway? Do tell,
If I cannot smell a lie four steps away.
PJ. A fish to cook for lunch is what I have.
Radh. O. Instead of truth, you give me balderdash!
Is it a loaded daisy belt? Best out with it
Than twist my thinking into doubting thee,
For if he swears he’s but a roguish dunce,
But if he frolics, then the trumps are us.
On the hand of me that parts your playing hair,
On the eyes that scan your manly form each day,
The ears that hear no matter what the cost
Your precious diction till my deed is done,
The nose that loves to smell and mouth to spite
The lover who both is dictator and friend,
You do not pay us with a foreign suit;
Frowning down on us while making that excel
You have picked up after, violent scheming scum!
PJ. There are so many seeds around, you claim? Show me!
Radh. O. Then move from hence, away! (She pushes past and sees Chris.)
A chit, you dog,
A girl, and you haven’t brought me anything.
The others shall here of this, well and anon:
Your making unexpected company.
PJ. What if I say, you’ll fall?
Radh. O. Who pushes me?
PJ. Am I incapable of everything?
A lily’s not a lion, so be gone,
Do not be proud, throw not a curse on me,
Or I’ll stuff the throat of wanton proclamation
Imprisoning your mouth to suffer so,
That you shall never try to unwind what I make,
Or come to problems doing – simple slut!
Be burned a millions times before you match.
Radh. O. He is vulgar! He is unfair!
PJ. Remove yourself from here, I am aware.
Radh. O. The gist of me puts the blame somewhere, Stone Fist,
If not on you, then the one you’ve come to kiss.
Exeunt

PJ. I must leave here, but practice with this bag
The art of taking air from a sultry hag,
Sweet girls to find before they disparage me:
You be too late and cannot tarry with me.
On locks! On head and hand and beating heart!
Upon the clay that made to take away,
Unworthy villain, pastry with feet, upstart!
And if you hot become or colder wax, all’s well,
As exigency does other cares dispel.
Eros heads up to Olympus snowy white, you puss,
No friend to me, but faith – she cannot choose.
(Puts bag over Chris’ head.)

Scene IV a street corner by a lamppost

The three prostitutes Radha Om, Lisa Sorelli, and Gwenith Pffifer hang around outside chatting, not far from PJ’s bordello.

Lisa. Man is a trouble monger; he gives to everyone,
In trouble-making indiscriminate,
By nature, full of jumping beans itinerant,
Not bent on pleasing so much as be pleased,
Unkind as flint, obtuse as cabinetry,
Vexation proper for the homeward gang,
Not doing anything but his own laundry.
Gwen. If he does his own; ah, what he does, he does.
Lisa. I have a word to say, Gwen, do not break it now.
Gwen. He cannot be a man who has no collar
Embellished by the lips of little deer,
Transformed into a poppy collar – dame,
Through the reddening rose still can I see the man,
Lovely when happy kissing, nothing lame.
I have done his collar, fancy, several collars,
But never asking for the cover charge.
Veins after sweat go upward blossoming,
As do vainities, in rows or criss-crossing,
As scarlet as silk, or blood that pumps it fair,
Red as my heart when man does touch it there.
Radh. O. Silver doe, the huntsman has your hindmost leg.
You cannot think alone, no self to bother;
Your smile is vapid as a daisy field,
Or the flimsy clouds that wind up paper shredding.
Gwen. Am I in want?
Lisa. Forever diamonds, honey pea.
Gwen. Affirming wisdom for my age, my Lisa?
There is no grace you lack, but all is there:
The power and the potency to play,
Working for wine only to run away,
Donning cosmetics on a dismal day,
She is right, she is blazing right, I say.
Lisa. Gwen has a fawning creeper. She keeps me warm.
Gwen. Really? Can I read that in writing?
Lisa. I do not leap, as you are not forlorn.
Gwen. And if I were, what would you do? Pick dates.
Lisa. Tempus fugit, for what it’s worth.
Gwen. To the fox, its hen, to the woman, her vintage wine,
The cad will take his silver till he’s through,
The pig has swill and pirates, treasures scores,
Whereas Gwenith has an eye for luscious sweets,
Eternal, precious, meaning more than word;
There’s beauty more than sound, to well astound.
Lisa. In your words, you’ve took my every word.
Gwen. Did I mistake them?
Lisa. No, pigment! The sense is solid.
Radh. O. PJ has lost his sense, declare I soft,
Not out of fear so much but righteousness;
For where is the soul, is missing righteousness?
Could I scream out loud and be a lunatic,
Cry salty tears, and you would know my claim.
Hit I myself, but fain’d another hit,
Admonishing the villain, very vexed.
Another woman I’ve seen. I’ve ousted her
Ten or eleven times in simple thought,
So many times already, suffering;
The upset calls it for deed reciprocal.
Have I been paid this long to suffer dogs?
Must I suffer them in idle travesty?
This is not work; it looks like torment, ay!
Give sinners hell or damn my grieving eye!

Act III
Scene I

The prostitutes are arguing about PJ in Lisa’s apartment living room. The windows are closed, and incense is burning.

