fr_defenestrato: (Lebowski)
Good morning. May I have a counter check?
Ah, thank you very much. Oh... while I’m here,
could you look up my balance? What the heck,
let's check all twelve accounts, ’k? Be a dear.
I have four hundred checks from eBay sales
that need immediate depositing. Is
it legal to deposit checks from Wales
or Ghana, by the way? But so the thing is
is that I can’t tell which is which. I’ve lost
the envelopes they came in, cover letters,
and email printouts—guess I must have tossed
them by mistake—and so: four hundred debtors
and no damn time to get the sorting done.
But you can help, right? Good! Check number one...
[2010 March 1. For Bob the Bank Teller.]
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Of auld, Rich Samson's small, almost straight brain
could not conceive a past in which we two
gay siblings could our randy selves restrain
from rogering each other. Yes, it's true
that we explored our bodies to the point
of my kissing your ass, though you refused
reciprocation. (Now, reverse anoint-
ing I decline.) I never was enthused
about your face or form; but let me say
with shying, consanguineous modesty,
that you, mon frère, shine like the light of day
on undeserving, rank humanity:
You were and are quite beautiful; and I,
your homely brother, still cannot but sigh.
fr_defenestrato: (j'accuse)
The best-laid puns of mice and flightless fowl
withstanding naught, each morning I accept
a copy of the Post Express and scowl
and snarl at its breath-takingly inept
attempts at journalism. Why, here's some now:
Page 4, a 'hundred-day mark' inventory
of President Obama's doings: how,
despite the public's hymns of change and glory,
'The deficit hawks worry that he's blown
a gaping a hole in the budget.' Yes,
a cut-and-paste mistake; yet I feel prone
to don a Wildean bearing and intone,
'My dear! a gaping a-hole fails to impress:
Whence else might come such ignoble Excress?'


Heehee. Oh, and don't even get me started on the obsolete meaning of 'budget' as 'a small bag, pouch, or purse' and used as slang for male genitalia:
As Roger last night to Jenny lay close
He pulled out his budget and gave her a dose.
The tickling no sooner kind Jenny did find
But with laughing she'd purg'd both before and behind.
'Pox take it!' quoth Roger, 'He must himself be beside
That gives pills, pills against wind and 'gainst tide!'
fr_defenestrato: (jesus bird)
A CURATOR OF AWFUL OBJECTS, I
I'm unapologetically inclined
to render tribute to the most intrib-
uable among aesthetic forms: my mind,
untouched by rein or shackle, flaunts its lib-
erty to contemplate the head of Christ,
upturned as if beseeching rescue from
its velvet prison, or perhaps enticed
to join in canine poker in the some-
what brighter frame next door; while speakers wheeze
the Macarena and the Safety Dance
in endless duel re which is more displeas-
ing to the ear; and both my shirt and pants
are Dacron plaid. But what's that? My eyes! — Ow!
Thomas Kincade? Oh, burn that fucker NOW.
fr_defenestrato: (ten of swords)
Or so said [livejournal.com profile] maestro_live on receiving this sonnet in text yesternight:

The tiny picture that I loved so well
and rescued lately from beneath the sink
fell thereinto; I have no words to tell
how sad the ruin of all this running ink.
I know that you will rally hale and soon
despite this last abdominal dismay;
the loss of icon does not importune
the loss of the original. So stay.
I know the fates have stomped upon your head
(as fates are wont to do) but gather this:
that, if and when the fates would have you dead,
my life, denatured utterly of bliss,
would be in certain forfeiture, and I
would die, would die, would die, would die, would die.
fr_defenestrato: (falcon ridge)
[livejournal.com profile] cbpotts asks: How does one go about separating the creative act (art, writing, etc) from the act/self-awareness/performance aspect of being a creator -- and more importantly, should one?

Since infancy I am a windup toy
set whirling to delight the bourgeoisie
and stoke parental pride: a gifted boy
whose singular métier would seem to be
discernment and fulfillment of such acts
as make the grown-ups smile: singing a hymn,
playing the piano, citing obscure facts
re angels' differences from cherubim—
and making sonnets. Surely such forays
could hardly have resulted otherwise:
My every work is meant for human eyes.
When writing, an imagined spotlight stays
spot on me through each pirouette, each phase,
each put-on voice, each fauvian disguise.

