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Pantoum No More Tears
and verging on redundant,
my feet going numb, but
I say my lines on cue.
Verging on redundant,
bald, and lathered with shampoo,
delivering my storied lines on cue:
' Lye soap runs right off the tongue...'
Quite bald, lathered with shampoo,
verging on old, bath water's cold,
lye soap runs right off the tongue,
but I come to say my lines for you.
Converging on old, bathwater cold,
squeak and slurp of a drain run dry,
I say: 'My lie, my line’s on cue…'
Confused by hypo allergenic shampoo.
The suck of unction! A drain run dry!
Lye soap hurts, when it hits the eyes.
Confused by bio degradable shampoos,
but I continue to say my lines on cue.
Soap hurts, when it hits the eyes,
going numb, hardly on cue,
I come to lay my lines on the young:
' Time—running off... wish I were you.’
Dogging The Jogger
Didn't I tell you
not to come trotting
'round my plot of grass
no more? Sorry human
you pin pack
my weary ears, you burn me out, seven
0Ato one of your sorry ass years, stinking
a bit like Laundromat coin slits injected
with WD-40, and you'd turn
on a brother, on a dime
first chance you got,
as one of those god damned
c a t s,
oh, now you got my dander up,
didn't I tell you already I'm born
ready, take a chunk of your pale hide
from knee high to a pup, and just what
do you think you're running from, son?
Malaise don't go away with a couple
paltry salty endorphins, you better
pick up the pace, mister, faster,
faster! Pull that rocket-shaped
pooper scooper from the one
good pocket the good Lord
gave you, start giving back!
loser with Blue Tooth, Snap-On
hatpin stirring the brain matter like
pancake batter, old lady's turned
a cold shoulder, upside down
in the doghouse
and sucking hind tit? So how
does it feel? C'mon get
real, come with it,
confide in old Fido,
And another thing:
I'd use your left polyester shin
as a fire hydrant, (movable feast)
but I'd really rather pee down
my hind leg, tell you it's
raining testicles, it's raining
testicles, colorful seminal
vesicles like swooning
used car lot balloons.
Lassie pulled all
for the cash
only, just like any
Whore, listen, as long as you're
to the Minute store,
why not pick me up a Chew Toy? Christ,
so many bones to pick, boy, I've lost count,
Milquetoast, Cheeky Monkey! You reek
to high Heaven. Man's best?
When pigs fly,
sonny, that's right, fly
now, fly away
Half-Hearted Affirmation Number 43
I wear my heart like an arterial spurt
on muscle shirt where a phantom sleeve
ought be. I’m thick
with parenthetical ambitions, upshot
of blood clot in the pericardium,
and when my ship
comes in, I'm on a getaway hovercraft
making mockeries of your mountain,
a hummingbird slathered in sweet
n' sour, with peppery dash of
beta blocker, shaking it
it off, a moth
inured to both lantern
Oh, bad EKG, your peaks
and valleys make vacillation a turnkey
mantra, can't you see
this is my half-hearted forty something
—it may or not be
working, it beats the [obscenity-deleted]
out of me.
The Muzak Players, Behind Their Soundproof Pane, Knock Out Another Jefferson Airplane Session
The Muzak Players were packing up
their immaculate axes.
assembling his Zildjian stacks, while
lone female stone fox with frizzy brown locks
and white-hot lint-spark on her lips, she pulled the
spit plug on her alto sax, giving the eye to
Faraway Guy on Fender Rhodes with
Yanni flute patch on the motherboard.
This hunky greenhorn
ivory-ticklin fella he still felt
pretty swell about his steady
studio niche, visualizing
all the savage breasts his riffs would suppress the
sighs and smiles in supermarket aisles, on crowded
elevators, high tech kiosks where Average White
Joes waited on the bus the studs and muffins
at Toys R Us!...
Meanwhile, fat cat with goatee and
Fender Strat he scowled--spitting his pick
into a sweat-soaked hand towel:
"Freaking Bitch Day from Hell!"
"Yeah but, Huey, you played so well!"
don't understand. I could have
been a Shredder, there was a time, baby, I had
my total tonal thing so together!"
"Hey now, there ain't no
shame in copping the licks of
Gracie Slick. We're doing her posterity a true favor."