Radh. O. I do possess the forwardness to say it, with a burning forehead and a reddening cheek, one eye turned backwards, cross-eyed, and in my brain a hurt as of a widening gap were there, distraught and in distraction: the Baxter strikes me for another girl! Faith, has he got some chicken leg, some spinach stuffed roulade to make him rule so strict! My thoughts are maimed for bitterness has poisoned them and me. Who does this? The mistress, first, has got me crucified, and then the Baxter, bother him! He gives me naught but balls, and they’re not the ones I want.
Lisa. What has PJ done? Knocked you out cold, has he? I’ll say something about the brains of bears; they fancy themselves loaded, get high on hon, and have lots of hair. If PJ’s not a bear, then I am not a girl, I’m loth to say, with hair; but truth is what the issue earns. With increase in learning, there would never be an issue, privy.
Gwen. And peace on Earth, plaything.
Lisa. Try me.
Gwen. What a man is, is what he is; and if he be a hare alive in buckwheat, ’tis how he is made; so talking shall not stop his haring ’round.
Lisa. For trouble or for a date. Try closing the door to say he is not welcome, that he shall be the last person called upon to knock – and if that doesn’t work – he’s the employer, isn’t he, the stark bare wolf’s head of the enterprise, the come quick, the crossroads of our nail polish, Alex the king of grapes? He cannot be shifted into place by vocal potency, but if not, shall we sweeten him to a more slumberous attitude as gentle as a honey vine can, rob him of his audacity, eke from such elixir the kind o’ man we needed, slow and pretty.
Gwen. For what? Gems, Liz?
Lisa. You harken hastily or are pulling my leg like a rabid chimp. Quoted I, we should bring the fellow to his feet again, if not to his very knees, commending ourselves to his fairer side as stars around the moon, blindside his cheap desires, and fan his passion into fire. Do you represent me, Liz? Or are you going to play the table turkey begging like dumb squash to be damnably dressed?
Gwen. On two legs might I protest, not on my kneecaps or my thighbones, on two, though on naught, no. Your intensity of conviction inspires me, but not so much if the itching daddy turn around to beleaguer me.
Lisa. You live on pacification principles: pacify others to be yourself pacified, never diverge from this straight, pretty line: I think I have got it, but cannot get it, getting it. ’Tis neither consolation nor cure but the middle way of fancy trollops!
Radh. O. Or the lily livered – Jove, there’s three of us!
Gwen. Why be so quick to expel a different trick? Methinks ’tis a truck betwixt you, sly you and devil PJ!
Radh. O Not much of a trick but a lady of proud normal standing at our sterling base. You misconstruct me, thinking me rowdy for my profession; but ’tis not so! I did not like the girl I had in front of me, is all. We did not compliment; it was so obscene. Baxter almost had the damsel forced upon me – incredible he did not know and roguish in a nutshell, from a devil quick in sinning as he is slow in seeing.
Lisa. Has he stolen for his bird collection? Christ! The breath is taken out of me, influx of anxious worry – the cops arrive if man cares not for himself, his nature will deprive.
Gwen. That they cannot more deprave, for wit.
Radh. O. His bosom is a slummery, yet will I be yet in proximity, will I show him who is woman and who falls short, will I tell him that in my grief is squandered gold. He does not summarize what I have, the best of me, in slandering, erects this quandary fain would I foil with a simple kiss, but the blockhead hints he is too good for this. Down with them, down, or rather than seeing my own heart fried I shall move to take the crown.
Lisa. Childish words and childish reaction; you can do nothing and go not at best beyond murder.
Gwen. Cut the culprit into three. Then, release the girl so she should shop as she would fancy.
Radh. O. Compatriots, my heart have I laid bare. In shedding blood there is no doing, or I forgot my wit and wisdom to go on, implying birds sans wings are not the happiest of them, and the most libertine heroine should haply be the most free. Give me advice and it is taken; no advice, and this friendly flower has no nursery. Good advice, and my life should once again find refuge in full blossom, bringing down the inner tyranny that reigns it free, setting things straight and so forth. Privy, Baxter need split with his concubine.
Gwen. She looks so tremulous; her lips quake, laced sleek with spit. If you ail, tell us; if you are sick, come by us.
Radh. O. ’Tis a stomach writhing for the tumult of the mind that maxes all my prior sentiment.
Gwen. In your expression, well I see the detriment.
Radh. O. Lead me to revenge, forthwith!
Gwen You throw our partnership topy turvy. Baxter, he sells, hustling flesh, to get it back again, of actual interest hasn’t any; ’n besides, if the girl be willing, all jolly is.
Lisa. Alas for us, the way of violent criminals is folly.
Gwen. Dear Radha, sweet Radha, sensationally seductive, slender Radha, of what are you so abysmally jealous, your mouth is foaming, and your eyes as wet as oyster broth? What sort of aspect has you blaming all its tender swathe, from skin down to the bone, that the idea sticks and cannot leave alone? I should like to see the lip that vibrates yours like the world’s most raucous music, putting your perspective into quagmire, upturning your tea and whilst offering blood in compromise.
Radh. O. A prophetess! A prophetess sees me dressed in crimson.
Lisa. Blush, damsels, to be dressed in crimson blush, which makes a finer garb than partner’s cloth.
Gwen. Forget PJ with someone other. Your reason has not said this, or lack thereof, but I am saying this, with some idea to console your wounded nature by taking the bitten bird from the bamboo cage, with words of tact, willing to advise, but not promote myself in front of PJ who would our partnership despise, being refuted.
Lisa. Run right to the sea, you mean, accepting all the pearls and getting nearer to true happiness than a shark amidst a shoal of savory silver fish?
Gwen. The minnow mean much – so she does, small Lisa.
Lisa. More like the shark for what I cannot compromise.
Radh. O. To not be done with a brute is to be dumb, isn’t it? But he cannot be a brute who is not so at first, for aren’t they all as white as lambs, and aren’t they all as black as demons in due course? Do they not start with beggary in the beginning, one as like to the other as Paul is to Simon, as a squirrel is to a rat or a minx to a weasel? And is not one of them for me, the little specks, the atoms, the particles of milk unformulated into cheese – the filth, ’tis all filth; yet if I have one should I get rid of it?
Lisa Y’ve said for yourself, there’s naught around but foolish filth. To hang around is to hang yourself in the process of being in the foolish party; or be oppressed enough, one day your shoot the fool and go to jail for acting like dunce. With your smarts, with your smarts, buy a pair of glasses and lodge yourself in Paradise. You do not lose yourself in doing this; you take it forward, for the favors, for the sweetest savors, not to be frowned upon.
Gwen. Clytemnestra walks among us, wailing for her crowded nest, foiled with vindictive humors and vowing to herself to seek assuaging. Agamemnon is kissing Cassandra, is all she ever thinks, not that the king is not the actual king or he’s not the richest in his gold or the greatest of men – is all, is all.
Lisa. his gold? His gold? Words of a handicapped saint.
Gwen. He’s no Caesar, but he has what he wants, or less generally, hearing as he’s brought home stolen gold, for what it’s worth. The sinners are forgiven their sins seventy times seven.
Lisa. The kidnapped are patient, generally. They wait for their doctors to administer, after the which, they haven’t got their doctors.
Gwen. Radha is no more sane, but is the Baxter honest? Can a Baxter be honest assuming his given name makes ’em a sandwich at every hour of the day? Is the gross consumption of pilfered goods quite honest?
Lisa. Well, would you walk away?
Gwen. I need a place to stay, quite honest, and haven’t got a roof but money marries me.
Radh. O. With this I am married! With this? ’Tis nothing but pain and sufferance. Would I ever a wreath of roses without thorn; it’s PJ who is sewing thorns for roses, and I have seen the thorn. It taxes me, and I no longer keep it but do testify.
Lisa. How old’s the little consort? She’s small fry?
Radh. O. What import, O! When all one’s life’s gone up in smoke?
Lisa. Peace, woman, peace; or ye will not see things as they are.
Gwen. Blindfolded horses in a crowded stable, fuss-making as one comes more able. If it’s not fact, then it’s philosophy. Methinks the trollop shakes at better breeding.
Radh. O. Shall I claw out your eyes, if you say “trollop” again, you whore!
Gwen. Dog bitch, get off of me!
Lisa. Sense, girls! In quarantine there’s no promise, and she that lacks compunction, and will not change, should fly from hense as fast as her mood swing takes her, do what she may beyond this point, persuading Joh or lover – so pushing neighbors naught. A lonely wolf is nothing.