(Note: 'fauvian' is a made-up word. I was alluding to fauvism, the early 20th century art movement led by Matisse. If you're uncomfortable with the form, substitute 'wavian' as adjective for 'of or related to Evelyn Waugh'.)
more ansverse here )
fr_defenestrato: (britches)
I promised to respond in verse. So:

Q: How does one gain an audience with Thee? How can one bask in Thy greatness?

A:
Admittance to Oz's great throne
Was a cinch as compared with my own:
But my guard at the gate
Can be made to deflate
If you throw him the right kind of bone.

Go to, sirrah. Our greatness, indeed! Heehee. We are duly flattered.

If you're visiting D.C., just holla and we shall summon you for dinner or sechlike.



Q: How do you introduce yourself to someone you meet for the first time?

A:
In social situations, I will smile
and shake the person's hand (a solid grip
to demonstrate my grunting manhood) while
his/her name, stealthy, serpentine, will slip
and slither from my brain into the void.
Each meeting is a panic, just contained:
though life is such that one cannot avoid
these things, I'd rather everyone refrained
and forged new friendships medias in res!
But as regards self-presentation, I
bestill my tongue, forgoing to supply
my vitals, save when one elects to press
for them. The formula is static: 'Hi,
I'm Gordon.' 'Jordan?' 'Gordon.' 'Gordon?' 'Yes.'



Q: Ha ha! Just to be a jerk, I'll ask you another question: how do you stand yourself, being so smart, talented and good-looking?

A:
Oh, ask me a hard one.

Answer: I don't.

Follow-up Q: You have to answer in verse. Or in the form of a question, Alex.

A:
Well! I beg your pard one.

Answer I won't!



Q: Will you Love me? Will you love me forever? Do you need me? Will you never leave me? Will you make me so happy or the rest of my life? Will you take me away? Will you make me your wife? I gotta know right now. Before we go any further. Will you love me? Will you love me forever?

A: [Full disclosure: edited since first posted]
I didn't know you cared! One ersatz girl,
At call, awake, comin' up! Didn't we
Agree the name of Gordon Geise (that's me),
While lovely, doesn't have the mad'ning twirl
Or attitude of 'Dummy Lovelit Anally'?

[The above verse is a precise anagram of:

I couldn't take it any longer; Lord, I was crazed,
And when the feeling came upon me like a tidal wave
I started swearing to my god and on my mother's grave
That I would love you till the end of time.

Check it if you don't believe me.]
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Last night I thought of you and looked around
toward the fridge to view that photograph
of you, the one that always makes me laugh
or cry—but it was nowhere to be found.
(The suction cup was old and worn that bound
your healing hand to freezer door.) And af-
ter panicked scrambling on the floor for half
a minute, there I spied it, safe and sound,
far back beneath the sink: a kitty toy
pawed carelessly afoul and out of play.
I washed the suction cup so it would stay
in place; and, as it were the real McCoy,
I kissed the photo, source of all my joy
who mustn't, mustn't ever go away.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
The good news is, I'm totally over B.D. Wong.

Dear Abraham Benrubi: Please be mine
as friend, companion, lover: let me be
your wee confrère; likewise as ever thine
I'll troth my most remoran loyalty.
I'll hump as barback to your gentle Ben
and Jerry's backup on the ER desk;
as you lend voice to friends of Cyber-Hen,
I'll snigger with delight. The rough burlesque
of Olaf, god of trolls, infantophage,
will hammer humor, salving every stress;
and as we tend our hemp in our old age,
I'll tender tender love with more souplesse
than E. Suplee supplied! My lovely lad'll
be never, in my arms, without a paddle.
fr_defenestrato: (lupus)
One should never meet a person one admires:
For what he does is always so much better
than what he is.
An artist's work inspires,
uplifts us, challenges us like a letter
to the editor of our very souls;
how sad, then, when that artist, unembossed,
stands in the flesh revealed, how many holes
it takes to fill the Albert Hall
. A caust-
ic film of disappointment swathes our dreams
for what we are, and what we yet may be,
and what we idly worship; it all seems
but wistful affectations which, to me,
suggest a love of truth
less, gilt display:
The oldest lie, a man in god's array.


Thanks for the decidedly tardy soldier [livejournal.com profile] unxkbos for the inspiration. The quotes are, in order, from Moulin Rouge (1952, NOT 2001, thank you very much), 'A Day in the Life' from the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper, and my own Sonnet XX (1994, rev. 2001).
fr_defenestrato: (Aruh?)
I know not why, but this is the month to ask questions. As was the case last year, I shall attempt to respond ^honestly and in verse^ to any questions you pose to me honestly and in verse.

