The Nork Corps (or: not)

Standard

 

This warning, please heed: if you’re hoping to read a nice poem wot’s sweetness and light

Then please bugger off (*winky-wink, polite cough*) because this one’s all saucy (and shite).

 

You put up with my rants and my rambles all day and you know my position on celery

And a film I adore (might have said so before—  ‘sgot a cop who’s a tad Peter Weller-y)

I could waffle away; go all Joyce, Hemingway—sit reflecting, respecting the muse

But the posts that you buggers engage with the most? Whenever there’s mention of boobs

I’ve been known to immerse in the beauty of verse but I want all DEM LIKEYS, godfuckit

So forget all the beats and the metery treats and the rhymes ‘bout the guy from Nantucket

Me, I love the profound but you want big and round—or just perfectly pert in your palmie

Whether perky or droopy, you’re truly boob-groupies—my titular orb-lovin’ army

But I’m sorry to say: I must put them away, coz I bring a new thing to the table

And although it ain’t boobies, it’s still rather rude— full of sauce (well, of course) for appraisal:

It is better, I s’pose, than the complexest prose, or yakkin’ all day ‘bout the weather

I should like to discuss why we kick up a fuss about waxing (or not) regions nether.

So what can I say about hairy va-jays—or clean-shaven, if that is your thang?

Come on, let us know, are you raring to go with a baldy or bushy poontang?

Do you like ‘em all neat, those l’il curtains of meat—or straight out of a seventies porno?

For maybe your ex had the bushiest sex (because shaving would leave her all raw, no?)

(At this point I digress, for I have to confess that I just used my pettiest hate

When I called it a ‘sex’ which is truly pathecks: yucky yoof-misms I do not rate

But when crowbarring rhymes into quest’nable lines, the bar is already quite low

So dear reader, acquit: forgive werds-wot-are-shit; ‘ave a fag, ‘ave a laff, let it go)

Back to flaps: if you’re ginge, do you have a red minge—or d’ya whizz off the hairs as they sprout?

If you have a blonde head but yer pyabs are bright red, you must dye one or t’other, no doubt?

Once de-furred, d’ya partake of a merkin while werkin’ cold rooms in the nude, unattired?

If you grow back the fluff does it warm up yer muff? Do ya suffer hairs on the inside?

There is no way of knowin’ a hair is ingrowin’ until it presents as a spot

Oh, it’s terrible, that, when there’s lumps on yer twat (so I’ve heard – not a problem I’ve got)

But be sure not to blunder your wonder down under, just keep it the way you prefer:

Matching collars and cuffs, fuss your puss till you must; go for satin or covered with fur

Just listen up, girls: many virtues have curls on yer beautiful vertical smiles;

Although bald is good too; you do YOU with yer foo — coz vaginas are always in style.

You might think me disgustin’ but I’m only discussin’ — I loves me some natural pewbs . . .

. . . And believe it or not this all started up top with a thought that I had about bewbs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Think me Under the Table

Standard

This daycare daymare is the horror. The madness of sadness and the onset of fetid, fettered recollections where your snark and sarcasm eventually battle to the death, fighting with, for, and against your thoughts.
The thoughts in the brain that sits in your head; the head that rests on your pillow; the pillow that adorns your bed; the bed that’s in your room —the room where he used to be.
And he —what of him? Is he now? Shall he be? All you know is that once, he was. Unsure of what he appeared to be, and as uncertain now as he had been back in That Place.
There, transmogrification took time and it took forever, where a week was a month and a month was a year —and a year was a nanosecond for the taking. His face, his eyes —they haunted and they haunt. Where were they then? The same place as now? The fuckspace of demonic intervention that your memory inhabits?
You saw them.
Those eyes.
That’s the only matter of importance: that you saw them.
It was those eyes that had drawn you in and ushered you out of yourself, all things inherent in a persistent world of unfinished symphonic celibacy and helplessness, where you were expected to lead.
To teach.
To help.
But you hindered, despite all your best efforts to save him from himself and from the particular You who was a petty rescuer, ill-equipped and foreboding.
Love, then. Or that which seemed to masquerade as such. The veils that spilled, the veils that dripped down in droplets from the planetary persuasions of his sentiment; chairs uncomfortable, recliners upright —a bitter suite for the tetchy, harmonious soul.
Temporary temperaments would reveal themselves inside a package of narcotic hotness, amidst a rushing crowd of skewed, queuing people all waiting for the same incoming outcome. The post orifice of Valhalla’s aunt would have it that lines of scores of dozens of white embittered souls collected that day at six, all for enveloped missives, to where, to whom, and how?
Insensibility, insensitive illogic where nothing is anything and everything is less than zero. Unscrupulous festivity and blame for a life of lovelessness across the other side of an expanse not unlike the one that surrounds the globe and its moons, stars that are long since dead; dead seas continuing to undulate and outlive you via the emission of light that is no longer being emitted at source, but which is nonetheless travelling in the faculty of space. He’s there, exactly where he is/was/will be— but no longer does he wait for you. And as he no longer waits, so did he never, and neither did he ever. As he no longer loves you, not once did he so.
Think on this: recalling him erases you, yet erasing your thoughts puts him back at the front of your mind and its demons of forever, a haunted, tainted taunt to paint the blood of his kind inside rudimentary cascades wherein lies the rub.
To sleep, perchance to undream him.
To never dream again.
To awaken yourself from this madness, this event of erupted terror.
Wake up.
And then, may you sleep.