Radh. O. Ha, ha! She does banish me for being cheated on and flung about, like a witless doll that knows no word but Daddy-O; but fain would I see a raven snip your youthful tongue and take your nose to hellish gate, to make the Devil’s mincemeat. Then would she know suffering! Then would she learn! You are nothing but a lump o’ jelly on a conman’s tongue.
Gwen. You attack me with a pigeon claw and would rape me as I walk.
Radh. O. Out with her eyes! I cannot see the special wretch without sending her a million times and ten to kingdom come; she can consort the beast of Shangrila; she can dine on dog in China; let her eat oats made with monkey’s bottom and drink the blood of outdoor penny filth; but I will not have her next to me.
Lisa. You have a very special way of giving kisses, Rad. Wench, save your voice to speak of better things; more jewels to shower with await, is the finest counsel I can give.
Gwen. Save my body, not my soul, tra-la.
Radh. O. You have but to brave yourself, since of silence, I’m not capable; the lettuce wench and the British slut betwixt me and the status quo, that they would make misshapen; I cannot bear it, vile.
Lisa. Perhaps ’tis you yourself who are the villain when most our art concerns just cinnamon and spa jokes. Marry, who breaks faith?
Gwen. The girl who most consumes attention, pile.
Lisa. Then let her eat pie that is her sparkling birthright. My thought is that PJ, he’ll throw away the trump to make the worst of a bridging enterprise. He truncates our operation in his intensity of cheap desire; a cheap design shall make us moil in meeker blood, what – then out like fairies, we, nor light nor night nor gold but a stark gray prison.
Gwen. More so if he lends and dresses the new girl’s head as present on a garlanded platter to the princess of punctuality – Radha Om, who knows no limitations on what to do to free her home. More quirky than queer, I, whereas PJ is milksop queer, not quirky – no surprise if the Turk stabs the lady-door then twists the knife as it were key.
Lisa. Alas for beauty’s loss; yet red cherries are meant to fall inevitably; what every damsel knows who has worn a sari. A summer basket for me and you, but none for Radha who deals with the one in the corner grimacing.
Gwen. These words are so sweet, I could bottle them, marry. But he who lands himself behind bars stinks. He curses the world, then, and does not lend a hand to anyone.
Lisa. Pray, marry him if you need ’m to lend a hand.
Radh. O. Another, girls, fiends, friends, come up with another and you shall not hear me laughing, for though gun I lack, might I use my tongue as whip and follow you whiplash, mean as you’ve labelled me. I shall turn your words to oath; I do swear it upon the night I die on, to deal the day to ye.
Lisa. How so?
Radh. O. With scorn – but practically, with scorn and with my peering eyes.
Gwen. As dull as over-laden apple pies, these both, glossed over with nothing but nothingness, seeing less than seeming.
Radh. O. I’ll have an apple over you and aye, a table leg.
Lisa. Shake a leg, if mean we to get anywhere today, let us make sure it is for tomorrow; because PJ’s slaughtering a duck makes us dead deer, no more shelter for our heads but hard concrete and less than sumptuous beds. Even women such as we have futures to consider, prized possessions which distinguish us. Do not be an airy vamp, and may your words come back on the liar’s rebound, since your acting the beggar. Faith, we haven’t got any.
Gwen. What we have is apples. Eternity’s a snake.
Lisa. And radha Om is loading up on sass, envisioning herself as such a snake would bite a rival rat unto the death of its complexity – instead of merely stating, “Take off, take off!” Well should I look to see if the opera star has got a sealy head yet, or if the party’s crawling. Praise the gin, but I do not think that follicles stay virgin in such conditions as cloister the honey bee.
Gwen. rad Om’s the bee.
Lisa. Faith, why she’s dumping honey.
Gwen. ’Tis better to bee the bee than stung by one, is maybe the case. I do regret PJ and his sour pamplemousse that cannot to convert but kill at worst. So much for flowers, dogs, and baby’s breath.
Lisa. Are you a dumping bee, Rad?
Radh. O. a jealous primadonna amped to dress in red by virtues of seduction gifted. The knife’s not one, however, and it does not do much good to think anon. PJ’s coming.
Lisa. If it’s not our maestro from Nashville, it’s our president from playbill, hopefully not crimson as a cardinal but in a play of passion he’s performing. Tell us if murder in this society, is not conforming.
Radh. O. Ah, his cheeks are flushed as fresh as a morning flag, yet does he remain a Chinaman with aspect foreign, replete with difficult smells than the ones to which I’m used. He has got more spice, now; he has got sesame and chili, takes to the soy bean, O! He is clean shaven for his lima.
(Enter, PJ)
Lisa. Stop barking, cinnamon. ’Tis Pj.
PJ. I do not like the world but dally in it, less than a genius, sure, at my fantastic best; less than a chef but close to being one, some kit to orchestrate, a chieftan of gray pigeon orthodoxy, preponderate at the claws and neck for all their pastry crumble fienry; the gardner of Bloomingdale trenched in the lore of spritely birds, crowned by birds merrily, making quick use savagely, a liar and a pimp but pretty as a peach; no skills to preach though having some to demonstrate; as willing ’nough to give as I am given to, is how this rampant life has fashioned me. Man’s hunger waxes as the paler moon does wane, must I admit, if it were not in me a month ago, ’twas there upon my date of birth, a-gloss with silver drops of nudity. Ah, vulgar children! So precious bowers!
Gwen. The priest has aught arrived to comfort us, wearing a cross, not to be seen; but ’tis a cross there, jolly.
PJ. I do not wear one, but it is for my Polly.
Lisa Nay, his quiz is ugliness, being a doctor who solves symptoms with naked moles, enterprising in stage craft, working as smooth as satin with a problem switch.
Gwen. We do suspect that switch there is – I mean – what do I mean? Love I your hands, pere Baxter, yet I despair for them as I would for a psycho’s wristwatch. They are so loving fine, yet I am loth to say if they’ve held a nickel or a dime.
PJ. A millionaire of mortals has not got a dollar o’er the one that occupies my time at present. Turn off the goose my ladies, fair ladies, sweet ladies? Do you see me as a serpent slipping into real estate? My lollies are made elsewhere; I do not need to sting them to get the grub; but around one I revolve, smelling the fruits of vengeful freedom, picking without picking, stemming on without the smorgasbord, as clean meanwhile as a detective dick around a clear eggs benedict.
Lisa. The maestro does not slip on soap is what he states, loving what he loves and hating what he hates.
Gwen. Do you attest to it?
Lisa. With all my bones and wit.
Gwen. And I if breakfast’s game tomorrow, on the barley back of voluptuous Ceres; my feet are not cut off but I abide. Hey, hey Baxter, your strings have come untied.
PJ. What, what attempt you to say; I’m in error; I’ve like Samson, fallen? Could I be so bloody wrong? In words, you tarry.
Gwen. Baxter is doing aught behind our back, is what we heard; he is trying to get rid of us by dirty dealing, and taking what he should not take, and acting like it’s all a ball when really someone is bound to be buried, sport. Be good to us, and we shall repay you in kind words and deeds as saucy as you wish; swallow us like Cronus, and we’re as good as swirled in dairy. Pacification, PJ always needs pacification, but marry, we shall not prosper!
PJ. Act like a cow at once, or I’ll be a dastard.
Radh. O. I am so subject; I am so subject that I am sick, could really take my own life, provided for as I am in despite the sterling salary, the job’s a wretch and what am I after, worth? To be baser than the drool of dogs is a bitch’s destiny. Running risks leads me to emotional ruin. Baxter, what have ye done? Have ye slewn the savior of sinless spirits to land us in a smoldering heap, of garbage, Baxter? Have ye finally got the law’s goat, dear, darling Baxter? It does not appreciate the musculature, nor do I, nor should we ever, being betrayed.
PJ. This is nonsense. I am taking a walk; nor am I doing anything to any man.
Lisa. Assuming, as I’ve recently been want, that your alter ego is a boxer, someone’s ears should be ringing, quite foiled and riddled with machista poppycock. A side of me doubts not, you are capable of inflicting these special earrings.
PJ. Am I not as good as Saint Nick with his full bag of trinkets? Are these not as good as blueberry suede?
Lisa. Prithee, are you going to lose our sanctity?
PJ. I have done nothing, nothing, nothing, but you are worse than nothing!
Gwen Whoa, has he had enough dinner but too much bread: out of bounds, out of communion cracker, out of reason and most certainly wedlock; now of words he has nothing, for all he says is, “Nothing, nothing.”
PJ. Rather would I be left alone to my own devices than have a thousand of them with you in tow, bringing me down to the level of fruit mongering for lack of change. Change I professions or get a newer set of dames.
Lisa. Let us go to the brewery to discuss things there. With this riot in my ears, I cannot else but know despair.
PJ. I would not go, but I thirst. Avanti, concubine.
Radh. O. ’Tis not he who displeases, who makes one thirsting dry,
But the tender churl without an alibi.
Gwen. Shall I drink as if this party’s end were nigh.

