An Old Fashioned
— David Hickman
The news turned him to stone, I guess.
Who ran into a Bush,
then heard the gong of the Fuehrer Bell
among the multiphasic tones of his empty room.
Much nonsense makes its own sense, they said.
One line at a time, or sometimes less.
Though so often what comes is a response to circumstance
a shoe thrown in anger, or a blue pomade
slabbed brightly to the nape
Of one who begs you to dream of her in her beauty and your need.
In the Brigade for the Repression of Banditry
The diamonds glowed like water
in the eyes of the desired.
“Bonjour,” she muttered as he walked by,
in a tone not unlike the tonsured apes
on the Hill
whose blue fedoras shape the wind
while humbly doffed by their great white knuckles
in respect for him
whose bread is their meat
and the drink of our need.
In the winter
the tides shone upwards
from the sand’s blue oar.
He mistook the water for the shore
into the rain, as if to disappear.
And heard the dead gurgle
under flarffy white clouds
that“attempt to attain the status of science
which . . deals with the subjective by excluding it”
The black currents were thick on the pie.
Oh my, she said as she winced, then sighed,
As the missiles streaked across the plains,
then tumbled off course,
like cigarettes tossed from a passing parade.
“Bitters, sugar and orange,” he said.
“There’s a new pogrom on channel 3.”