Ironically, the first question I answered last year, from [livejournal.com profile] peregrin8, was 'Do you ever think about quitting drinking again?' I replied:

I drank a bit last night. Three pints of stout,
Two steep shots of tequila, and some piss
(Figurative, alas) occasioned doubt,
As ever drinking do, re the abyss.
It’s been five years since my last month-long break
And doubtless would my liver bless me madly
Were I teetotalage to undertake
Anew. Yet as regards behaving badly,
I’m happy I no longer drink till mean
And rarely to the point of smoking crack;
I think this indicates that I have been
Improving, not in temperance, but in knack.
So while I’m sometimes tempted to go dry,
Yet there but for the grace of me go I.


As of today, I've gone without a drink for one full week. Woohoo! And goddammit.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)

0212090003.jpg
Originally uploaded by fr_defenestrato.
Yeah, I've been nervous. Don't say I'm a nut.
I hear more than you think. Let me explain:
I loved that old guy—not his bankroll!—but
His eyeball creeped me out; so it was plain
I had to kill him. Still, I took it slow—
I watched him sleep, lit by my lantern's light;
But I fucked up—he woke!—the pallid glow
Shone on that horrid eye! His heart, in fright,
Beat audible enough to wake the dead!
Enough to wake the neighbors! So I pounced,
And smothered him beneath the heavy bed.
And when his heart was heard no more, pronounced
Him dead, and buried him beneath the floor—
But just then came a knock upon the door...
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
The word for today is 'glossolalia'
Today's stiff gusts of unrelated texts
white-squall into an incoherent din,
a glossolalia that the mind rejects
seeking instead a panic room within,
a simple, candle-lit and ohm-filled space;
Anne Franking oneself from the shrieking shills
of retail sales; and sending any trace
of 'business English' heading for the hills.
And when at last life's lavish lexicon
is banished, when my hyperactive brain
divines its rallentando, noises gone
to heaven, may one simple tune remain
with words which are not words, which angels sang:
'Ooh ee ooh ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang.'
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Ladies and Gentlemen riding the Green
and Yellow, Red, or Blue and Orange lines:
Due to a situation unforeseen
in Nostradamus, astrologic signs
and portents, or St. John's Apocalypse,
all travel will be heavily delayed
while frantic Metro workers come to grips
with clearing the debris from those who stayed,
despite our dire warning, on the trains
early this morning while the wild boar
were swarming. Once we've cleaned up those remains,
our service will continue. Thank you for
your patience we regret the inconve-
nience we'll be moving momentarily.



Accounting: Despite long unproductive periods, the above makes 48 sonnets I've writ in 2008.
fr_defenestrato: (avogadro)
An elementary schoolmarm told me once—
I sha'n't divulge the pedagogue's name now—
That central to evading cries of 'Dunce!'
Was learning, with advanced precision, how
To cull on sight, as garden snake from adder,
The garden simile from metaphor:
The former uses 'like' and 'as'; the latter
Admits of no such craven distance: War
Is hell, and thither with dispatch shall fly
The souls of slothful pupils who omit
To learn the difference. Decades later, I
Can say with confidence that 'pile of shit'
Is neither metaphor nor simile
For that old quack, but just the way things be.
fr_defenestrato: (Satan Claus)
Live Journal, never think I love thee not:
In my fond heart thou resteth lord and liege
Whose tribute hath not, shall not be forgot
Amid the traps and tumult that besiege
The hermitage of bald misanthropy
Wherein for one and fifty blissful weeks
Each year I dwell, of clown and clothing free,
Enjoying garlic, onions, and yes, leeks;
Yet when to me remaineth one week more
Of solace, then comes clamouring ado!
The mien monastic I so well adore
With bells doth bruit. And I shall disembowel
Who next occasions, be he fair or foul,
My hearing 'sleigh bells ring-ting-tingling, too.'
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Expanding on a post from Monday:

The Ruins wasn't bad. It wasn't great—not much is new; it's kinda dumb—but I'm a sap for movies that eviscerate blithe, beautiful young breeders in their prime. It's not their breederhood, per se; it's just that movies like this always spend the first 10 minutes playing scenes of casual lust on strictly girl-boy themes, as if the worst, most truly tragic thing about the way their gruesome deaths eventually befall is all the photogenic sex that they won't be around to have, being dead and all. Horny kids die; that's just the way of things: it's over when the fat ladyslipper sings.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Thanks to those who have been attending the production of this work. The idea was to create a cycle of 14 sonnets all pertaining to New Orleans or my relationship thereto, and having the word "decadence" (or an approximation thereof) appear in the xth line of the xth sonnet. Let x = x. I discovered to my dismay that I placed that appearance in the wrong line of two sonnets (Variations 9 and 10) and forgotten entirely about it in one, and so had to make rigorous amends—which in at least one case degraded the sonnet as originally writ. Phooey. Also, some of the writing didn't even wander near New Orleans proper, but in mental environs thereof, like my relationship with [livejournal.com profile] maestro_live, which was in considerable part forged there. Still, I like the cycle as a whole, and it manages to do some tricks that I like.