"I suppose we did make the most of
"Find Somebody To Love."
"Are you kidding? We nailed that piece! Tight
as the seal on some Tupperware, mon frere."
"Yeah. But what about heart, and soul?
I mean, who we gonna sample next? Dave Grohl?"
Guitar Man leered at Sax Ma'am.
"I'll bet Grace Slick is a growler," he
said, "in bed, I mean."
Drummer nodded at the words, and quickly
"Hand cuffs, joy buzzers and conductors"
wands. Then later it's all about soothing
Aloe Vera and palm fronds!"
Sweet Sax Lady had
heard enough, and shortly
made her play. She would
find out, by God, if Piano
Man was gay.
said to him, "what would you think
about getting a drink?"
"Ummm, yeah okay We'll hit
Trader Vics, and who knows?--playing
kissy face in that place, we might even
get to hear some of our very own licks!"
Sax Girl smiled.
She was gonna have some fun
with this one
Portrait Of The Poet Beldarâ In His
In France they put me on a
pedestal to peddle Evian and
U.N. lapel pins
in long-winded iambic quatrains,
with lip-sync and
toe-tap to match hot-ass
refrain of D. Bowie's
down the road a bit, at Ellis Island they
quit their pathetic myths of assimilation
and sucked off my
soggy Widow's Peak with a
cherry-red Dyson Shop Vac,
then slathered me
with SPF-400 sunscreen
until I looked pristine
as Edgar Winter with
tungsten-silver spray paint balls
all rolled back in my oblong skull.
My oeuvre is strictly
Existential sequins of fresh-squeezed
eyeball amoeba spores pepper-sprayed
and staked to the barbie pit with
acupuncture hatpins-- my palette
an empty egg carton stippled and
strangled by plastic six pack can straps,
like rubber-banded 'Roids,
my most profound thoughts
pour forth as blood-streaked Alka
Seltzer foam from squealing
seagull beaks when I show up,
to the Freak Raves
on the Upper East Side and
begin christening the World
Beat pinata pony rides with
old school radio antennas
snapped from stolen Impala
work car as genuine
And though it's entirely too
true that on weekdays when I skip my
afternoon shave, my pallor is more
than a little rough,
I've still got enough empathy in my
long translucent ET pinky finger to
route you a brand new clavicle-cum-
sternum mortar and pestle
wishbones to pound blue-green
granules of bile, adrenaline,
heartache and halitosis
straight into the snake-shaped
scoliosis of your spine, I so
relate, Big Time,
and in fact it is my
that I attend your
Alfred E. Neuman-looking
Crawford Cricket match, in third
base box I'll smooth down his ungodly
unruly snatch of cowlick smirk
with fistfuls of my
trusty egg-yolk drool--
larvae in the
I'll take ruffian to
school, explain how we play the
game back in France.
Layla Drives A Crash Cart
On the cable access
TV screen, Doc Holiday
in bile-green army fatigues
paces the lecture dais
with hands clasped primly
behind his ramrod back:
"I can't comment on the avian
pathogenesis," he barks into the press
corps mike, "Thanksgiving being right
around the corner, but I will say that
Evolution has always been merely a
creative theory, and Agent Orange can
be roundly rubbed out using DMSO,
Interferon and a remarkable household
product called Shout !"
I mute the sound,
take a walk around
the foyer with that
jingle from one-
locked in my head.
In '94 they nicked
my cousin's spinal cord,
trying to leverage a slipped
disc into its proper cervical
shelf-- round peg in a
square hole, and every
jiggy bone spur in its place.
standing by the bed, the look
on his face as he came out of
the ether--the way he kept
shaking his head in detached dissent
as a pair of flies landed on his paralyzed
groin where all their IVs went.
Then the panic,
slowly forming in his eyes--
sudden nerve spasms that made
the metal headboard shake,
candy-striped water straw
spilling out ice chips
and phlegm-laced spit
all over his
chapped, pursed lips.
composing the lies
I would feed him
before the fat Navajo nurse
waddled in, whistling the
Clapton song that goes on and
on and on at the very end
with his grandiose grand
piano part that never did
fit, no matter the dressing
Eric tried to put on it.
Copywrite 2006-2009 Dennis Mahagin
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