Path: news.nzbot.com!not-for-mail
From: maddeningirl@yahoo.com (Maddeningirl)
Newsgroups: alt.surrealism
Subject: Sexual Mismanagement, etc
Date: 17 Jul 2004 02:04:11 -0700
Organization: http://groups.google.com
Lines: 154
Message-ID: <ec0edd51.0407170104.24b98174@posting.google.com>
NNTP-Posting-Host: 80.178.166.152
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
X-Trace: posting.google.com 1090055051 16562 127.0.0.1 (17 Jul 2004 09:04:11 GMT)
X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 17 Jul 2004 09:04:11 +0000 (UTC)
Xref: news.nzbot.com alt.surrealism:1243
Sexual Mismanagement
We all want to save our children from, shall
we say,
our
own "ineptitude d'amour"
and endless, Laurel and Hardy love lives.
We
hope our kids can remember their first loves
without disturbing mental
images of dirigibles
diving into the earth while horrified crowds
scatter;
ending in a monstrous thump of flame.
But we won't tell them
how we undid ourselves,
or give them practical advice, like:
"try not to
put an elbow into anybody's cheekbone,
because it's sex, and you can't
say:
"I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else,
just for a moment"
or tell her
"Gee, dear, I was concentrating on Curling",
while she's
lying there half-stunned.
______________________________________________
Love is all Box and No Cornflakes
Now that we both know
the
opposite sex
is grief's retail outlet -
And you won't spit on my
grave,
in case something grows -
Now that I've taken the fly off my
neck
I wore when I heard your husband say
he wouldn't hurt one,
Now
we're both angry as cornered pacifists
because forever didn't last
long
enough for me to get
my shoes and socks back on....
I'll admit - that
when I cooked,
and we were short of vinegar
- I just used Windex.
_________________________________________________
The Good Poet
A good poet in this day
is rust and iron
tastes of old
concrete pilings,
does not
lapse into beauty.
Only a dull poet
would seek out a flower,
instead of
the electric whine
of a garage
door
opening.
_________________________________
No-one can tell
what God or Heaven will do
If you divide by zero.
______________________________________
My memories of you go by
like rows of butterflies on crutches.
We were the blind desperately unbuttoning the blind,
lost in the blur of the forbidden.
Until your voice, like the shock of cold chicken,
ripped my heart out
and beat it like a seal pup,
into your front porch.
Suddenly, my life was invaded
by a drunken synchronized-swim team of emotions...
As the book of my soul began to fill with coffee rings.
Now I know that my life is a only metaphor,
for something infinitely worse -
But your cruelty can never keep its freshness.
One day, your beauty too, will be gone
like lost socks from a dryer.
_____________________________________
Hans Holbein's The Ambassadors (painted in 1533 (National Gallery, London)
All poems by In ancient times a broken lute string
was a traditional symbol
of death and decay
Apparently, the ancients were easily depressed
That,
or there was a vicious lute string monopoly
oppressing the people.
Or
there weren't that many good lutes, so people said:
"Look, if you're just
going to paint the damn thing,
how come you can't use the broken lute?"
And took the good one out to go visit their
girl, ...or boy
Most
probably the broken lute string symbolized
a really hot date gone bad,
when everything was moving along quite nicely,
until one silly string
broke
and you could never get the mood back.
After all,
what better
symbol of death and decay could there be,
than having to go home by
yourself holding a broken lute?
all poems by
|
|