Obviously this is patterned on J.S. Bach's Goldberg Variations; though the latter consisted of 32 pieces in all (mine are only 14), with the 'Aria da capo e fine' being a verbatim repeat of the opening Aria (mine is not). As we all know :) every third variation on Bach's set is a canon—that is, the melody of the pieces is strictly and universally mirrored, usually a half-measure or measure behind its first statement. In the first canon, 'all'Unisuono' (on the unison), the melody is played in precisely the same key, so the notes are precisely the same; in the second canon, 'alla Seconda', the melody is mirrored one note higher (on the second); and so forth.

For this cycle, I included three 'canons' marked by internal rhymes, irrespective of the line-final rhymes; in the first, the rhymes appear on the same beats in adjacent lines; in the second, the rhymes in any given line are one beat behind their appearance in the previous line; and so forth.

There are at least three anagrams of 'decadence' in the sonnets. One reference is done in acronym.

Variation 4 is a whirlwind selection of greatest hits from Carl Orff's Carmina Burana.

Variation 5 ends with a paraphrase of the most famous saying of Julian of Norwich, 14th century Christian mystic, previously quoted by T.S. Eliot in Little Gidding.

Variation 7 (the first sonnet in the second half), like Bach's #17, is marked "Overture" and is irregular. The first half of Bach's piece is ornate and stately and the second half is a quick-metered dance piece... not quite a jig, but close... all in all, a typical high-baroque overture movement (cf. overtures by Handel and other contemporaries to oratorios, orchestral suites, etc.). The sonnet structure, which places an evenly divided sestet in the middle, reflects this unusual structure.

Variation 10 is a wanton mutilation of the latter half of Hamlet's 'To be or not to be' soliloquy, leading into the beginning of his scene with Ophelia.

Variation 11 came along yesterday when I sang in St. James Catholic Church in Falls Church... apparently this particular Sunday was all about "the exaltation of the holy cross" and one of the numbers we sang was a setting of "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross", a lyric I had sung as a child in a completely different (Protestant) setting. I giggled in the choir loft when the pun occurred to me.

Variation 12, like the last Bach variation, is marked 'Quodlibet'; this term, commandeered by the Grateful Dead for a track on Aoxomoxoa, from the Latin 'quod libet' or 'as one likes it', in music is the Renaissance/baroque equivalent of a mashup: a composition that superimposes two or more (usually popular) songs on each other, fitting melodies into similar harmonies... kinda like 'Here Comes Santa Claus' and 'Ain't We Got Fun' smoosh together perfectly, for a while, at least. My version simply cites two popular songs (and alludes obliquely to at least one more).

Most of the fifth line of the Aria da capo directly quotes e.e. cummings's sonnet 'next to of course god america i'.


A DECADENCE CYCLE


Aria
In one curt breath, my decadence has jelled
To rank despondency; to think that I,
Your stalwart devotee, am thus expelled,
With fiercest hurry, canes me, drains me dry;
And yet you laugh, insouciant, so soon
After my ignominious retreat?
O fickle strumpet! Must I importune
To taste again your pleasures indiscreet?
Resolved am I to rest your faithful swain,
Head up, ears cocked, awaiting patiently
Your clarion call, your siren-sweet refrain!
Then every cock that crows shall crow for me:
Your beck and call I'll hasten hence to heed
And gladly to your every end accede.


Variatio 1
The furies, with a fickle attitude
By decadence and dearth divided, sing
Of this, my tiny, amber pinkie ring,
Give to me by my sunshine, a postlude
To days remembered halcyon, honeydewed—
Forgetting willfully the daily sting
That love, however deeply felt, can bring
When every other word is misconstrued.
This ring—rather, its like—served as a token
Of love too soon, too carelessly proffered:
What did I say that evening? What was heard
And understood? Three little words misspoken?
From there, how did we get so badly broken?
Since when do furies feed on the absurd?