Act III Scene II

PJ. Persuade I, you, with notice that I’m not in love,
But better, keep revenge in front of me.
I have not killed or eaten this child’s apple blush
Or killed to date, the female personage,
But, fancy this, horde dates to preserve faith.
Not a glutton, I, more like a strapping wraith.
Radh. O. Watch ye where the straps are going, puss in boots.
PJ. I did not forswear marriage for a prostitute.
Radh. O. Nor I for a simple jack-o-lantern male,
Though wedlock could forswear, a prostitute,
As birds of a feather, flock they well together,
Not a crow and a peacock or titmice and jays:
The vainest and most proud am I, O nest,
Bush, chains, and trinkets. Do I wait to drink.
Gwen. And I to tell you not to speak so loud,
Because my nerves play strongly in my chest,
My head aches, my skin trembles, all this, not very well.
Would I dance hereon; yet violence strict of sound
Will give us out, in fact, transporting us.
Lisa. Hush, hush, the babe is sleeping; all our pride
Is on the footloose as she hides her smile,
More modest for the meeting, making moan.
PJ. You are a cat if I am not a cow.
Gwen. Be a bull, and I shall be a cowherd boy,
Dressed up to sally in and take the horn.
Old standards, gold, replete duplicity!
Now I hop over, now I am sitting snug,
Not in idleness, but as an empress
Eying o’er her possessions fitfully.
I need to see them to be happy, faith,
Or all my time be haply squandering.
You gorgeous, golden bull, the cow am I!
Radh. O. To the freezer with the calf. She is crestfallen.
Lisa. If you should hold your tongue, I’d be beholden.
Your creepers seize me; I cannot move to think.
Radh. O. Think on your mini skirt; I’ll do my max.
PJ. Destructively or creatively, green lassie – O?
Radh. O. As a lover should as far as lovers go.
PJ. Then I shall find you in Amsterdam, with a sock bonnet.
Radh. O. We are not always, our father’s darling poppet.
Lisa. Well what of that – what of it? Come to, pie tick,
So the nation should not know a pin from prick.
Your talking voice is not my better choice.
Gwen. Who arrives, my cuz?
Lisa. Alas, it is a stranger. Sweetly, sweetly.
Radh. O. Allude not to meat – ha, ha.
PJ. She looks at us, so richly decked and snouted
I’d fain call her porpoise. Sooth, she might be gum shoes,
A dog, a cake, or a tattle tale. I tarry.
Lisa. It makes me crazy, clever locks, and you merry.
(Nadia addresses them.)
Nadia. Hello, what doing, from porridge I seem to have fallen.
This gaggle here is mystery; perplexity,
The people are young and neat, clipped hair, a manicure,
Yet aught is going on; an aura, haze,
Bespeaks of growing grimness. Sober, though,
This evening’s time does make of them, to wit.
I cannot fix my eye but start to vex,
And should I pass by modestly, but ah!
These three resemble vixens. ’Tis bat wing hour,
A pretty time to preach. I shall not stay.
Essential shyness does get the best of me,
And I cannot quiver off this seeming test.
This gentleman o’er here shakes esteem down to the boots,
His glances good as darts or brazen coals.
Lief Erikson! Methinks he grows a beard.
The girl’s eyes are but raisins; his are drear.
PJ. Look you at us? We are not second rate.
Look harder, and I’ll call it a date, scratch at my mole,
Affirm we met at such and such a place.
There are but cups here; I’m a delftware plate.
Gwen. Call me Swarovski and fill your cup o’ crystal, chum.
Nadia. Personally, have I ventured here to cry,
Being in the blues for thoughts lugubrious,
Imperfect disciple of notion making,
Some loneliness and singular sentiments.
Sure, I will drink till midnight mellows me,
Assuaged somewhat by happy company.
PJ. I fancy I have seen your face.
Nadia. Your face eludes me. You are mistaken, sir.
PJ. Your figure, fact, or form? Your nicest speech?
I believe I have seen you yet, so tell me I haven’t,
As the seconds start their tender jingling,
And all my finest hairs stand up on edge.
Nadia. I would not deceive you.
PJ. Hurray! Let me buy you a drink whilst you abide.
Alone? Egads, you look more like a bride!
Who have or love or craft or dime to spare
On drinking, gambling, sex, or cinema.
Years wined pass quickly; they live so virulent.
Can I almost taste them, talking: come, anon,
Sit down and have your corners rectified.
The sin is not so much, to vain offend,
As to keep out of offences’ way like a platypus,
Lain on the stomach, biased at four o’ clock tea.
Nadia. Faith, I am not biased.
PJ. This bravery to demonstrate.
Lisa. You seem most like a bartender, sweet thing.
Enough with intuition – explain the details.
Nadia. I am a working woman, a simple laundress.
Gwen. Whereas we are women of the world, all three,
As apt to converse as to dissipate.
Lisa. This gentleman is a friend, a jolly friend,
And nothing else; he is outrageous kind,
Like a lamb but not as white – a dapper squirrel,
Good for picnics, Sundays, winters, and elements,
Without the whom there would be difference.
His bread and beer do taste so nice to him,
He wants for nothing, says he’s got the works.
Y’d think a salted nut could give fireworks.
Nadia. I am convinced; your friend’s a perfect brick
Quite free from issues, most congenial.
May a ton of foremost blessings wait ’pon ye,
As we take advantage of this night to wine.
PJ. An excellent spokesman, Lord! I commend the girl,
Seeing as she’s got a head for wine and dancing late,
In the name of Bacchus, on the back o’ his mule,
His babes, his nymphs and sparkling entourage,
Old Silenus, the bearded, and the flask men,
Who know where the fountains are of simple mirth.
I need not correct myself, also, being but the wise.
Gwen. You are almost ordering. Go for, go for!
PJ. Why stop at four, odd Gwen, when the best things number?
A man is not a man who stops at four,
Nor is he honest if he says he does.
Think on the gem’s worth, on the mother pile.
Nadia. Ha, ha! His manner’s eccentric as a crocodile’s,
But I shall call him the spry mariner,
Not crude but subtle, which is accomplishment.
PJ. In saying so: sweet honey, shall you dance?
I would like for us to dance. Please, dance, be gay,
Live up the night, if it doesn’t joy outlive,
Be bold as pepper on a duck boudin,
Be in temptation’s way, not out of it,
And you shall have a long and joyful ride for it.
Women who dream and live to prosper daring,
I’ve not outgrown but still go round adoring.
See my glittery glance? ’Tis that it beams admiring.
Nadia. No hurt in that, for certain.
Lisa. Now PJ, do not dance preposterously,
But you are quite in check, I drink my beer supposing.
It’s no good scaring a girl if you tarry with her,
Or speaking to stay her if she wants to leave.
Gwen. Love knocks, or do not answer. Right-O, Gwen?
I say ’tis so, introduce myself as Gwen.
Radh. O. This trickster PJ is a mountaintop.
You can see the wisdom in the ample glistening
Of the icing in his body, too much in hissing.
It goes up to his eyes and face on fire,
It cools his temper but to blow it up again,
Mounts like a dog, dismounts an eating snake,
Baffles his brains, a puddle, emits a fog.
The man is ecosystem to a set of bugs;
They booby trap his blue dexterity.
He is of himself, a mountain chain-dancing,
Though I am not his mother, am not made to be.
PJ. I shall upon the table dance like butter spread.
Gwen. He has some gumption, means something different.
Lisa. Benedictus, et victus perpetua.
PJ. Hark, an angel.
Lisa. But bogus, his kind of immortality.
PJ. A devil! A devil, forthwith! Anon, I dance.
Radh. O. He is something to speculate upon, the Bax.
His looks have made men envy more ass plain,
His dearest friend, or I, to piteously cry,
His feet know bowers, but how they give a shower!
The showstopper is PJ, the brightest bloom,
The hottest blood, the wriest, and most peach,
A sort of sandman or a fictive myth
That rides the innocent in dead of sleep,
Fore and aft or over sideways, a sailing ghost,
But there was never a human succubus at large;
Perhaps it’s PJ, the manifest, in flesh.
Lisa. Do you fancy this sailing rage? This dancer’s foot?
Radh. O. If he has a hand or if he has a hoof,
I like him, envy him, of course behold to him,
Obsess over him and cannot be but merry,
Seeing as he’s on top and dancing like a fairy.
PJ. These steps were taught to me by God himself,
Happy am I to exclaim, being a spritely elf.
Hearing music that compliments my sense of beat,
I am constantly engaged, from board to board,
In purest property, in clean commotion,
That non might criticize – am so damn fly!
The hours could pass – I’d see them passing by.
Radha, Gwen, and Liz; I twist their hair;
But ’tis my foot assuming its own stair.
PJ. Marry me, and we will take the road.
Gwen. Your garments are not adequate, mung bean.
You are but a chip off your father’s cheapest block,
’N cry like an inky devil right out of bed.
Go to, go to, but do not leer at me.
PJ. Dearest chit, at your best, you’re deployed lox spread
From a bagel institution. This the key.
Lisa. While disavowing you, he looks at me.
Radh. O. Now do I look at four or three askance
Sine my bonny lovoe has not asked me to dance.
PJ. Lemons need sugar and pies are crimped with forks.
Why are ye abstaining? Do we drink for joy,
And dance to take the clouds of night away,
Or be hypnotized as an oath out of good fashion.
Radh. O. Shall ye make an oath, therefore?
PJ. I swear to take bad fashion to deplore.
The wind’s got a silken sound, they might well hear,
Who being softer than this pimp, might put on fear.
Radh. O. He wears a cumber bun in all his states of dress,
From suits down to stark nudity.
Gwen. Wherefore?
Radh. O. To be what he is, the way he is, the boy
With beauteous, bellicose, crocodile eyes today.
Lisa. He’s got his path, we ours; to green grass, combs it.
Gwen. Lying over the lawn is the Frenchman’s legacy.
Nadia. Are you all French, here?
Lisa. Nay, we’re a motley crew of numbskull friends
Who speak the language for our German nuts,
Attend class sometimes, pass out in dewy wine,
Plan to work and make amends no other way.
God blast us if there be an easier or better way!
Gwen. If you’ve something to say all pretty, come my way.
Radh. O. If you’ve something smart, dance it off for grace.
Nadia. With butterfly dances and primping I’m not proud,
But if I find a bee, the tale’s for me.
Seem I astounded. Faith, I do observe
Many a strange wonder ’midst shadows in this place.
It could be, fox impersonates the hound.
I’d find it faster, but I drink the draft
That drowns me first before I swoon to sleep,
Forgetful as a babe, no memories to keep.
PJ. Ay, me! So hungry am I. Bake me a horse,
O strumpets of the milk white moon,
Or I shall bid adieu, carried ’twixt the two,
My mouth to stuff, obliged as Heracles.
Radh. O. Make we to depart? I’m rich, not having spent;
Fear though, you’ve had a poor night, fast as Lent.
PJ. ’Tis grapes to me; therefore I am not wanting,
Save for hunger’s rack for which I might be burning.
Radh. O. Fond head of orange, O! Off like a peel,
And fain would I be Lady Baltimore,
But the cake be much too sweet for my four-pack, ho!
PJ. Ruth, your legs are wheat, brownest and straightest here.
I’d go to Hell with them, but I’d tire of thirst,
Not to mention the hanging apple. Want disputes.
Gwen. Which is why the word is want. There is dispute,
Betwixt the brain and what it needs and boiling blood.
Lisa. Sans boiling blood, then what is want?
Gwen. A passing nerve to make one scatterbrained.
Lisa. Then paint we the town to be less scatterbrained,
Whilst more into our wants, blessing the road
In language strange, improper, and seemingly.
Nadia. They to their business, and I to my clothes,
Washing whites e’en whiter, whitest midnight star!
My mind, however, lingers. There is lust,
A lusty gang of miscreants I do not trust.
Radh. O. What, are you angry?
Nadia. Who, me? Not I.
Lisa. Forgive my friend, who tends to make her mind
Like a flea in a hay market, prone as much to err
As a creature with six legs, thinking she has six wits.
Gwen. Why six?
Lisa. She is part chicken, fancy I, part duck, a lion in her loudest pride, a fox for her flipsy feet, a bear on most nights, and a human, but only when her fickle female nature bags her as being such – a precocious treasure, I do assure ye, a power house.
Radh. O. Has a girl e’er had six wits about her?
PJ. And more than one numbskull, tenderly. We walk.
Gwen. Shall we get more drink?
Lisa. You have philosophy.
PJ. One is never enough, is what I – no, we – think.
Radh. O. Petal sticks! We need to blossom elsewhere, rightly,
Or lock our heads in bitterness bi-nightly.
PJ. Out like a lightning bolt; men to communion.
Nadia. Rascals, rubbish, take I this shot. (Snaps picture in secret)
Someone is missing, or I’m not a polyglot.
PJ. Fellows make haste; there still is ample time,
Yet not enough for us wastrels to waste.
The moon must be privy to our exploits here and there,
No outlaw hurt but only what is fair.
Nadia. I’m of myself, nor other soul, aware. (Gang departs)

Act III
Scene III

Nadia tells Pierre and Jean-Christophe about the photograph she took at the brewery, knowledgeable that Christine is missing.

