I think I should stay . . .
Cross-eyed sonofabitch . . .
He liked him, he could tell. A de-happening.
Cross-eyed sonofabitch . . .
He liked him, he could tell. A de-happening.
—John Ashbery
[a little note out of character:
this silly little ditty seemed
pretty spiffy at around 2:00am
when i thought it was complete.
unfortunately, however, the entire
thing reverted back to the original
and very rough draft. i shall repair
it after some sleep (another little
note inserted into the out of character
note a day later: it really was a pretty
great piece after i spent maybe an
hour and a half editing it, at least
it seemed to me to be, but i dunno,
perhaps i will fix it back up in the
morning). in the meantime, now
you know that what you see here
in the latest, at least these days,
are works in progress. yes. editing.
imagine that. but boy was i ever
miffed! sigh. onward. and back
into character . . .] . . .
I don’t know quite what to
tell you my friend. I don’t
know much more than this.
You’ve driven us over the
cliff, my good man. We’re
nothing but one pair of stiffs.
I can’t yet decide how to end this
old chap, with a hand grenade
or Russian roulette, perhaps?
We’ve tread upon this very
tundra, you fool, at least ten
times since Sunday night. I’d
settle this now with a duel,
stubborn man, but we’ve
just a grenade and one pistol.
Whatever the case, we’ll be
dead, it’s for sure, by mid-
night’s historic penumbra.
We had that one chance with
your friend, Gunga Din, who
offered a ride and some petrol.
But you shrugged him off,
you dumb jerk, yes you did!
Our chances right now are
abysmal: in the daylight
the sun scorches more
than the earth; my skin
is one gigantic rash and
get this, I’ve third degree
burns on my genitals. But
at night, oh, dear God,
it’s as cold as a curse,
no, it’s worse, I can’t
breathe, and my nose
is so chapped it’s come
all but uncapped, a
hiccup or sneeze,
heaven help! Would
not only be dismal but death!
This is it! I am gone!
Jesus wept! Mary swore!
Look at me! Out the door!
Oh, what luck! Fuck a
duck! There’s a snake!
Oh, my gizzard! Holy hell,
an iguana! Can you spare
me some water? Just a drop,
won’t you, Pop? I guess not.
You’ll just watch while
my life drains away
just like this?
GET A GRIP,
YOU NITWIT,
can’t you hear
that the train’s
on its way,
over there,
to right here,
like the plan,
wheel’s a-
chuggin’,
steam’s a-
whimperin’,
all my life,
what luck,
to have a son,
so unplugged,
so much drama
(all from his mama,
would she still be here,
well he’d a never
been here with me,
and, oh, mama, on
our train, which was
our favorite, all night
long, making whoopee).
Now stand stupid son,
this drama’s over, and
I’ll have earplugs in
these ears before
supper’s toast and
cheer, good grievin’
god you are one
fried up hobgoblin
of drama, I do swear!
tell you my friend. I don’t
know much more than this.
You’ve driven us over the
cliff, my good man. We’re
nothing but one pair of stiffs.
I can’t yet decide how to end this
old chap, with a hand grenade
or Russian roulette, perhaps?
We’ve tread upon this very
tundra, you fool, at least ten
times since Sunday night. I’d
settle this now with a duel,
stubborn man, but we’ve
just a grenade and one pistol.
Whatever the case, we’ll be
dead, it’s for sure, by mid-
night’s historic penumbra.
We had that one chance with
your friend, Gunga Din, who
offered a ride and some petrol.
But you shrugged him off,
you dumb jerk, yes you did!
Our chances right now are
abysmal: in the daylight
the sun scorches more
than the earth; my skin
is one gigantic rash and
get this, I’ve third degree
burns on my genitals. But
at night, oh, dear God,
it’s as cold as a curse,
no, it’s worse, I can’t
breathe, and my nose
is so chapped it’s come
all but uncapped, a
hiccup or sneeze,
heaven help! Would
not only be dismal but death!
This is it! I am gone!
Jesus wept! Mary swore!
Look at me! Out the door!
Oh, what luck! Fuck a
duck! There’s a snake!
Oh, my gizzard! Holy hell,
an iguana! Can you spare
me some water? Just a drop,
won’t you, Pop? I guess not.
You’ll just watch while
my life drains away
just like this?
GET A GRIP,
YOU NITWIT,
can’t you hear
that the train’s
on its way,
over there,
to right here,
like the plan,
wheel’s a-
chuggin’,
steam’s a-
whimperin’,
all my life,
what luck,
to have a son,
so unplugged,
so much drama
(all from his mama,
would she still be here,
well he’d a never
been here with me,
and, oh, mama, on
our train, which was
our favorite, all night
long, making whoopee).
Now stand stupid son,
this drama’s over, and
I’ll have earplugs in
these ears before
supper’s toast and
cheer, good grievin’
god you are one
fried up hobgoblin
of drama, I do swear!
