Deathless Poetry flows like Vintaged Wine from the Feathery Quill of
Sensitive Fearless Poet Mr. von Borax. APPLAUSE.
Sometimes it's Poetry and Sometimes it's Lyrics for Bands which Nitro von Borax was once though no longer to performing in, e.g. Borax and Tsars. Poetry or Lyric? THERE'S A DIFFERENCE BUT BET DONUTS IT'S MERE BOURGEOIS SEMANTIC ARGUMENT
Sacre Bleu, there are like eleventy-nine poems right down below coiled like loathesome adders in the grass, waiting to strike...sssssssssssss....
Nitro von Borax holds copyright of Jealous Vindictiveness, But will even write doggerel for Smarmy Greeting Cards for adequate remuneration.
FAT ASS ON COUCH
I have a favorite TV
show, I keep it in a pouch,
My very favorite TV
show is FAT ASS ON COUCH
My mother doesn’t
like it much, she really is a grouch
I wish that she
could see the joy of FAT ASS ON COUCH
And when I’ve
finished watching I can neither stand nor crouch,
Because I’ve been
immobilized by FAT ASS ON COUCH
My gyre’s surely
widening, to Bethlehem
I slouch
‘Cause all that I
will gimble on is FAT ASS ON COUCH
I will further add
endorsement, I will sit right hear and vouch
For the bliss of
eating nougat, watchingFAT ASS ON COUCH!
The
Visitation
The seance was held on a Midnight,
The Moon
was occluded by clouds,
The room lit a little by pale light
Which
glowed from the Medium's shroud
As she called up the Revenant's
figure
And he hovered there, spectral and grim,
And the eyes of
the watchers grew bigger
As they stuttered out questions for him:
"What
awaits once we're no longer living?"
"Are Demons in lingerie cute?"
"Are
the Gods really mean, or forgiving?"
"Where did my late Wife hide my
flute?"
The Ghost
flickered wanly then intoned;
"I have something more crucial to say
"Lest
all Ye be doomed, doomed," he moaned,
"For thy fate hangs in balance
today:
"Thy breakfasts are boring and awful
"Thy oatmeal and
pastries are pasty;
"I urge thou to put down that waffle!
"Cap'n
Salty's Mush Puppies are TASTY.
"Buy 'em by mail or
from Grocers,
"And think of the Money you'll save!
"Mush
Puppies pop hot from thy toaster-
"Please heed this
from beyond the grave!
"Mush Puppies will
leave you quite sated,
"Thy lives will be less sad and faulty!"
The
Revenant dimmed and then faded,
Groaning, "Mush Puppies-
from Cap'n Salty!"
A Pirate Poem
"Avast
ye, me hearties! A ship to starboard!
And she's loaded with spices
and silk!"
"Do you think they have cream?" A pirate implored;
"I
prefer cream in tea, over milk."
The mate and the swabs chewed upon
their hard tack
With cutlasses sharpened, and knives:
(Though some
of them knitted , and some played with jacks,
And some wrote sweet
poems to their wives.)
The parrot croaked, "murder!" and epithets
foul,
And the Captain lit candles in beard
And adjusted his
eyepatch, his hook and his scowl,
And thought about wenches, and
leered.
But the swabs were distracted by talk of ballet,
And the
mate had to check on his fern,
The gunners were busy with their
macrame,
And the pies in the oven would burn.
Soon the ship with
rich booty was too far to see,
And the Captain he hung up his hook,
And
sat down to crumpets and cupcakes and tea,
And read a nice romantic
book.
Dog
There
was always something weird about
That dog
We had him four years
Since
the night we found him sitting on our porch
My wife said he was
trying to break in
I don't think she ever liked that dog much
He
was a big dog, brown and fuzzy
With floppy ears
Fed him regular
He
never ate much
My wife said there was soup missing
But I never
paid her no mind
He was very affectionate
Used to pat him on the
head
While I watched TV
Always used to greet me
At the door
after work
With my slippers in his paw
I loved that dog
Though
the house did smell of cigarettes-
I thought my wife was smoking on
the sly
Sometimes when I came home I'd see his big head in the window
as he stood
On his hind legs to see me outside
Then one day he
wasn't at the window
And he wasn't at the door
And my TV and
stereo were
Gone
Too
My wife came home from shopping and
Said
we had to call the cops
We had that weird dog four years
I'd have
loaned him any money he needed...
