heed the cry of the mophead man listen to those tender shivers running down
the sun all and all in I and I keep mowing creasing through green bread and
glass just to keep these starlings jumping hover now, deep quiet snails,
keep hover whistle now your bread and lover (please don’t land loverside
down!) fools and their hills keep dancing prancing with their inane chortles
even I can’t gulp their nonsense my gullet creaks in protest their green
pants just cry out for help all the fashionable just tear for weeping clutching
large scissors in their phantom hands (or trying) slip through and stab their
toes mine oncle, the oracular one, who leaps stamps his feet, and whistles
through his bristles has only one piece of advice for me: “Gurgenham, always
put your money down, up front, where I can see.” he scoops it up and flees
ignoring all my cannonshot and rue he left his paste-on bristles here behind
with a little stickum left, they stand upon my lip tarnished sentries for
my gaping mawth (I smell stew and curdled lindberger) knee-high me just sat
in corners read of nights and high castles magick danced upon the fingerstips
crept about in creepy places, singing damosel, damosel, why don’t you wait?
why don’t you wait for me? or even him? fountains of mirth, the day books
betrayed leaving all their ruse to leave the lies plain as May “It’s all
in how you pierce it, old son,” bubbled Mr. Con McCreeley, staff and cold
command still dribbling down his nose that’s when I slammed those libros
shut left my place to pace anew. no more climbing new culverts and cashews
peeping into deep and dark patios hunching soft over quivering amours inside
things are different, brainwise outside they’re the same as ever as ever they
ever ever were. “No never!” my chatterinrg leaves chirped out from lips so
bristly–keep on fucking, so the truckers say. this olde cornflower hat just
doesn’t do it, anymore. quivering voices on the telephone that have nothing
left to say. ho hum, ho hum, boil my drum. non sequiturs useless, foibles
and creeps, fumbles to the back of the queue, tired, hungry patois gurneys
to the fore. and what next? and what never? now to toss the chickenbones,
the gizzards? scatter the cards and muddied leaves, prance the I Ching upon
the mat, what’ve they got to say? in silence? not much. coins and bells and
baubles auspicious and terminal journeys, lizards and wizards and witches
and grues these magickal steps just don’t satisfy: one day the cover’s blown
and we all bluster counting small coins hid beneath our skin