Two new sonnets
Jun. 1st, 2009 02:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fr_defenestratoI wrote the below for (and pretty much immediately prior to) the 'EATEN' reading at Art-o-Matic last Saturday.
For lunch I ate three fine, gruff billy goats,
for tea, their nanny. Then I ate Wang Chung.
Pete Townshend, Etta James, and Hall and Oates.
Sig Freud keeps asking, 'How you look so Jung?'
It's dietary synchronicity:
Right place, right time, and Cate Blanchett is toast
(well, on toast, anyway); and poor Spike Lee
just barely fit my crockpot as a roast.
Mikhail Barishnikov was in the line
to be my dinner, but I threw him back.
(He's really small and doesn't pair with wine.)
And fuck John Goodman. That's a heart attack.
Befriend me on LJ, I'll eat your soul.
can't help it, really: That's just how I troll.
They called her Mac, the brat who slept up there.
'MacKenzie!' as her mother used to cry,
when driven to the borders of despair
by noise and broken vases; and yet I,
who watched her grow from hors d'oeuvre to main course,
was ever patient with her tricks, and grateful
the law now deems it untoward recourse
to send a child to bed without a plateful.
So fattened over months and years, my Mac
Cajoled the bedsprings further down until
I damn near suffocated... Then: ATTACK!
[Om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom!] (< sound effects, not a line of verse)
She was delicious. But I'm hungry still.
The next course could be you, or you, or you:
My palate's easy. Any Mac'll do.
I wish I had time for better updating, re the reading, the weekend, crazy crazy crazy work, Maestro, playgoing, the smut journal (with pics) from Chicago, etc. I do not. I'll try to find the time.
For lunch I ate three fine, gruff billy goats,
for tea, their nanny. Then I ate Wang Chung.
Pete Townshend, Etta James, and Hall and Oates.
Sig Freud keeps asking, 'How you look so Jung?'
It's dietary synchronicity:
Right place, right time, and Cate Blanchett is toast
(well, on toast, anyway); and poor Spike Lee
just barely fit my crockpot as a roast.
Mikhail Barishnikov was in the line
to be my dinner, but I threw him back.
(He's really small and doesn't pair with wine.)
And fuck John Goodman. That's a heart attack.
Befriend me on LJ, I'll eat your soul.
can't help it, really: That's just how I troll.
They called her Mac, the brat who slept up there.
'MacKenzie!' as her mother used to cry,
when driven to the borders of despair
by noise and broken vases; and yet I,
who watched her grow from hors d'oeuvre to main course,
was ever patient with her tricks, and grateful
the law now deems it untoward recourse
to send a child to bed without a plateful.
So fattened over months and years, my Mac
Cajoled the bedsprings further down until
I damn near suffocated... Then: ATTACK!
[Om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom!] (< sound effects, not a line of verse)
She was delicious. But I'm hungry still.
The next course could be you, or you, or you:
My palate's easy. Any Mac'll do.
I wish I had time for better updating, re the reading, the weekend, crazy crazy crazy work, Maestro, playgoing, the smut journal (with pics) from Chicago, etc. I do not. I'll try to find the time.
