Monday, March 06, 2006

 

Tonight there is talk of Shufflefuck and I wait
impatiently to match up with
SF Shufflefuck contingent, to show those mothers that all this
California foolishness won't fool an old Chicago salt who plays his shufflefuck
dirty and rough like a bull in a ring and
if you really want to see a bullfight,
take a cape and sword away from the matador and
that's the kind of fight I like—
straight up, no hitches, no bullshit, no games—
I take my own hits and I dish them out quick and plentiful,
toss a puck down the lane and I will take the greatest of pleasure knocking that bitch down into the pit of the damned,
my puck glides sure and confident, strong and steadfast.
Down they go, clustering up like a band of rock-headed brutes full of animosity and xenophobic rage, knowing no kindness nor guilt,
filled with bad breeding and bad breath, pucks that come on like stiff pricks, they arrive like a SF fog, quick and heavy, and I
thought I'd make those intentions, indications and reports known to all interested persons who might endeavor to tangle with,
challenge or otherwise impede the rise and ultimate conquering
of the coveted SF Shufflefuck Cup and I shall,
after the eventual and inevitable usurpation of said cup,

I shall return to the city of Wind bolstered on high by the powerful gusts in a throne of gold, holding the cup in hand, filled with the sweetest of wind and attended by rosy faced children naked in their innocence, winged and laughing, ringlets of their hair bouncing in the wind, their chubby fingers reaching for the cup and dipping in the wind, the clouds rolling in, turning gray, and as I gulp the Adam's apple working up and down as I drain the cup and as one of the little creatures reaches again to fill the cup and somewhere behind over Lake Michigan a peal of lightening, rolling thunder and Neo on high, sipping and laughing now with mischievous rambunction, spilling wine with wasteful carelessness, the elevated throne rising higher and higher, empty wine bottles tossed away into the sky and raining down toward the streets, laughter all around with thunder and crashes of waves and the laughter begins to take on the tones of Laughing Sal, erratic, insidious, no longer jovial, no longer light or naive, seeming to suggest a hint of evil, a hint of horror, and suddenly a round of coughing, Neo doubled up, wine streaming from the corner of his mouth, the child cherubim dispersing and abandoning him in fear, the throne veering off over the great lake where below the waters have grown dark and moiled, rain begins to fall and the chalice drops from his hand as he slumps back, his arm over the rest and his hand limp and stained with wine, and now the throne divested of it's angelic motivations beginning to plummet toward the waters where a frothy maelstrom begins swirling in its rage opening up like a whale's mouth and the throne caught in the whirlwind, twisting downward and is swallowed up by the upward reaching outward edges of the storm which engulfs Neo, throne, the velvet capes and scepter with it's golden embellishments and intricate carvings, in one vicious chomp and then retreating back into the water and the seas begin to calm, the sky's crimson rage fading to tranquil blue and life returns again to its silent idiocy as the cup rolls on the waves and arrives on the shores among dead alewives and cigarette filters, seaweed and
driftwood.

- Ned Foskey

posted by Hog 5:07 AM