A Poem Most Poignant and Tragic She found her ex-boyfriend's paintbrush
On
the way to the Dokken show
On the rug
Where it dropped when she
shocked him when
She told him she was gonna go
There with Doug
She
found a tear poised to moisten
Mascara 'round her pretty eyes;
Held
it back-
She adjusted vinyl tube top
Indulged a couple tragic
sighs
And a snack
She had a kiwi wine cooler
And a fork full
of pasta whip
On the porch
With her mentholated cigar-
ette,
lit the lonely paintbrush tip
Like a torch
And then as Doug drove
his pickup
Up the driveway, glossed her lips
With a squeal
And a
tube squirted red blood or
Paint under stil-
etto heel.
Vomit Boy
If
you notice me when you look at me
If you look at me at all,
If
you happen to wonder what I be,
You can listen; hear them call:
Vomit
boy needed on the Tilt-a-Whirl
Vomit boy, vomit boy
Vomit boy
wanted at the Shaft...
Vomit boy needed on the Hoist and Hurl
Vomit
boy, Vomit boy
Vomit boy to the Roto-Raft
I drag my ass
across this carnival
From six o'clock to three
I watch the yokels
stuff their gaping maws
With stuff they shouldn't see
'Cause
Carmine's made the corndogs out of rat;
He bathes in the lemonade
The
caramel corn is dank and foetid
And the pretzels are decayed
I
watch these imbeciles get in machines
Snap flabby bodies 'round
And
fling them roughly upside down
Leaving lunches on the ground.
Yes
they're throwing up and I'm cleaning up
And the puke never ends
Oh
they're blowing chunks as my mop it dunks
And this mop's my only
friend
Vomit boy needed on the Tilt-a-Whirl
Vomit boy, vomit
boy
Vomit boy wanted at the Shaft...
Vomit boy needed on the Hoist
and Hurl
Vomit boy, Vomit boy
Vomit boy to the Roto-Raft
They
say from the top of the Ferris wheel
You can see for miles
Down
below you’ll find all the chicken peels
And varicolored bile
They
say on the top of the Toss it Up
You're halfway to the moon
But
here below as they rise up
Stuff is falling, soon.
In Solemn Tribute
To the
tortured and exploited action figures of my youth:
To the Lone
Ranger, unmasked,
Bound with twine
Hung to twist in the air
Covered
in hot drips of candlewax
His pastel blue cowboy togs set aflame
Falling
on the quilt on the bed as the twine burned through
And my hands
beat out the fire then
As my grandmother grew suspicious in the next
room.
To the lovely Dale Arden, captured,
And made to perform
Unspeakable
acts
By the merciless Ming the Merciless and myself
While her
rescuer the beauteous Flash Gordon
Lay forgotten on the carpet
Seven
feet away.
To the ritually-scarred-on-the-face
Eagle-eyed-kung-fu-grip
G.I. Joes
Held as prisoners of war
Hurled from second story
windows
Covered in Pepsi and left half-buried in anthills
Stripped
to their ultimate blue pelvis/underwear
Realistic carpet covered
heads
Submerged and freezing in the ice cube tray.
To Superman
who bravely flew
From the overpass to confront
Rush hour traffic.
To
the Hulk whose empty rubber head
Was sliced open like a lid and
filled with ketchup.
To the tiny green soldiers, arms and legs
snipped off,
Melting in a napalm pool of rubber cement.
To Action
Jackson,
Who I last saw bouncing down the street
Tied with white
string to the bumper of my mother's car.
In the afterworld of the
dolls I am a legendary despoiler
I am the destroyer
They speak of
me in hushed tones of fearful reverence
And chase me down adult
streets
Pointing at me
With kung-fu fingers.
