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Italian Serenade...

    yesterday i bought three bananas.
    they were cheap because they were rotten.
    i came home and sat on them.
    wanted to feel how a full baby feels when he fills.
    he not fool. he not file. he full. he bananas.

    tra-la-la-la-la (ole in spain)

    my dog bit me. my wife too.
    she bit and beat. my pc bits and bytes.
    he also boots. he does not bark.
    he hates the dog. the dog peed on his hard disk.
    i have a bat. his name is bambi. the dog’s name.

    ole-ole-ole (tra-la-la-la in usa)

    there are a lot of italians in italy.
    more than in rome. rome has only one pope
    but i ate three pizzas. one two three
    baby i love thee.
    i love tea too. and two too is tootoo.

    pronto-pronto-pronto (allo in the rest of the world).



Echoes Of Love...

    one, two, three,
    one, two, three, four,
    one, two, three, four five,
    one, two, three, four, five, six,
    ix, ix, ix...

    een, een, een...

    on, on, on...
    on, on, on...
    quack, quack, quack...

    and the universe explodes,
    odes, odes, odes...



(archaeological exhibit, date uncertain, following assumed election of the first ever feminist president in the USA, excavation site NY, 3075)


    By the grace of Divinity, this year 2011 and a half,
    we have a woperson president of the USA,
    who decreed illegal any use, abuse, misuse,
    of the words man or men or any of their forwards or backwards derivatives
    in the English language when not associated with
    man, men, or any of their derivatives. Persondatory replaceable by
    person, persons and none of their derivatives. Punishable by
    imprisonpersonsnt. Wopersons will be locked without money in
    the malls of Personhattan, persons will be locked in peepshow cabins without quarters.

    Hallelujah! Apersons!

    Roperson Polanski was exiled because he refused the persondatory change of
    nosrepe, and war declared on Ropersonia for same reason.
    To prevent phonetical misunderstandings, the first day of the week is from now on
    Moonday. Governpersonst offices will be open extended hours to
    permit the extra time to pronounce the longer words. Extra pay
    allocated to court typists, per extra digit; abusive use of relevant
    words will be punished.

    This directive applies to mammals only, talking parrots need not
    be re-educated.

    Signed, Empersonanuela Zilberperson, secretary of state and re-education.

    (short biography: Empersonanuela, a famous Ropersontic Roperson author, actrice - played Dulcinea in Person of LaPersoncha, and citruses - nosrepely persondarines - grower, joined the liberation movement in 2009, was one year ambassadress in Birpersonia, and since half a year ago secretary of state)



Chicks & co...

    When my chick has started barking,
    And I mean a chicken chick,
    I kept swallowing three Prozac's
    Every hour all that week.

    It was thirty seven hours
    Till my wife got off the roof,
    Then she ran (she still is running)
    Followed by the mocking woof...

    Then my dog... the sneaky charmer,
    Love proposed... well, doggy style,
    Now he's chasing my poor woman
    (She's still leading by a mile...)

    Then I find to my amazement
    That on top of playing ball,
    This... what?... chicken?... chick?... the IT thing
    Knows to fetch, to sit, to roll.

    One by one - my cat was bitten,
    And the postman's scared like hell,
    I don't mind my shoes she's chewing
    'Cause she rounds the sheep quite well.

    'Bout a month or something later
    My sweet wife - half starved, half lame,
    After crossing countries, oceans,
    West she ran... now East she came...

    At her heel my dog, crest(?)fallen...
    Wow... the chicken came a running,
    Proudly bringing bones and snuggling,
    Do you know what was most stunning?

    At her... tail? three chicks, small, tiny,
    Then two puppies daddy necking,
    And the chicks started a squealing,
    And the puppies worms a pecking...

    My poor dog could not imagine,
    Now he's papa - tail to bone,
    And my wifey.... well, in horror
    Now from East to West she's gone.

    Both my goats her quest have joined now,
    Cuz, you see, this chicken cheat,
    Followed foreign language studies,
    As of late she starts to bleat.

    NBC said - "thanks, you're crazy..."
    CNN... I told my story,
    They just asked - "is there a blood bath?..."
    I said - "no...", they said "so sorry..."

    Well, to end my true (swear!) story -
    FBI brought back one goat,
    Seven ducks, a cow, two piglets,
    (and the wife, oops... just forgot...)

    Now they're laughing down to Texas,
    And the sheriff's mighty sad,
    "These good folks" he says with sorrow
    "Ain't no dangerous... just mad."


    Do we care?... each eve at sunset
    After I have voiced my proems,
    To the pigs and cows and horses
    Missis chicken reads my poems.

    Wife (she's taking cackle lessons)
    Claims a lesson to this story
    (Though I swear I hardly get it) -
    "Chickenshit's no path to glory..."



And Her Mother...

    I and my lover
    We love each other
        ...and her mother.

    She has a brother
    Bald as his father
        ...and her mother.

    We want a boy,
    We'll name him Joy
        ...her mother's choi.
    (should have been 'choice' but then it wouldn't rhyme)

    Also a moose
    (Adopted, called Bruce)
        ...like her mother's goose.

