An Old Fashioned
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 bending low in respect for him whose bread is their meat and the drink of our need. ** In the winter of ambivalence the tides shone upwards from the sand’s blue oar. He mistook the water for the shore and walked 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.”
— David Hickman