My Mistake
Sad was I
To
realise my mistake
Shortly after I fell into the churning vat of
linguini dough
At the factory
To be called before the great dark
being
And brought to see that
To my eternal shame
On Tuesdays
I
should have been burning incense
Made of purest platypus dung
And
sitting in a bowl of earthworms
Consecrated by a dwarf with
neckrings
And a bald head anointed with holy mustard
Whistling the
sacred waltz
Rotating my thumbs counterclockwise
But I was a
fool-
And now I'm damned to be cast into the swimming pool of vomit
And
suffer the torment of the six knitting needles
And one hot parsnip
Beset
upon by hairy swimming spiders the size of hats
Hear my woe and pain
If
only I'd partaken of mentholated massage oils
If only I'd been
blessed by a man that lies with poodles
If only I'd had one eyebrow
and one side of my moustache shaved off
If only I had not eaten of
the forbidden Cornish hen with stuffing
If only I'd wept salty tears
upon a newborn owl
And barked my shins intentionally on a low table
And
made an irritating whining sound
When alone in the bathtub
If
only I had known not to eat onions like apples!
But I was a fool
Pluck
a nostril hair for me,
Or ignite a small vole
In prayer.
What I Should Be Doing
I should
be singin' Italian arias
With my campadre Mbembe
Strolling
through Paris
In a toga and a fez
Doin' a little Greek dance
And
aiming a Mauser at that rat Ngyuen
-He killed Sonja-that rat Ngyuen
I
should be running through an Egyptian desert
On Tokyo time
I
should be eating Swedish meatballs
In a Brazilian falafel hut
And
sadly warbling a Micronesian threnody
On Chinese bagpipes
I
should be applying an English riding boot liberally
To the
accelerator of a Hispano-Suiza
On a black Carpathian mountain road
With
a bellyful of kim chee
Weiner schnitzel and absinthe
Or at
the very least
I should be picking up some more strawberry zingers
From
the convenience store on the way home tonight...
Vegetable
Like a razor through a
radish
Her voice commands you to
Strip nude, and take that bad
carrot
As punishment
Disdainfully
She calls you potato, and you
flinch
As she teases you with erotic leather spinach
And the
orange pumpkins of domination
Exposed now...
You crave bunches of
sex dandelions
And gothic vampire buttercups
As skin is heating
in limp asparagus bondage
But your mind is bruised and cold
So
numbed by restraints of rhubarb
That her overcooked celery whip
Cannot
Touch
You
Laced
in burlesque lettuce boots
Gasping for release
As rivulets of
beet juice mingle
With streams of salty meat juice
On your bed of
hot
Buttered rice
And pine nuts
And slivered almonds
Now
weep
For the pungent severed innocence
Of onions.
Gas Station Rose
She pushed my change back from behind the plexiglass
And then she wet her lips and smiled
And asked me why I didn’t try to make a pass
And her eyes were deep and wild
My head was swimming in the fumes of gasoline
As I stuttered in surprise
She laughed and said a thing that some would call obscene
But from her it sounded nice.
I made small talk for fourteen minutes, acting tough
Not too convincing, I suppose
We agreed to meet that night for chicken in the rough
Me and my gas station rose
She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flowers in a ditch
I was grinning so, I must have looked insane
As I drove into the cold
Ten miles down the freeway I called out her name
As I spun out of control
I never saw the patch of ice that did me in
I just couldn’t hold the road
I went over the embankment in a spin
Then I felt the truck explode
She’s finally come out from behind the plexiglass
And the flower petals froze
Standing in the rain and crying by the overpass
My lonely gas station rose.