Nadia. It does no hurt to call, old man Pierre;
In a sense, I followed ye, reached out to ye,
Hearing of the atrocious thing ’as come to pass with Chris,
Put the idea in my head and turned the key.
Have I made intuitive address of circumstance,
Last night at the brewery, in plain street dress,
Meeting a gang of punks who I snapped a picture of,
Since they spoke outrage and I ’gan to fear
They’d made off with someone, then rejoiced with beer.
Pierre. I see it right. Ah, yes. ’Tis the rogue you caught.
Nadia. Sing I for joy if that is who I got!
Odd eyes has he, a crooked set of teeth,
Yet he thinks he is the starlight and all that’s gay,
The sun and moon o’ himself, a boar, a goat.
I am not used to such as him. His life’s a show,
Not even art, but roguing is his part.
Pierre. The others with him?
Nadia. Methinks they are of a kind, and deeply wined.
Pierre. As like as to yourself?
Nadia. I drank a glass. Appreciate me more
By sticking to prerogative, a man,
And I’ll print this picture, what I can, a friend.
Jean-C. Let me see the lunatic. Ah, captured him!
I praise you; let me praise you on and on,
To God and Heaven and all his angels sent,
For finding the cat, does scratch himself with Chris!
Miss I the miss, and hold I out this fist,
Quivering, biting my lip, and sighing, lacking news,
Yet having this to consider, Hansel in the wood.
Nadia. May you not regret Gretel, if she’s alive, not dead;
Keep your spirits up and anguish down, less dread.
Jean-C. I’ll die if she be buried in the ground,
Granted to God, my turf. ’Tis cloth in heaven
If she is also there garbed rich in white.
Pierre. Steadfast, laddie, and bless the cops forthwith.
Your eyes are mawkish buttons, your lips a seam,
The face of you is rice since ye think on Chris
Not as a casualty but bride to be,
All mad to have been outrisen by a fiendish frank,
All fixed on me so I can’t see straight, faith.
Perk up, or get a cup o’ joe. We’re near.
Jean-C. Call we the musicians?
Pierre. ’Tis in my mind to call.
Jean-C. We ’gan as strangers; now, my darling friend,
Time does importunate the safe return of Chris,
Who is likely being held at no formidable cost
To her looks, well-being, or health, somewhere aside,
That there’s no better day than that on which we seek.
No question, that I’m ready, O my heart!
It sanctions every second, heading toward love.
Pierre. Your uxorious disposition, preponderate,
Does put the quiet rest of us to shame.
Nadia. What musicians follow us?
Pierre. I start to message. Faith, the best of their kind,
So long as thugs don’t win the balancing.
I do not know Christine but love her much
Down to the soul, which fiends can never touch.
Jean-C. Pray we for assistance and the sweetest girl
To have ever walked on French soil by herself.
Prithee, Pierre, get water, for I shake.
Nadia. I am upon it.
Jean-C. Now grief in love must restitution slake.
Pierre. I, for the photo shop.
Jean-C. I recall Albert – cannot marry him.
Pierre. A call befits them for the Lord’s sweet sake.
Jean-C. I’d take him by the hem, but cannot that.
Nadia. My eyes a-glow. I am not glad, I fear;
My stomach is not riding these odd waves,
Because the world seems gold when all the air is free;
Base coal becomes for dog’s proclivity.
Pierre. We’re fairly awake to the cause and nature o’ the act
Since Satan fell at the bar and ceased to laugh.
Nadia. I saw him all a-grin, like a jackal, though,
As if he wanted to have conse quence,
Like a tomato to a pie – significant –
The least of worms does think so brazenly,
Haze drinking, prone to foulest ecstasy.
Pierre Here, here. I have them. Friend, anon.
Nadia. May we will ourselves to think we’ve won.
Pierre. I couldn’t have better stated it. Eads!
God bless Christine for the troubled time she had.
Stephen and Albert bend on showing up,
As good Samaritans as any bearing cup.
Nadia. Timely inference: some men of better nature, loth,
Giving us hope on days of bitter drought.
Jean-C. I’m pacified, yet am not pacified,
In lover’s confusion, faithfully, a bird,
All beak for talking, tongue for soft propounding,
Heavy in sounds, so bantom light in act.
This heart beats conundrum. It will not do therefore.
Fetch me aught to swear by chums, pacifically.
Look at me! Look! I’m King Tut’s ghost, a star.
Pierre. Mean you to wink at someone?
Jean-C. I know not, but you must know.
Nadia. The flower keeps on blooming in the snow.
Pierre. Base thief, despair of me; I do disparage.
Nadia. Enter, friends of flowers, enter, crew!
Let men be strong where fiendish foes be few.

Act IV
Scene I outside PJ’s bordello

Outside PJ’s bordello, three policemen wait to break down the door, informed by a consternated neighbor there have been mysterious noises coming from inside.

