poème sixième
prior poem-a-days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
it's a three-show three-ring weekend. Ketman cd release yest, 92 protons at midway silly today and army of broken toys doing Bent Wit cabaret's Grotesque mother's day tomorrow. woo long day/long existence. liveliness required. sleep time. (sorry these poems about my day are getting weird, this one's kind of a we twee geezers-themed'un!)
5.8.10
The kick drum pokes through a pink towel (front head's gone),
the punk beat erect, keeping peekaboo time.
"Your constellation is showing!" i shout at the Shirley Temple
who fronted a rock band and didn't live to tell the tale.
Circus Boy beer dots my upper lip. The dive bar loo
doesn't make me flee, less scary than my bathroom anxiety
dreams smell. The graffiti reminds me of a friend's sex-positive
associations to missionary posit'... visualize a man kneeling
to worship at a Sibylline O'Keefe floral cavern in the humblest
of prostrations. Ritual incense burning before even suggestion
of undressing. The neon diner sign's rocket is rather phallic,
we young fogies eat 6 oz. steaks, frappes, and crab cakes,
compare cole slaw and catalogue shoe shopping. We
live fast and are old and ascot'd before our timepieces are
wound. I wear my 'granny hit the big time' broach,
no need for silver redundancy.
it's a three-show three-ring weekend. Ketman cd release yest, 92 protons at midway silly today and army of broken toys doing Bent Wit cabaret's Grotesque mother's day tomorrow. woo long day/long existence. liveliness required. sleep time. (sorry these poems about my day are getting weird, this one's kind of a we twee geezers-themed'un!)
5.8.10
The kick drum pokes through a pink towel (front head's gone),
the punk beat erect, keeping peekaboo time.
"Your constellation is showing!" i shout at the Shirley Temple
who fronted a rock band and didn't live to tell the tale.
Circus Boy beer dots my upper lip. The dive bar loo
doesn't make me flee, less scary than my bathroom anxiety
dreams smell. The graffiti reminds me of a friend's sex-positive
associations to missionary posit'... visualize a man kneeling
to worship at a Sibylline O'Keefe floral cavern in the humblest
of prostrations. Ritual incense burning before even suggestion
of undressing. The neon diner sign's rocket is rather phallic,
we young fogies eat 6 oz. steaks, frappes, and crab cakes,
compare cole slaw and catalogue shoe shopping. We
live fast and are old and ascot'd before our timepieces are
wound. I wear my 'granny hit the big time' broach,
no need for silver redundancy.