    When late in the night
    The bats start to fight
        ...her mother's delight,

    We snug in the bed,
    We cover our head
        ...her mother we dread,

    And I start to mmmmm...
    And she starts to hmmmm...
        ...and her mother... ahmmmm...

    As we start to juice...
    The bats and the moose
        ...and her mother's goose

    In bed stick their nose,
    They snuggle up close,
        ...and her mother's toes...




written for a contest asking the use of a few unusual words from a list...
well, I used ALL in ABC order :)

    at the ardent flow of slogans
    as my brethren marched their brogans
    through caluminating speeches
    from the mountains to the beaches
    derisorily I snickered
    at the essence as they bickered
    through some fictive acts of malice
    which they claimed with guile that alice
    (her humility undoubtful)
    has impinged more than a mouthful
    through jocose and nasty comments
    ("...called us kelpies certain moments
    lambent phrases dirt conceiving
    mellifluously deceiving
    when the noumenon one spotted,
    otiose her word, and rotted ...")...
    hey (I said) you pilous creatures
    if the quiddity of teachers
    is too recondite a matter
    and setaceous a patter,
    if truism your brains is hurting
    unremitting as it's spurting
    and veracious a statement
    wrought will be through reinstatement,
    your xerophilous existence
    has a yeanling's low subsistence
    your zenith you'll never reach
    (ends my speech).



    They appeared out of nowhere
    hordes of them,
    swarms of them,
    flocks, throngs, squadrons, crowds,
    mobs of ostriches
    all-pink and dotted-pink and striped-pink
    admiring, lash batting, bottom pinching,
    pouring through my windows, smashing down my doors,
    attacking the endless arrays of pencils on my table
    and swallowing them... sideways...
    ouch, I feared imagine them exiting sideways too...
    cackling and barking and meowing my beautiful words
    those I went through years of pains writing,
    after tearing to pieces my notes and my buttons
    and missing my eyes yet focusing on my nose
    then on my ear lobes
    then on bowling balls I started throwing their way
    all those thousands of vicious beaks looking for a snippet of the prize
    while I cowered in the corner
    trembling like a leech... wait, like lice?... a leaf maybe?...
    spraying their way my cheap eau de cologne
    and then throwing my collection of unwashed socks...
    in vain...
    on they came...

    Wake up, wake up, you shook me awake, tenderly,
    your three pronged foot looking for fleas on my chest,
    I screamed and ran away all the way to the wall
    where I collapsed with a big lump on my head.

    I finally woke up. For real. The nightmare was over.
    I remembered nostalgically those first, terrible days,
    horrible dreams chasing my sanity,
    the pills, the drugs, the strait jacket,
    then finally the reality of love dawning upon me
    in the warmth of our shared dwelling,
    our life.
    I touched the big egg underneath my shirt
    thanking you for trusting me with your most cherished of possessions.
    Love has never been bigger...



Fish Soup

    I found you, when you were little, insignificant,
    your pretty eyes sparkling with egg yolk,
    even your parents rejected you
    and tried to drown themselves... in vain, they failed.

    I cradled you with infinite tenderness to my chest
    while you insistently pecked at my left eye,
    luckily I was wearing a ski mask at the time
    a diving mask being too expensive
    and anyway it was supposed to snow in a few months coming.

    My dog left me.
    My cat left me.
    My lumbago left me.
    Then in descending order the limping rat, the gold fish, my wife.
    And yet, I still would not give up on you.

    I chewed raw fish and regurgitated straight into your ever demanding beak,
    moved on to sushi, three types of
    and when you were big enough to stay hungry
    I even learned to use chopsticks,
    my deserting wife’s deserted knitting needles.
    The floor was a mess, my heart was soaring, you were blossoming.

    Oh, that fateful, ill-fated, fatidic day.
    I had just finished lighting the one-year candle mid of the fish soup.
    You pulled away from me
    tore one of the gold fishes from my original Matisse, Red Fish and a Sculpture
    (The Museum of Modern Art, New York, owns a reproduction, he he)
    and banged your head against the triple-layer window pane.
    Second time around you were through it
    shitting all over my petunias, my neighbor’s Lexus LFA open rooftop
    and masking an ad for craftspeople in a most embarrassing way.

    I fell on my knees, crying all of three days and three nights...
    “Fly, fly my baby, fly! Fly Fletcher Lynd!
    Beware of hawks, SAMs, IBPDMSs, ICBMs and humans generally!
    Fly, baby, fly!”
    I fell to the floor (I was already on my knees) and spasmed away into nothingness.

    When I woke up, they started returning into my life, in ascending order
    my wife, the gold fish, the limping rat,
    my lumbago,
    my cat,
    my dog.

    I still pay for my neighbor’s Lexus LFA open rooftop
    I believe my son will have to continue and my grandson after him,
    maybe my grandgrandson will not have to.
    But if you ask... Yes! I would have done it all again,
    maybe with the exception of the fish soup.
    I hate fish soup.



Hey, Hi Hay Fever


    The birds are singing
    my nose is running
    it’s stunning.