Cop I. On the Mother of the Sacred Heart, have we been fed
Sublimely by this neighbor’s diligence,
Who hears a scratching, saving girls from tears.
He is surely behind the noise, some head be brave,
That will not need to worry or to rave.
We’ll extract her using every means we have,
Then load her in to give us brief account.
Cop 2. Last night, Christina Solomon goes missing,
Today, idea of her whereabouts,
This evening, all her friends attest they’re coming.
Her safety secures they’re happiness. We’ve aught to do.
Cop 3. No trouble in doing. This case shall shallow soon.
There’s a starfish on the beach. ’Tis not quite buried.
Cop 1. She must be hungry, son of God! Must hurry.
Cop 2. Her poor parents must come hither in a flurry.
Cop 1. Go forth, men, so we will not have to worry.
Cop 2. Down with the door. My shoe and sock are key.
Cop 3. It gets us in: one, two, and three.
Cop 1. The lottery is coming! Hurray for five.
Jean-C. He counts there are five of us – there might be eight
For the sake of joy, as opposed to stood against,
Including the parents, who do no wrong in weeping well,
Or blaming all themselves for the expected crime.
I, for one, am perfectly purple, for woe,
Round-eyed, red-eyed, and flustered as a hen,
If ye cannot see it – see it from my lips,
A slow breath passing to Christina’s hips.
Pierre. Are we on the door? The door, he would adore.
Jean-C. Do kick the door; I have no breath.
Nadia. So eager am I, I could laugh to death.
Pierre. Refrain, my belle, or kill my fortune too.
Sophie. Or kill mine three. Persist, at least, till tea.
Intend I still to make quiche for Pierre,
Sometime at dusk, surrounded by these stars,
At my own leisure and for darling Chris,
Whom I will not see abused by dull neglect.
Pierre. As soon as hope exists, the tunnel fades,
So light our day, sweet hope, and be named Christine!
Cop 1. Methinks I hear a sound.
Cop 2. Let it be a sound!
Cop 3. Sniff and sniff, this door goes down like a wick!
Cop 2. This is a boy’s place. Faith, I see some toys.
Cop 1. Three subscription, two eyes, a girl, a pretty scene,
So long as there is Chris; and there she be!
Jean-C. If I held my breath, my heart would burst to bits,
And my words implode to further ecstasy,
But thinking on Christine and all Christine’s.
Her wellness is bandage for this kind of hurt,
Her happiness, my entire remedy.
Do you remember me, Chris? See you my face?
Anon, your freedom. Head high for this kiss. (Kisses her cheek)
Chris. You untie my gag, for shame.
Jean-C. Why shame, prithee?
Chris. Now am I in your bondage, being graced.
Jean-C. Then likewise should you grace my face,
Bestowing your white kiss. Away, this white wall.
Come back to color, Christine, whitewash me,
That I should know nothing but my dear Christine.
Chris. No further said than done; no better feat accomplished.
Cop 2. An address, here; so who is there to admonisih?
Chris. The thieving dunce king from the night before,
When all of us did outside rendez-vous
To appreciate the time in company,
But lost a bottle to a passing knave;
Then got it back by dealing with him rough,
At which he swore, he would have his merry day.
How so? Say we. But the villain hies him off.
What he came to do is likewise evident,
Seeing as I was stuck upon the wall right here,
As he ventured out to do as he would dare.
Know you anything as to the slick hound’s whereabouts?
I’ve not a clue, in fact, lack much of air and face.
Pierre. Face, Chris? Why, there is no more splendid gem this night
Then your good person, live and animate.
Not all the gems of Egypt could your grin
Replace, nor gold, my animosity.
Sophie. Are you making plans, you tender beef?
Pierre. I would send to rot, this devilish, laughing thief.
Jean-C. I would send oxygen to myself, who suffer.
Alas, I cannot carry Solomon,
But mine she is, if she’ll sanction my strapping faith.
Let’s call it destiny, ourselves to be.
Chris. Then let us do things properly.
Jean-C. Palm to palm, you do most good to trembling me.
Ah, thirst I for more solitude with ye!
Chris. We have, however, stunning company.
Pierre. Outrageous supposition. Claustrophobe,
Dear girl, bright prayer, the pearl of mother’s eye,
I come to acknowledge, life has been less sweet
In your friendship’s absence. Chris, you are most rare.
Sophie. Linger we here? I long to cook for all,
In music, gossip, smiles, and pleasantry,
Relieving myself a load of care
While in the kitchen, laying this heart bare.
Jean-C. If we sit snug and sound, let him in ashes lie,
Who bears a smirk and without alibi.
Pierre. I would have him rodded if he’s inward reeled,
Coerced, cajoled, outraged, impeded, prodded.
There is no mercy in his merriment.
What if he were to look on and reciprocate?
Alb. A man’s not fish, a criminal’s not fish,
Though he might dress in belts and rings and look like fish,
And though his sins be heavy as a catch,
They are not needed for a bloody hatch;
For no blood is there in this solitary keeping,
Despite poor Christine’s throes and thorough weeping.
Steph. We shall will the fellow away with a swish,
Christine’s faith and sanctity in better keeping.
Alb. He is a horse that might be led, surely.
Steph. Do unto others, wise.
Alb. I’d let him stamp a thousand days in place.
No food nor drink, either, understanding.
Nadia. His life is a flashy show; it should be drab.
It is not a mundane joke, his key, Christine,
And the Spartan cupboard that we come upon.
Steph. A day – at least she’s not a butterfly
Pinned down by brutish force and humor wry.
Pierre. Fetters for a conman’s feta – what just joy!
Jean-C. Will her return, however, or will he flee?
Pierre. How should he escape his agony?
Jean-C. We should hold him in a headlock, long and hard,
Force him to pay for being a bloody sweating pard.
Nadia. Well might his minions give him harborage.
Jean-C. But memory photographed has ’m on a ledge.
Alb. Truth and justice are the minions of the state,
Can work themselves into our plot full rate.
I’d see into his soul, as Chris’ friend,
Into his actions first, to much deplore,
Then into his belongings and his lies,
Made out of seven days, the total waste.
A crook can’t be put to the screw – so damn absurd!
He’s an exhibition, unto sins inured.
Sophie. The country keeps his car, and we, this bar.
Cop 1. If he stops for a burger, we’ll have him.
Cop 2. to be had, the Baxter fellow, with coke and fries.
Cop 3. The works, say you.
Cop 2. So he should cease sweet girls to work upon.
Cop 1. More time to contemplate his course of action,
Not in the gym, the bar, or on deck, but quietly.
O, why should grown men take away his key?
O, why get a whiff of his car, CD’s, accoutrements?
O, the gold of legal principles, perhaps.
Cop 3. Certainly, we see it more than he sees it.
Cop 2. Chances are, he shall not perceive us to be just,
Being a squalid, roguish, petty gentleman.
But he must take what’s coming. ’Tis what we bring,
His favorite fruitcake, his own wild alcohol,
The summation of what he is, a motley price.
Cop 1. Funny, he has sisters.
Cop 2. He’s got cockerel to worry o’er and sisters.
Cop 3. Such savory sisters, scandalous.
Cop 1. A man approaches – look. (Baxter enters)
Cop 2. In a remarkable sate of health, dragging his feet.
The rose is rubbed right off, the thorns perplex.
He’s wasted which is good fortune for us,
Who get a spread of charges atop his resplendent nose.
Cop1. Your rat’s marathon is terminated, runny sir.
Cop 2. You’re being taken in for arrest, sir.
Cop 3. Accept these bangles, woman-hustling sir.
He’s got the looks so long as we’ve the brains.
PJ. What are you fellows doing, marry – is this a zoo?
Cop 2. We’ll tell you if it’s a zoo or isn’t.
Cop 3. It’s your love match, is what.
Cop 1. Come right along, listen, be good, don’t fight,
Lean on this wall, and do not make to spit,
Or we shall have ye more than now, Daddy-o,
You’ll be in a situation as good as Hell.
PJ. Keep me back, back! Or I’ll set myself on fire!
You, there, a revolver will not stop my play,
None of your gadgets I find insurmountable,
Insurrection now, since I am more than able.
Alb. Screws loose; he cannot keep his screws, ay me!
Steph. Waxing stubborn does not let you keep your tea.
Alb. Use your noodle, boy – hands up, they say.
PJ. There are four of us to take, not only me!
These chains are gaping tyrants, as my tyrants three,
Naming them now, my Radha, Gwen, and Liz.
Go ahead, hate me, but not without a sis;
Not Isis, is she? Rampaging, isn’t she?
Fixing her skirts with stolen silver, isn’t she?
Bar chompers is what they are, brigands of night.
I’m assuring you, ’tis ’gainst the law they fight.
Pierre. A lady’s man, isn’t he? I’m amazed.
Alb. A chauvinist who hates his former friends.
Steph. The evil of chauvinists is without end.
With mind-eating chauvinists, the world does end.
Soph. If ’tis about eating cake, ’tis heads or tails;
I’ve heard a tale or two, gross, passing eerie,
Particularly these days, hor or cold, of brag.
What, ho! It kills a hen, duckling, or hag,
As it were pastry. But the coffin’s crisp!
A prison’s good enough for that man’s fist.
Jean-C. How’d my bonny princess meet a mind-eater?
Well, I believe, he tried and could not seat her.
Chris. He climbed upon the sill and grabbed me sleeping.
Jean-C. God damn the man! I bet ’twere for his eating.
Sophie. If it is not ham, it is bacon; if not bacon, then back.
Did he twist you for his pretty piece of back?
Chris. Twisted and slapped me. He wanted, waked, and scorned me.
Nadia. The most unholy menfolk pilfer flesh.
He must pray for God to forgive his sorry debt.
Chris. My, that’s dangerous. See him pray, can ye?
Nadia. Not even, if it gives you such dismay.
PJ. My house, my house was fried for a ladybird,
And she say’s I’ve got no business praying to God.
Dear donut hole, do you go down dismally
In my head as the rarest monkey could e’er be.
Chris. May you fall to bits, sirrah, instead of sitting.
PJ. Feed your face, bitch, and do not talk to me.
Chris. A fine way of phrasing! This case is to its close.
Jean-C. My dear, revenge is your finest sentiment.
Without your lips, the night is in no way spiced,
But all the piquant taste presides it there;
This goes as well for your hair and bonny eyes,
Your neck and arms and all in you that be.
I never loved you just, but longing amplifies
Effects of love, as they were herbal seeds,
To take jurisdiction on Time’s gardening.
This tree’s got no other orchid; you’re the one;
This tree’s got no other scent, but you’re the one who gave it.
This tells me, we should marry, love, not tarry.
Chris. And I flee to you after a terrible ordeal?
Seems natural, but I do stay my hand
Instead of giving it to you straight off.
We are such young folk, fine and fancy young,
And prospects waiting that we haven’t reached.
Redressing guilt is one thing, love, another,
So be you my friend, first, then my faithful lover.
Jean-C. If this is what you think?
Chris. I do not change, though you tend to glow on me
As brightly as a hundred suns in heaven.
You are no mendicant. You are not mine.
Sing sweetly to me, rather, for my wine,
And I’ll not cease to love as wildflowers grow
In every weather, adept as a plow.
Sophie. You make our days more fair; forget not me,
Nor your parents, who are at my place, bursting with tears,
Awaiting our return in wettened mood,
Yet soon to be sweetened: cupcake, you’ve a sugared hood!
Chris. I have a sugared hood; then, I do not change!
Your deepest desire’s to adopt me for dinner – that right?
Sophie. If I have to pull you by the claw forthwith
I know you should come with me – ’tis silent fate.
Chris. How dubious; in silence? All’s good to me.
Pierre. All’s good to me as well; and I tag on.
Jean-C. Likewise for all us friends, since all is good.
Alb. Will I prize this tender, seemly company,
And Uncle Stephen, close in league with me.
Steph. Pardon us, Christine, for our distant ignorance,
So I might share a meal with you with dry eyes proper.
Chris. No worries, true Stephen. The sin which bound
My brawn and brain, goes back into the pen,
With that dumb and tumbling Baxter, squalid drunk,
Who messed his life and took me for a monk.
Steph. Amen. I thank the cops for their part – ho!
And shall write a song for Chris, who’s as pure as snow.
Cop 1. Keep safe, and sing to me as I’m driving, bro.
Cop 2. The radio needs you. Cheerio!
Cop 3. To friends, their supper; to convicts, steady jail;
There are legislative stairs to fall upon,
And a cot to embrace a poor man fittingly.
Sweet justice, like a well-beloved, sits itching in me.
Chris. O friends, kind officers, I am obliged,
Most happy that I am not wet or took,
Sine if it weren’t for your good diligence,
I would not be free – a desperate difference.
Fortune to all, long fortune, free from injury,
The best of friendship, smooth or sometimes tried
To make it strong from forth the cleaning forge,
Proud faces, fair ones, smile to comfort me.
Jean-C. A lady never set as winsome a task
As this, which fills the fairest figure’s flask.