She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flower in a ditch
My Evil Twin
I’ve seen those sleazy
Polaroids
It looks like me but please
avoid
Your implications, I tell you
I could not do that in those
shoes
Remarkable resemblance,
I do concede the very
semblance
Of myself in sordid languor
But that’s just a
doppelganger
It wasn’t me on Thursday
night
Outside your window what a
fright
Chewing on a human arm
Please do relax, don’t be
alarmed
I’ve proof in documents
you’ll see
Down in my basement, come
with me
Just down these stairs cause
I been framed
Me and him we look the same
It must have been my evil
twin
Facsimile in stolen skin
That’s a window, not a mirror
And my twin is getting nearer
I’ve read those Doctor’s affidavits
And opinions, you can save it
Yeah, I’m shaky and frenetic
But we’re not a schizophrenic
I’m just a little tense is
all
Because I think I’m getting
small
And my evil twin is gaining
From my psychic juices
draining
I’m afraid I can’t last very
long
My evil twin is growing
strong
It wasn’t me who staggered
drunk
Through topless bars in
swimming trunks
They think I’m guilty ever
since
He stole and used my
fingerprints
It wasn’t me, though I will
say
I just don’t feel myself
today
It must have been my evil
twin
Facsimile in stolen skin
That’s a window, not a mirror
And my twin is getting nearer
Amazon’s Mouth
My machete cleaves the jungle
vines
I know the jaguar’s close
behind
Me as I run with clumsy dread
With jodhpurs torn, the field
guide’s dead
Doomed and lost deep in the
bush
My gun discharged, my breath
is rushed
The nightfall’s near, pith
helmet gone
I know I’ll never see the
dawn
Still I press on to the South
For succor
At the Amazon’s mouth
I wheel and stare in purple
dusk
A charging boar with bloodied
tusk
Falls to the jaguar’s
gleaming fangs
Where the bright aguaje hangs
I fear I’ll feel those claws
before
I can confess my sins once
more
Stepping back my heel meets
air
Into the Rio Paru there
I’m swept away, to the South
The mighty pull
Of the Amazon’s mouth.
The rapids roil, I fight for
breath
Whirlpools swirl and promise
death
Alligators snap and fight
Fierce piranha dart and bite
I sink with heavy khaki
tattered
Nothing really seems to
matter
Soon I’ll join my poor dear
Rhonda
Constricted by an anaconda
Limp and lifeless, drifting
out
I’m gone, released
In the Amazon’s mouth
Stolen Fruits
Cupcakes in the pantry,
Muffins in the fridge
Potatoes in a drawer with
eyes
Like trolls under a bridge
None of it appeals to me,
None of it is hot,
None of it is tasty
Like this stolen fruit I’ve
got
Stolen fruits are sweeter
Stolen wine is red
Stolen meat is bloodier
Yeah, it’s hot in this
strange stolen bed
Laying in a secret place
Tallying the take
Stolen coins cannot be spent
Because they’re mostly fake
Stolen flavors on my lips
Leave me hungry still
I should not steal any more
But I’m afraid I will
On someone else’s tree
It looks so good to me
And I can’t help but grin
With stolen juices on my chin
And I’m a filthy thief
And I’m a hateful liar
I’ll pay for every leaf
In Satan’s lake of burning
fire
(Guitar)
Stolen fruits are sweeter
Stolen wine is red
Stolen meat is bloodier
Yeah, it’s hot in this
strange stolen bed
So I was not much surprised
To find my cupcakes gone
Muffins warm and buttered,
Hot potatoes on the lawn
Sitting here with nothing
Gambled it and lost
I might have never stolen
love
If I had known the cost…
Stolen fruits are sweeter
Stolen wine is red
Stolen meat is bloodier
Yeah, it’s hot in this
strange stolen bed
Her Watery Lair
She hears her ocean call
It echoes in her shell-like
ears
And she casts one more glance
at me
And casts herself into the sea
She’s in Poseidon’s thrall
His rolling waves engulf the
tears
She’s weeping as she sings to
me
And pulls me down into the
sea
Once in her arms I find in
tentacles I am entwined
Sinking down below to fathom
where the dead men go.
She drags me down so deep
To realms of the Leviathan
To dark forbidden mysteries
That lie in wait beneath the
sea
On her ocean bed I’ll sleep
Never more to stand on land
Her lips give one cold kiss
goodnight
She slowly rises to the
light.
I hope she doesn’t weep for
me, it’s really not too deep for me
I’ve simply traded light and air for one night in her
watery lair…
Copyright 2006 Pulchritudinous Borax Studios, Ltd. All rights reserved.