Variatio 2
Well, did you ever have colcannon, made
With lovely, pickled cream? A tasty dish,
Though not as decadent as it's portrayed
In song and lore. If I were given a wish
To live anew a day already spent
And spend it in precisely the same way,
That day would be the Thursday that you sent
A present, half fruit basket, half bouquet,
To me, care of the Sherry on Canal.
I must have played that song 'Colcannon' by
Full Frontal Folk a hundred times—and shall
A hundred more when my said wish comes true!
And, sure enough, the nearer I'm to cry:
That day was all and all because of you.


Variatio 3. Canone all'Unisuono
I’d stayed up far too late the previous night
And played with Jim and Peter from Lafitte.
(Jim’s legs were quite delectable, but Pete—
A jealous lad: undecadent, uptight.)
Around eight bells I woke up in mid-flight
And found this swell’s leg in the middle seat
Pressed hard against my own; and my own meat
Was ardently full-boner, in plain sight
Outgrabing* in my Daisy Dukes for air!
My neighbor seems unfazed as I grab root
And wrest my cock loose of its prison chains,
Hard as a rock. He fondles his with care,
Then maybe—fuck yeah!—plays with mine! I shoot,
And grab a sock to wipe what jizz remains.


Variatio 4
O Fortune, ever changing like the moon!
Once rife with flowing locks, I'm going bald;
Where shopkeep's rouge once made young sailors swoon,
These days they're uniformly just appalled.
The winter's fled and Ecce gratum spring—
Which lasts four hours until the blazing sun
Reduces all mankind to sweltering.
So to the nearest public house we run
To drink with popes and eat of roasted swan
And let the nasty abbot get us nude,
And love flies everywhere but sticks upon
A virgin, which c'mon, that's fucking rude.
O Fortune, always, like the moon, in flux,
Now waxing fair, now waning cruel: life sucks.


Variatio 5
The daylight is just softening to gold
As I return from cock/tails at Lafitte's
Through calm, familiar blocks two centuries old
All pointing me back to French Quarter Suites.
A poolside open bar is underway
And on the deck a dense morass of men—
In swim- or birthday suits—gyrate and play
And madly bless New Orleans yet again.
Maestro is holding court—he's had a few
And so exudes that confidence, that smile
He all too rarely dons; he flirts with two
Young twinkie types, who certainly beguile,
But nothing more. No matter. All is well,
And all is well, and all things shall be well.


Variatio 6. Canone alla Seconda
Should we have lunch at Acme Oyster Bar?
Or maybe Felix? Either one will do.
We never stray to see the sights too far:
Café du Monde beignets, or tea for two—
Long Island iced, if hijinx sway our will!
We'll shop the mile on Bourbon, Chartres, Royal,
Decadencetur; flop a while at Clover Grill
For fries and shakes; then stop and smile (and spoil)
The sly old gals down at the Coffee Pot,
Whereat we try lost bread and eggs sardou
And grub like that. Says I, This place is not
A tourist hub like Pat O'Brien's. —True,
Says he, They're more like stubborn cats in here...
But stray with me: the corner pub's got beer.


Variatio 7. Ouverture
Ornate and stately, high above the street,
The balconies that greet these curious lads
Are masked like Mardi Gras, making discreet
The acts of young men moping in kneepads.
It's all a strange, baroque negotiation,
A hunt for high-grade genes that won't get used.
I'm just about to make my fond farewells...
But then the decadence, like music, swells—
My knees are insufficiently contused
And, frankly, I could use one more libation.
This one is drunk, and prob'ly straight. No matter.
He's begging to be pantsed... Yep, he a pig.
I pause for pleasantries, but he spurns chatter:
Shut up and play another fucking jig.


Variatio 8
When first unto this hallowed ground I came,
I'd heard some tales, drunk from a plastic cup
Marked "Krewe d'Etat"; I knew plain beads were lame
But flash the fancy ones and shirts go up
And pants come down: this much in the abstract
I understood at my first Mardi Gras;
But for the moral turpitude I lacked
Sufficient words. (I settled on 'Huzzah'.)
'Come back for Decadence,' said Kim, our host,
'It's just like this, except it's gay.' I did,
And sure enough, that weekend was the most
Licentious fun I'd ever had. The kid
In me still rues the fact he never knew
About this place back when. And I do, too.