Act IV
Scene II at Sophie’s place where dinner is being served

Sophie, Christine, Pierre, Jean-Christophe, Susannah, Charles, Albert, Stephen, and Nadia are gathered at table. They gush over Chris, and Jean-Christophe proposes.
Susan. Daughter, daughter, let me look at you! What precious eyes! What a cute and curvesome nose! What perfect lips! The hands are whole and pretty, reaching for their mum. Do take my face and bless it with your dewy shower. Do let me rub your skin so I can know it’s still intact, lay my arm on your shoulder, dance around with you. You’ve returned the world to me by returning this, yourself. Sit down, tell me.
Chris. I am in love with my family, precious Mum.
Jean-C. And I with Chris, good angel mother.
She is Juliet, Cleopatra, and Grace to ugly Jean,
Who only gives her vision ugliness,
But also love, which is less seen than felt,
The gold can be guaranteed, the cash I keep.
Susan. Bless you; God keep you.
Jean-C. Let me look on Christine with your blessing!
Susan. Then will I bless you twice.
Charles. And also will I bless.
Jean-C. O Oden, I cannot be more awed.
Chris. My father is my blood in every sense.
He’s denied himself so often, feeding me,
Kept himself at home, his days off, so I’d learn,
Impressed me with but facts and good example.
Do you know his cherished voice? I know it well.
There is no Dad to know, and Mum, and Niki Solomon,
My mother’s sister, who’s a power house,
A teacher, actress, singer – lucky for us all!
She gives our name her virtues, in faith, a doll.
Sophie. I think I may pass the tea cups, here. You have warm hands, my love.
Pierre. Your nature is a brilliant thing. I watch.
Jean-C. He watches or else would be suffering.
Sophie. This tea; the rest, modesty forecloses.
Charles. What have we here? Hors d’oeuvres? Simple delights.
I’d fill my heart – forebear, though, having one.
The best, methinks. No question that I’m hungry,
Yet I wait for the dinner. Honor we the party present,
Thanking Christ and kinsmen, from now till bedtime hour,
In thoughts, actions, and speech, with outspread arms,
Yet in doing so, our ample Lord no less.
No greater grandeur than to carry his grace, amen.
(All). Amen
Sophie. Love I your father, forthwith. His speech is fair,
His face, handsome, and attitude most wise.
Susan. Let peace prevail; herein a woman’s voice.
When I met my spouse, he was much engaged
In study, family business, Sunday prayer,
Needed me not at first, nor did I cling to him,
In parental jurisdiction financially.
Knew I he was the best, though, from the start.
There were none as equal in nobility,
None as eloquent or as temperate,
Of sportsmen, Charles Solomon was the most versatile,
A humble champion, more mild than most;
So the hero of my life was Solomon,
And who brought me flowers first? It was Solomon.
He was most rare; the rest seemed random dross.
Chris. I had the happiest childhood thanks to these folk.
When I was small, they stooped to carry me.
Jean-C. The fairest birds from fairer branch, it seems.
Chris. Am I?
Jean-C. Agree with me.
Pierre. We are all agreeing. Here, there’s gorgeous light,
And space to dance, and in our orbits play,
More than one of us in love, in friendship thick,
To do night’s dominion justice. Stay awhile,
Engaged in dinner and sweet victory,
The spirit fast within us. There is no want.
(All). Amen.
Sophie. Saltpeter, you’ve a wondrous tone of voice.
Alb. Just like a parrot’s, ha!
Steph. Most like a bard singing for his mistress.
Alb. Her hands act wisely; how can he despise?
’Tis the richest meal, this pissaladiere,
Baked squash and pine nuts, guacamole dip.
Steph. It comes from neither girl bones nor a hip.
Sophie. From my head, good gentlemen, in fairest dream.
Albert. In no time, also. This is wizardry.
Steph. Tongue-pleasing alchemy.
Jean-C. Sit next to me, Chris, or I’ll have no peace of mind.
Chris. Really? Most winsome Jean-Christophe!
Pierre. And sit we together, Sophie?
Sophie. Like the dishes of a balance, side by side.
Pierre. Sweet, simple girl, eat less than me.
Sophie. You being proud of my slenderness – ’tis chemistry.
Alb. ’Tis raining now.
Steph. ’Tis raining comfortably.
Sophie. When there’s accord, there’s comfort. Wondrous sound,
The one of falling rain. It speaks to me.
Alb. The earth-song speaketh naturally.
Steph. Albert speaks when he sings most naturally.
Alb. In every mood, a bird sings to be free,
Its doors to freedom being so bemused
It needs no kit to start with, merrily.
The gist: it sings itself, outrageously.
Steph. Green is the field; so blue is heaven.
Alb. With such logic was I raised.
Steph. An elegant man to be so raised.
Alb. Soft at the core, an artichoke.
Sophie. Poets are so choked, emotionally.
Nadia. Artichokes are good vegetables to be scrutinized
In contemplation like the lotus flower.
They are faceted in every direction like the singer here,
And do not sting but quite the opposite.
Alb. Cook you artichokes?
Nadia. With two hands, no less.
Steph. She is cooking an artichoke, seemingly.
Alb. This most gentle damsel keeps me dreaming.
Nadia. Already, sir? I have not started scheming.
Alb. Scheme up a recipe and let me try.
Nadia. Borscht, blinis, or a shepherd pie.
Alb. Healthy alternatives to fast food. She is grace.
Steph. He’d itch to bestow them gracefully on his face.
Alb. Weasel, you have rattled.
Steph. But don’t I speak true?
Alb. Right.
Sophie. Hands up if you should want ice cream tonight!
That is half yes, half no. Opinion, please?
Charles. Are there any, say no?
Jean-C. None have said no. We must be glacierly inclined.
Sophie. Delightful! I shall have the cups ready in minutes. Everyone spoons for himself, and I’ll be back shortly. Mind ye, keep the table neat.
Pierre. A tavolo e a cena!
Chris. You are so entertaining, sweet pea. I love your vibe.
Pierre. I’m storing it up for my rich and godly wife.
She embellishes me, though; I drink to this flattery.
Jean-C. Amen.
Nadia. I drink to the color of Albert’s peachy cheek!
Alb. And I to the hue of a Russian’s hair!
Steph. Good folk, are we to see this revelry of two
Without a toast to their mutual beauty’s enhance,
Without persuading them that all is dust
Save for the fruits of union duly set,
Wherein like springs like: the babe the greenest jot,
The most tender sprig the fraternal sun could kiss,
The freshest head, the shape of which’s a perfect orb,
The continued dialogue, the legacy?
From the cups of two friends now, a water babe,
I tell them, with the honest endeavoring o’ a stork.
What Pan cannot bestow a lively kiss, eh,
Putting his pipes and notes and sheets of music by
For the graceful grandeur of a rendezvous?
What maid cannot ask her dad ’bout a friendly date?
Let me feel it’s much when I do but very little.
Alb. I could swim in this lady’s pleasant atmosphere,
As Adam, never want to be released,
Walk in it miles and miles and not complain,
Look at her face and think I’m seeing God.
Stephen, bro, I do freely admit it makes me grand
To be in dear Nadia’s company. She glows.
Steph. In this grand ol’ city, a million things to do,
Better in twos or cry amidst the grasses.
Nadia. I say, “ay”, as in “yes”.
Steph. Good for the girl, or Albert would be crying.
Alb. No lie, no lie; he says it plain.
Nadia. A fortune have I won: ice cream, a date,
A gallant night, a warm exchange of words,
The arm of a singer whose voice I have not heard
But which I will coerce with friendship soon,
Not having oratory but a handkerchief.
How fine it is to be seen and reckoned much!
I am a laundress, a woman too, exist as such.
Pierre. Like a palm tree, Albert is fortune-spreading.
Solid chap, but his figure could be fortified.
We dine, damsels.
Chris. While Nadia spreads glee around. My voice!
Pierre. I second it.
Jean-C. I third.
Sophie. Let us eat dessert in style; there is no choice.
Charles. To my daughter, I make this toast: three cheers for all!
I love my girl, not having any other,
And loving her, as a king loves guardianship
O’er his shorter selves in their regalia,
Make I this note: her happiness is key.
There is no other to a gentleman,
To a father or to the gentleman at hand.
She is the spring of joy, the enemy of fear,
The crux of goodness, hater of wicked ploys,
A nymph this father’s heart fain would embrace
Enclosing her in spells of more than mortal bind,
Infinite chambers, promise without end,
Therefore this water to the sea: Chris lives,
And do I speak to have her safely matched.
Thank God for Jean-Christophe and Christine Solomon.
Susan. Sweet words, Charles, sugared by authenticity.
I hear his wisdom in my memory,
Also Christine and every person here;
May love be pure: nor wine will serve, nor beer.
Jean-C. Grace
Pierre. Amen
Nadia. Astounding

Act IV
Scene IV in a quiet church, the wedding

Christine Solomon, Sophia Botticelli, Jean-Claude Concorde, Pierre Beauvoir, Mathew d’Excelsior, a priest, and Pastor Cummings, an artist, gather together for this occasion.

