I can Rhyme and I don't have to have a Reason. I made e.e. cummings
write in caps. I drove Dylan Thomas to drink. I am the rough beast
which slouches toward Bethlehem. I'm the reason Sylvia Plath put her
head in the oven. She just wasn't good ENOUGH. I taught Anne Sexton
what Sex was all about. I rang her bell; e flat. I invented iambic
SEXtameter. I know the word that rhymes with orange but I'll be damned
if I'll tell the likes of YOU! I made Joyce Kilmer cut down an entire
forest. I made Emily Dickinson come out of the house and PARTY! I gave
peaches to T.S. Eliot and forced him to eat them. I melted Robert
Frost. I fired up Robert Burns and smoked him. I got Richard Wilbur so
excited he lost his meter and found it in China, China, China. I
taught Ted Hughes who was stronger than death. I am the Belle Dame
sans Merci. Who do you think inspired Sappho? I wove the web around
Whitman's soul. I killed Christopher Smart's cat, Jeoffrey, and he
loved me for it. I put the Ram in Rimbaud. I ate William Carlos
Williams plums...and they were delicious. I know what an iam is, and I
know what I am. I'm a fucking poet...stand back and let me write!
The Industrial Church of Love and Money
My ticket to salvation
is a three by two inch square
of printed white pasteboard
stamped with the name
J. R. "Bob" Dobbs.
So that when the time
of rending and pain
are upon us;
I will be lifted up
into the safe, soft arms
of otherworldly goddesses,
And served forth
the pleasures of all flesh
And the squid will anoint me
with their perfect and maleable bodies
'til I am rendered quivvering and senseless;
a shell of skin housing purest Slack.
From below will waft the faint cries
of humans as they ignite and implode.
The pleas for mercy, the promises
never before made in sincerity,
will be transformed into
a harmonic chorale of my vengence
(and all the while the squid will anoint me).
The years of swallowing my own bile
along with the machinations of THEM:
The Preachers, Teachers, and
The Arbitors of Taste
Encouragers of Waste,
The Sanctimonious Chaste,
The Barbies and Kens,
The Little Red Hens who cry,
"Will you help me..."
When what they really mean is,
"I have no brain, please tell me what to think."
You know, THEM.
Those years will be washed away
in wave after endless wave of
a joy beyond ten thousand simultaneous
earth-moving orgasms (as the squid anoint me)
When I leave this place
(so unappreciative of my true genius)
on a sunny July morning
some years hence;
Do not fear for me.
For, that perfect body
I've been slaving so hard
to achieve and maintain
will be mine in the flash
of time it takes me to decide
just how big I want to make
my eternally perky breasts.
Yes, I am going to a place
beyond my most monstrous fantasies
into the realms of Elder Gods,
or at least that's what they tell me.
I couldn't read the fine print.
Now pass that pipe and pray.
Reverend Mutha Tarla, Little Sisters of the Perpetually Juicy,
A Proud Jism Schism of the Church of the SubGenius, Worshipping
"Connie" Dobbs and Juicy Retardo since 1986
snippity snip fucking snip
Your poetry makes me PEE MY PANTS, Little Sister. That's a GOOD thing.
Almost as good as making my head bleed. With a beatnik slapping some
bongos backing you, you could be a headliner at 'Fropapalooza. Hold out
for more money on the films rights. I think Maya Angelou knows where to
stick her caged bird now. You are hereby declared ShorDurPoLaur for the
Great Lodge of "Bob", Shaman. I spontaneously embarked on a vision quest
while reading your words. YOWSAH!
your Uncle Bear
Rabbi, Shaman, yada yada yada, you know the drill
The Albuquerque ROS - (505) 296-3000
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