    A couple blackbirds in duet
    perform a masterful couplet
    thus proving void grasshopper’s claim
    to best-in-class eternal fame
    while my two cats – one black, one grey
    drag Due Gatti way astray
    from early March till later May
    and in the morning’s early breeze
    I sneeze.

    Oh, mighty gods of fever’s hay
    watch as my droplets proudly spray
    and carry messages beyond
    and frog and toad and croak and pond
    with talent
    the circum feren cial song
    five notches wide and growing strong
    my nasal lore
    contained no more.

    I’m stunned,
    by people carrying umbrellas
    to ward-off nose-a-running fellas
    like me,
    with pills and spray
    that don’t allay
    (administered in lethal dose
    according to the diagnose)
    the misery upside my nose
    which stated when I smelled a rose...
    The rattle
    of battle,
    the mooing of cattle,
    the nightingale’s chirp,
    my nose’s loud dirp
    (should be drip but doesn’t rhyme)
    the roar of the lions
    when watching Orion’s
    diminishing glow,
    my hee and my hoe,
    all merge and adjust to my symphony’s lust plus the horrible gust
    that smite off all light in a rite of delight
    and leave me alone
    to atone
    for my moan.

    OK, now back to the mountains of hankies
    (no pankies)
    and screaming masses
    that my noble gasses

    When they see me coming there’s no need for drumming,
    they pick up the children, the chickens, the goats
    and leave old me sneezing in verse and in quotes.



To be or nonsense. A monologue.

    Just when nonsense started making sense
    it stopped making sense again.

    Just like a rotten apple without flies,
    Though it makes sense
    in a senseless kind of way,
    almost sensual.
    Do you think "censor" comes from "sense - or"?
    Kind of "make sense or you lose your license".
    Or better said lice'n'se
    where the se is two fifths sense or even two two fifths.
    See what I mean?
    Nonsense. Except to a math genius rich in eye queue. Ha-ha, it was a joke.

    Yesterday public opinion decided to strike the previous sentence.
    It is part of another (political) poem
    while nevertheless (I had to re-write this word five times)
    while nevertheless it carries to the foreground
    the unabashed (have no idea what this means) idea
    that sentence, or rather "sentence"
    has nothing to do with se'n'tence
    but rather with se'n'tience
    also known as sentience
    proposing the époustouflante (I think this one is French, see the accent?) idea
    that it actually originates from negating
    nonsense into sense.

    Makes sense?

    Yesterday I dreamt that Elvis was not singing a medley of Little's
    (Sister Darling Egypt)
    which makes as much sense
    as when I dreamt that he was not singing a medley of Long's
    (Black Limousine Legged Girl Tall Sally)
    and it all made nonsense to me
    when I woke up in the bus three stations later.
    And the beating I got from the street gang
    and the broken nose
    and the cost of the hospital
    for the thug who broke his fist on my nose and my metal wallet.
    Do you know that about eighty of his titles include variations on the L word?
    And none of my poems
    because love rhymes with above and critics hate it They hate me too.
    Even if I use the S word instead The one that rhymes with Ex. Annex.
    No, annex has no biological function,
    nothing to do with excretion,
    that's pure of the purest anomalies slash pretenses slash machinations nonsense
    (finally, back on track).

    Did you know that ex is the most complex and misunderstood
    and largely used syllable in the English language?
    Do you know how many words there are including ex,
    inclusive names like Alex and Mexico and Texaco?...
    I don't know, I thought you might.
    And then there are those hidden, metamorphosed ones
    that once were and are not anymore.
    Like shiksa that was once shexa,
    or like the recently (last century) uncovered
    that was originally aspirin, or in reality expirin.
    And to top them all there is the famous IRS, originally named EX.
    Yes, true. EXmoney, EX income, EXcruciating pain.
    Then "they" (the conspirators) decided it was too revealing
    and chose the subtly subliminal IRS,
    you know,
    I for I, like you, you know, but I, you understand?
    Then comes this gross grammatical error,
    queen of an and alph and abets,
    R for are
    when everybody knows that I M am and not I R are
    but the gayls – the new politically correct for guys and gals –
    showed their subliminal contempt to us choosing are.
    And the, coarsest of course,
    S for ass, what else?
    Irreverently so and irrelevantly which ass,
    the one with four legs and a tail
    or the one between its hind legs and its tail.
    I have, as a matter of fact, a very evoluted evolutionary theory about ass
    but I will leave it for a future inspired and/or expired
    (political correctness obliges)
    BTW, did you know that the word breathless was originally ex?
    Originating from exexex which is an onomatopoeia for being out of breath

    apoplexy another crucial ex word

    or for breathing laboriously.
    But then some higher intelligence of the language academy
    decided it might remind people too much of sex
    and the resulting sexsexsex
    and invented the bland breathless.

    Blah! Nonsense!

    See above.
    I slither down a slippery road of words and accusations
    which are mostly untrue and only partially true and impartially untrue.
    Sorry Shake'n'spear, couldn't make it as long as yours
    but I made up in beauty
    what I lack in length.
    Shucks. Originally shux. Didn't mean anything obscene. It's all in your mind, readers.