Matt. Gathered here today for wedlock, a quiet, humble folk. There were no finer in gay Paris, no brighter entourage than we who stand constellar in this brilliant vest of night, putting all our trust in God, accepting he hath made through work of love, decree. If we see ourselves as wandering stars, history bears reflection of them in such rich pageantry. Could man ask for firmer gold than an adoring wife, who remains the same from morning to morning? Could a woman ask for better diamond than her husband’s face? To our two newlyweds, the outer world becomes illusory henceforth; what counts is matrimony’s dominion, the sanctity of man and wife. Take you this woman as your lawfully wedded wife, Jean-Christophe?
Jean-C. I do.
Matt. Do you solemnly swear to take this man as lawfully wedded husband?
Chris. I do solemnly swear.
Matt. Then be you man and wife. Are there objections?
Pierre. None. I seek to emulate them.
Steph. A man with like design, his will on marriage fixed, wants few impediments.
Pierre. Do I disdain the world?
Steph. The concept of love oft disdains.
Pierre You’re right entirely; I do disdain it in thinking eagerly of Chris. I fancy she is world and wedlock for me. The heart is all that matters.
Steph. My ear exonerates your decision.
Pastor. Meanwhile, vie I to get this image properly. Christine Solomon has the most marvelous earlobes of one and fifty empresses, and if I get but the gist of them, the gist falls short of beauty’s truth. There was never a bride as fresh-faced, milk white, or bright in the eye. The look is utterly ethereal. As an artist, appreciative of beauty, I’ve much to thank you for.
Jean-C. It gives me thrills in the spine, this picture. It plucks out my heart with awe. I am immediately more dim-witted than I started, a mind-boggled, happy man, a perfectly startled person.
Pastor. It becomes the bride, methinks.
Chris. So it does. Need we say more?
Pastor. The painting resembles its mistress as the fruit of an icing does its cake. A more showy display makes a billowy icing, which is perhaps less adequate to modern standards; but majesty is seldom low. Grandeur is in some ways, dreamy, and her eyes are just so – dreamy and super-normal, likewise majestic. Indeed, this occasion does much for me; a blessing on the bride and groom, the hero who fills his eyes with colors of his beloved’s sweetness. Marriage is a delicious journey.
Sophie. Encore, encore!
Pierre. You’ve but to state my heart’s desire out loud to make me a roaring monster, by cause of ecstasy over ferociousness. Say you’ll look splendidly in white, and I shall oust other colors from my mental landscaping, so the platforms of my brain should be just snowy white. Say you’ll walk with me hand in hand, and I will cut my foot off, being but an anxious bride. ’Tis not the richest loot, but ’tis a piece of what I think. Say you be ready, and all my hours will be decked in red, and all my mind’s philosophy, all red, because I am more passionate with you that ever I was. I am no man without these colors anymore, of snow and holly bough – more like a mute babbling unreason.
Sophie. My heart also desires, Pierre. My life rests on the willingness of your gentle head.
Steph. A gentle speech!
Pierre. Share you your glass with me, forthwith to nourish life,
In mutual celebration and soulful talk.
My ears, like sunflowers, are turned toward love
As it were the brightest star in paradise.
Then want I nothing else but to be bathed
In the light of Sophie’s day, turned bashfully,
As humble in my mind as Alcestes were.
Let me be Joseph, or let me be your dog.
Sophie. Are you so at my mercy for that cup of milk?
Then might that glass pour infinite. I taste!
Tasting, my God, the sweetest of delights,
I very well bless the cream concoction white,
Because it’s seen your interest won tonight.
Pierre. I but borrow your love with interest, my deepest calculations state. The more you give, the more I am bound to return, indeed, with every anxious inch of me and every straining particle of flesh. Do I express myself to your liking; or God forbid, do I offend? My steps might totter; know I’m courting you, and I’ll explode just like a parachute.
Sophie. That wise, eh? I could well wear a parachute. He has fine decency.
Pierre. My entire purpose may be to embellish Sophia, languorously.
Jean-C. A ring is on my bonny’s finger,
So she can comb my heart,
That in her sleep still I might linger,
In thought and every part;

She keeps this ring to please my faith,
That else would break in flesh,
The mistress o’ love’s every swathe,
Whose hair is silken mesh.
Chris. He wants me to grin, what. I do grin for it.
Jean-C. My sense of humor, she means. The claw of my wrist seeks never to abuse what it most values, for without my everything is only emptiness. Like God, Christine is everything.
Chris. Richly stated. Deus meus et Omnia, though.
Matt. What a strapping young girl gives us this verse! Aren’t her words sweet as apples red? Aren’t they simply waiting to wax more wise? They will not part from each other, let it be, who state things rich, educated by old import, being well and fertily fed. Acridity is wasteland, whereas a lover’s laugh be supper for the soul. I do wish for Jean-Christophe and Christine Solomon, many worthy years of grace, filled with joys, not fears, filled with friends, not foes, filled with amnesty and never anguish. Do we say amen for them, together, in the strength of unity.
All. Amen
Matt. You may kiss the bride, Jean-Christophe.
Jean-C. With zest and fervor do I this sin commit. Christine, do you take this sin in your great sympathy, having as much mercy on my soul as you’d have on the soul of a brother, so as to preserve my life, love, and longing till death do us part. With all your blessings, make this kiss the whitest in the world; and my eyes shall be dyed with love forthwith.
Chris. ’Tis another quality I have to bear with; but Jean is Jean and Christine is Christine.
Jean-C. Nay, Jean becomes Christine – between lover and beloved, no difference.
Chris. Sounds like an anthem. Sing it from your noble lips each day, and I’ll bear the words in my mind crisscrossed like a knotted oath.
Pastor. The groom has Cupid’s blush. Painting him would be sweet! Yet I am late in terminating this favor, come I again and so on. With my work, I hope you are pleased and make the most of it for well and well a year. It guards the imprint of the day and artist in the corner in fine lettering, an endeavor I thought proper. It uplifts the memory.
Alb. He does justice to his groove and glory to his field.
Steph. Ay, art.
Alb. They are a lucky couple of pearls to paint.
Steph. The newlyweds?
Alb. Or the white bride’s ears.
Steph. Here, here!
Nadia. A pair of partners to consider and no cockerel, our champagne loving fellows. Here’s practically a paean of victory from Jean-Christophe. Look at him smiling; he lines with creases his bed anon. What true man’s ecstasy! What complete lack of blemish! Methinks he cries for Chris’ loveliness.
Alb. Like a poet sitting in sunlight, simply savoring.
Steph. He has meditative aspects, true to tell.
Alb. As does Pierre’s leg over.
Steph. What’s that?
Alb. He admits he’s for Sophie, a dog.
Steph. He’s fixed on the object of his affection, true to gage.
Pierre. It’s in my solitary stare; I hunger so. Sophie knows me.
Pastor. I am out, having an appointment to keep. Must I thither, but here is something to recall my skills as well as this fair occasion.
Matt. Take refreshments first, artist.
Pastor. I’m pressed; I cannot.
Chris. God bless you, who do the work of God. Now, fellows, friends, I lead us to a better place forthwith, to bowl, to dine, to be the loudest and most brazen elves under the starry vault of heaven, to have our peace in pure comradery, until the darkest clouds raise up their misty platform and cozen us into sleep. Until we have our word, fraught through with joy, we cannot sleep. This feeling tells us to fly and fall down laughing, wearing the halo loving gives us, a bunch of revelers in a city made for tenacious strolling scores. Thick is the milk o’ starlight; in my soul, till the sun is raised again, I shall not slumber. There is no happier woman from the gates of Peru to Shangri-La. I owe this to being chum-hearted – scorn everything else.
Jean-C. Is our wedding finally a fact. On to days of milk and honey and Christine Solomon, who shall not cry for any. If I’m quivering, my beloved is dissevering; be it her mercy to make my day, night, plans, prospects, and promote me to firmer health before my organs are a ruckus. Like a Hindu gopi of the sacred forest, her musical tones allow trees to spring; like Persephone, she is the changing season’s self; and like Diane, she holds me in fawn-style to her bosom, to be so covered by voluptuous cloth, I’m not despairing. This is respite, this is passion, this is liberty without loneliness, so have I seen fulfillment today. Elsewhere, the frog stays, the wolf and prancing weasel. The lapping hound is held at bay. We good people thank the Lord to grow thickly and are delirious to reside as such. It is our wedding, where no one is hard of heart or miscreant. Praise God, and praise Justice! Do we make cream from crud and gold from dirt, since cocks don’t lay eggs, marry! We venture forth, no more to tarry.