Tuesday, August 06, 2002

 

I wrote this little ditty when the infestation of tyrranesaurus teenagers dangled their spindly arms over second and mission, a hole underneath 'em where the street urchins slept. You remember the giganti-waifs? The Gap ads that hovered over every creature downtown a few years back? Their jeans slung low enough to see an enormous, cavernous belly button, that tempted us onto the Khaki craze and asked us to sing along with a peter frampton song. Ole Ginsburg died during the writing of this one here, kiddo, and I wasnt none too happy about it so's it a bitter pill to swallow... I think you can handle it, tho.. punchy, you got what it takes...

This, dear friend, Punchy... is submitted to you without preview. Editing may not ensue for days as I have a train to catch. I might not be here tomorrow, kiddo, so dont say I never gived ya nothing when I'm gone.

The Gap
The gap beneath your blue stare, eclipsed sigh and outstretched arm,
reaching and pulling in tug-o-war.
Beneath your roaring twenties hair flop, wisps tickling my stomach and
trickling beads of sweat down.
Beneath a tumultuous underground descent into ghetto womb, paradoxic
re-birth hyperbole, beneath grime stained rainbow-walls, language from
another world feeding hungry-homeless visions of ice cream& keeping it
as simple as a drumstick.
Beneath perfect lolling hills with white satin snow. Uncover
splendourous caverns, my longing & relish litost.
Beneath sunny accents stretching tastes nothing like a flower.
Beneath illusions of hands shaking in historic reconciliation, each
grip a tightening noose around us like papier mache.
Beneath angelic, monotonous cherubs bored with fags, jazz and drugs,
your virgin breast rises and sighs in the wind/wound in the land of
great fire. Colorful feathered fans bid farewell to never-ending innocence.
Beneath a vast ceiling, acoustics enshrouding drapery, a glass of
sherry – a lush life tear – soaked pillow.
Beneath the underdog, his outstretched arm, lips dry with peristalsis;
rotten teeth & brown tongue through “thpare tchange?”
Beneath pursed lips & silhouetted shins, glimpses of a lace paradise &
chiffon bondage.
Ya fooled me old teenager! By summoning bohaemian daemons with
fossilized wanderlust visions like gargoyles…
Ya fooled me old teenager! With rambunctious maniacal rantings that
screamed finger fuck, stink fist, and day’s old sex-scent!
Ya fooled me old teenager! Ya coolly leaned into a lamp post, burned a
fag,
hit on city-girls, groped at them passionate-like in alleys… coerced
into sexual debates.
Sex? Money?
Fuck? No? fucky, fucky?
Ya fooled me old teenager! Bronzed denim, worn through at the knee…
Could ya step over me?
Could ya step over me? Hemlines rising as my beard thickens into
patchy moss, over chin.
Could ya step over me? Gnawing at my fingertips, I ain’t got no
cigarettes.
Could ya’s step over me? Weighed down by a mailbag, parcels drooping
like a palm tree. Could ya step over me? Old teenager?

Ya fooled me old teenager, each dark flower pulled from brown star,
each leghorn pulled from gastronomic alleys like Albert Ayler, his
intestinal posterity pushing jake-walk, 50/50 blues.
Ya fooled me ole Teenager, each gnarled hair pulled me toward the edge
like an obtuse monkey, craning for a glimpse of sweet oblivious peril.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, each upended milk crate and demolished
drum-beat pulled blood from the skin once white, now black, brown and beige.
Ya fooled me ole teenager, muscles stressing against the bars,
Old teenager, with succulent power, ole teenager who tied me to my
executioners table, tied me with ions, to plastiscene orgasm!
Ya fooled me ole teenager! Ya taught me depth and horrible sexual
positions. Ya taught me pain, longing & careless addictions/ ya gave me
fastidious looks & used big words. Ya found me on the south side of
Chicago, a Malcolm X baseball whizzing by, ya found me as old teenager looking
for revolting cocks,
Ya found ME, ole teenager, beneath a buoyant breath of loving lungs,
beneath propel butterflies ‘neath my heart fluttering in space… open
imaginable drum roll! Paradiddles – flamacues – ratamacues & ruffs. YES!
RUFFS! Say it with me one time:
RUFFFFS!
Beneath waltz-ama-jigs, rhumba-trots, and foxy- polkathons.
Beneath pharaohs & herons & trains & presidents & & dukes & birds &
Miles & monks & Traps & Kings & Queens & Tones. Deep, Deep Tones.
The Deep Jones.

posted by Hog 12:34 AM