- Author: Eileen Goonsburg
- Category: poetry
Scowl (For Eric Norbiton)
I smelt the last grinds of degeneration employed by military, raving hysterically laughing,
Corpsing along through the honking lanes at dusk, looting for a magimix
Cloven-hooved groovers cool for the Millennium hell bent on galactical urban organisms at dawn,
Why poverty and tattie famines and Hollywood and high and mighty, smoky mirrors superstitious darkness of cold blooded churches dragging down the minds of countries contravening boogie,
Why sell your soul to the Hades underneath the golden arches and sew the kernel of the franchise on the firmament,
Why pass ablutions through colleges with skeleton rings imagining Dorothy and Monica moments of comedy in the dry cleaners, atavistic scholastic shrink wrapped in plastic
Why bother with hairy goons in overdressed deluges, their waste in Swiss bank accounts and slithering to owning all the world,
Why think thinking is restricted to beards or those preserved in formaldehyde, with a sock in the jaw for your troubles, Why drink fire water with painted ladies or watch wallpaper dry as your drink in Hades, pillified to Eldorado with ad breaks for Yonkers left after right.
Mit albtraum, mit Walter, mit dormant desires of cock and bull and endless bollocks
Unforgivable blind alleys of shimmering funk and darkness in the corners of your mind sinking towards equatorial depths of Quito and Congo, exaggerating all the talent of the Marxist brothers in between,
Coyoteed acme in boxes, backward wide eyed grieving dusks, beer-bellydom over the gutters high-rise penitentiaries of hotheaded innocents jumping the carjacked traffic lights of fate, done and dusted and bad vibes come roaring down like the forties on Broadway, trash can presidents and the king of bling up behind.
Why tie yourself to sinking philosophies from the endless line of highly exulted and holy double crossed on benedictine noise of cogs with children grinding and shuddering brainwashed and genuflecting and fiddled with fiercely of feeling and drained of faith in the clear sight of Him too,
Why rise for the bait in subterfuged fog while Beckford’s bloated out and fat through the sales of reprinted high rolling Vartek, gaping down the crack of doom and the builder’s belt line,
Why watch infinitely repeated news of wars to be fought from Ur to Bedlam to history books who jump off the Golden Gate.
A loss of bearing in moronic circumstances leaping at conclusions to charge at windmills called the fourth estate run by a loon,
Crapperty-crapping the next election results before the memory kicks in of the regurgitated déjà vu that knocks you between the eyeballs of the centre ground hospitalisation of war crimes,
Why think recall of several disgorged years in rosy eyes will meet the Synod without sneers passed in the gutter,
Why appear in Who’s Who in New Zealand leaving a paper trail of ambiguous stench to the Dark Town Strutters Ball,
Withering ecstatic sweats and tangerine dream soakings and visions of Thai stick figures withdrawing tourists wallets on threads…
Eileen Goonsburg, Antwerp 1956-1394
