Lion Heads, Vaseline and old fashioned American Cars
Goulet
Posts: 918
Whatever is it that you want me to do,
when the cold-timber night-time comes
and the frost-glow howled-out moon
shows and out-shows and hides
behind those kind of night-time-clouds
with the grey look
and the menacing-terrible look?
Your look is slant-eyed out
of the corner of your dark-damp-blue room,
with its rock star posters
and pitiful paintings
that keep you company when you have your
intense wet dreams
about the Old Wild West
and Henry Ford's first assembly-line vehicle.
My cat is on the prowl tonight
for dust balls
and dust bunnies
and the invisible creatures and ghosts
and ghosted-creatures that prowl on me
at night-time
and day-break
and heart-break
when there's the illusion that
I'll be okay
and my thick-wool covers will cradle me
and snug-up to me
and want to have sexual situations with me,
or at least keep me warm
and not so shivering when it rains outside
in February
and my automobile gets washed off,
and all the salt and muck and soil
go trailing down into the gutter-drainpipes
where all the wine gets poured;
the red and white,
and the sweet and sour,
and the merlot and port;
all the good-fine-warm tasting libations.
Please don't sacrifice your daughter
or you'll get lost at sea,
where the rain-storms never stop storming
and the bullet-head clouds never stop
covering the stars and suns and other planets
with all the other peoples and all the other tree-like-types of plants,
which, of course, everyone needs to breath
and make cars to harden the air we breath
so we develop certain types of cancers
in our small-small cells
and they get hard and they sometimes hurt hard,
and all that makes most peoples heavy tired
and heavy bored-with-themselves,
so they drive-drive in their cars
or ride-ride on their motor boats,
and all the while they want to be masturbating
and thinking of large-breast women
or big-penis men
or Ancient Greek philosophy
because all those things get them off in about one minute.
When I roll down my window to kiss you goodnight
remember that we'll never know when we will see each other again,
and make sure that makes you sad,
and makes you go home a sink yourself
into your warm bed
and sink your head
into your warm pillow
and sink your hands into your warm underpants,
and sink your heart
and sink your heart
and sink your heart
and then your blood runs clear in your tributary arteries,
and pump-thumps the golden sunlight
just like your plants and flowers
in your damp-deep room,
and just like your marijuana plants
and cocoa plants
and hundred baseball card collections
that you keep under your pillowcases
with the loving memory of your childhood
when you couldn't wait to drive a car
or smoke a thick-good cigarette,
and walk down the lonesome streets alone.
So by the time you reach your 20's or 30's or 40's
you've become a shell of your dreams
and you think about living out or acting out
some far-fetched imagination game
in which you become a fly swatter
or a large Oak tree
or a field of prairie grasses flailing back and forth
in the whipping-whipping wind
or you just drive your small automobile into your garage
and face all ths facts of everything you haven't become
and that is when you have your first
serious life event;
you buy a speed boat
or a faster computer
or a blow-up doll
or a large bag of marijuana
or a farm in New Mexico
or you sleep with a member of the same sex
for the first time
and you love it,
but feel so ashamed and misguided
and down on yourself
or you go out and take a trip to some exotic place,
some place far off from your normal life,
some place with beautiful-different trees
and beautiful-different people,
and there you find out that your life is farily in the same shape
because it's not about anything you thought
and it's not about anything you want
or anything you got,
yet you and a whole army of you
can't quite figure out what it is,
besides the simple-easy-hard time between birth and death.
when the cold-timber night-time comes
and the frost-glow howled-out moon
shows and out-shows and hides
behind those kind of night-time-clouds
with the grey look
and the menacing-terrible look?
Your look is slant-eyed out
of the corner of your dark-damp-blue room,
with its rock star posters
and pitiful paintings
that keep you company when you have your
intense wet dreams
about the Old Wild West
and Henry Ford's first assembly-line vehicle.
My cat is on the prowl tonight
for dust balls
and dust bunnies
and the invisible creatures and ghosts
and ghosted-creatures that prowl on me
at night-time
and day-break
and heart-break
when there's the illusion that
I'll be okay
and my thick-wool covers will cradle me
and snug-up to me
and want to have sexual situations with me,
or at least keep me warm
and not so shivering when it rains outside
in February
and my automobile gets washed off,
and all the salt and muck and soil
go trailing down into the gutter-drainpipes
where all the wine gets poured;
the red and white,
and the sweet and sour,
and the merlot and port;
all the good-fine-warm tasting libations.
Please don't sacrifice your daughter
or you'll get lost at sea,
where the rain-storms never stop storming
and the bullet-head clouds never stop
covering the stars and suns and other planets
with all the other peoples and all the other tree-like-types of plants,
which, of course, everyone needs to breath
and make cars to harden the air we breath
so we develop certain types of cancers
in our small-small cells
and they get hard and they sometimes hurt hard,
and all that makes most peoples heavy tired
and heavy bored-with-themselves,
so they drive-drive in their cars
or ride-ride on their motor boats,
and all the while they want to be masturbating
and thinking of large-breast women
or big-penis men
or Ancient Greek philosophy
because all those things get them off in about one minute.
When I roll down my window to kiss you goodnight
remember that we'll never know when we will see each other again,
and make sure that makes you sad,
and makes you go home a sink yourself
into your warm bed
and sink your head
into your warm pillow
and sink your hands into your warm underpants,
and sink your heart
and sink your heart
and sink your heart
and then your blood runs clear in your tributary arteries,
and pump-thumps the golden sunlight
just like your plants and flowers
in your damp-deep room,
and just like your marijuana plants
and cocoa plants
and hundred baseball card collections
that you keep under your pillowcases
with the loving memory of your childhood
when you couldn't wait to drive a car
or smoke a thick-good cigarette,
and walk down the lonesome streets alone.
So by the time you reach your 20's or 30's or 40's
you've become a shell of your dreams
and you think about living out or acting out
some far-fetched imagination game
in which you become a fly swatter
or a large Oak tree
or a field of prairie grasses flailing back and forth
in the whipping-whipping wind
or you just drive your small automobile into your garage
and face all ths facts of everything you haven't become
and that is when you have your first
serious life event;
you buy a speed boat
or a faster computer
or a blow-up doll
or a large bag of marijuana
or a farm in New Mexico
or you sleep with a member of the same sex
for the first time
and you love it,
but feel so ashamed and misguided
and down on yourself
or you go out and take a trip to some exotic place,
some place far off from your normal life,
some place with beautiful-different trees
and beautiful-different people,
and there you find out that your life is farily in the same shape
because it's not about anything you thought
and it's not about anything you want
or anything you got,
yet you and a whole army of you
can't quite figure out what it is,
besides the simple-easy-hard time between birth and death.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
absolutely remarkable, Goulet
Good one Goulet! SPANK!
ditto
speechless