Variatio 9. Canone alla Terza
It's clear that I'm a lousy human being
Whose only goal's a cheerful time at play;
I've tumbled down a donut hole, unseeing,
Unfeeling for the numb-struck, drowned array,
The shattered lives, the stealing government
(A slimy hoodlum that contrives to nick
The poor man's last saved dime; who would consent
To blow this burg offshore, to blast it quick,
If such would earn him dough), this purgatory,
Decedents' kin—I much prefer no glimpse
Of flooded wards, no seedy sinful stories—
Cutthroats, crackheads, whores, bloody swords, and pimps.
My mast stays when all boats have fled the port,
To espouse each new disaster, then ignore't.


Variatio 10.
With a bare bod I make more than quietus,
To grunt and sweat—who wouldn't for dis bear?
But for the dread that something that he ate is
Coming in for a landing, I'd stay there
All day! Such undiscover'd country makes
Me rather keep the bear I have than fly
To others that I know not of. Land sakes,
His native hue alone can make me cry!
I suckled o'er his pole and enter'd praise
The moment his great pith subsuméd me:
Cub, in thy orifice my deca-days
And nights of giddy lust rememb'réd be.
I leave you now with beads, my last, best string.
Don't say I never gave you anything.


Variatio 11.
When I survey the wondrous cross, I feel akin,
As I myself am wondrous cross most every day,
Especially about Grant Storm's most deadly sin:
Trying to moralize my favorite fête away.
This asshole (whom I wouldnae fuck with Limbaugh's cock;
A red-hot branding iron, though, would be ideal)
Sent naughty videos collected by his 'flock'
To Looziana lawmakers with an appeal
That they might institute a public morals law
(That one was on the books already was ignored)
Whose Puritan effects had just begun to thaw
When Cousin 'Trina wrought Dec-vengeance from the LORD.
Therefore I ask you, brethren, to embrace our loss
And join in exaltation of the wholly cross.


Variatio 12. Quodlibet
When Joni sang to us that we were stardust, golden,
And billion year old carbon, how so did she mean?
As poignant as they are, these thoughts hardly embolden
Belief in paradise as YHWH's garden green.
When Leonard Cohen sings of Isaac on the altar,
He cannot help invoke the LORD's psychotic streak:
The architect of Eden also made Gibraltar,
And placed Neanderthal upon the very peak.
What garden, then, befits our present human state
(Is this the age of grace in Memphis, Tennessee)?
And did the subtle serpent really seal our fate?
Is Pandora to blame? Did Kronos set us free?
Did Eve cause Adam's death? Each new-made choice erases
An infinite array of unknown airs and graces.


Aria da capo e fine
The decade, century, millennium
Of love has fruited, fallen, and decayed
While on a gimcrack, gilt proscenium
We walking shadows strut, and fret, and fade,
And are no more. What of it? That our breath
Lasts but a moment is a tiresome trope:
Are we made worthless by the fact of death?
Perhaps we are, but—whoops, I dropped the soap!
I'd better pick it up... Ah, there we go!
Some folk, my love, know only inner joys,
The pleasures of self-knowledge; but we know
That life is lame that lacketh lithesome boys:
Thereto next Labor Day I'll hie me hence
To suckle at the teat of Decadence.


*Yes, I'm fully aware this should be 'outgribing'.
fr_defenestrato: (ten of swords)
Year of Suck
my eyes are just not drying out today.
the eschaton has early come. kaboom.
at any rate, it seems impending doom
with subtle tones of almond and dismay.
just like that time before, when spalding gray
walked steadily to his ophelian tomb:
how many stories squandered, and for whom
were those belles lettres untold, we cannot say.
and so but how can dave be criticized?
no matter the despair, the angry fists
we want to shake at him, he realized
that all we do is utterly for naught.
in empathy, i go to shave my wrists
in broad strokes, south to north, as i was taught.
fr_defenestrato: (Default)
Variatio 6. Canone alla Seconda
Should we have lunch at Acme Oyster Bar?
Or maybe Felix? Either one will do.
We never stray to see the sights too far:
Café du Monde beignets, or tea for two—
Long Island iced, if hijinx sway our will!
We shop the mile on Bourbon, Chartres, Royal,
Decadencetur; flop a while at Clover Grill
For fries and shakes; then stop and smile and spoil
The sly old gals down at the Coffee Pot,
Whereat we try lost bread and eggs sardou
And grub like that. Says I, This place is not
A tourist hub like Pat O'Brien's. —True,
Says he, They're more like stubborn cats in here...
But stray with me: the corner pub's got beer.

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February 2015

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