1. Of outline.
In-posts and outlines, that's what we are.
Rising up the inner curve,
sliding down the outer groove,
and into the trash-bin.
Video sliced, and fixed with paper-clips
on the nose.
Bodily odour of spirit,
heavenly stench of soil -
wretch, heave...
Hit the ground, Eve.
Hit the ground with a shoe.
You don't stand a slim chance
of ever getting back to Eden.
Adam's dead and gone, you are even.
He's shrinking in, to explode
in splashes of ardent blue.
He's the worm now. He's just like you.
Worship the worm, haw-haw.
The one behind the scene, the worm.
The one to prove the apple was mean.
No deal is square enough
to round up in debate, parliamentary and otherwise.
In-post sentries, we stood our ground,
apples, worms and clay
for Adam.
Mere outlines, sketches of yesterday tomorrow dream
for Eve.
This one's for Eve.
No more heart-shaped bra,
no more hanging out, until the clock strikes you in.
It's formulaic, but you get the gist.
It is ever so clean, so fantastic,
the one clay you can lay your hands on,
is your own clay,
so near, bent and disformed, it's like plastic,
prone to fingering holes
in the outposts and in-lines
of Eden revisited by bus.
2. Applica.
This Eden thing,
on the barren grounds of reason,
plot predictable, I swear by dick.
Dick is the root. All things are schmick,
schmack, schmuck.
Don't spread your mighty wings, oh eagle,
you got none.
Dick makes my butter melt, and tyres run.
You seen my butt? Well, but no other butts.
It's Eden inside out, so crawl inside.
Well-buttered crumbs thrown to
the usual puppies outside the Eden gates,
enough to make their timid paws - scratch,
and mouths - water.
It's in the core of things, it's rotten and sweet,
sour - if your palate's not used to living meat.
Act like a man. Hammer me down flat,
carpenter. What's that you make of planks
and hard snails, what's that, worker?
That Eden thing got thirsty?
Oh, poor U.
When the tired brains drip over the rim,
sizzling,
there's nothing like a book to read, nice and cosy,
in the privacy and seclusion of your family. Virgin
is in the pod. Not technically, but mentally.
Ill ideas all come in torrents, and abuse
whatever's left of applish accomplishments.
In-put. Oh no, we don't need this trash.
Throw this out, gardener, quick, man.
Man and woman, outside. For violation of
applicable laws and regulations, you are
both forever banned. On entering,
one sees this ad, inside, 'No petting please'.
Oh, so he wormed his way in, you say.
No rotten apple-lover may escape the pray-
and-take rule. It's absolutely out of the question.
3. Fondly.
Iconoclastic torch-bearers
all eat up by the apple.
Apple scruffs, we are.
We are the vomit we are
one-way fares, just a drop
of heavenly pics, dried up
and remembered fondly.
2 октября 2015 г.