The Master Sign

Today's tidbit from the Poetry Bag may strike you as an obscene bag of snot. If so, a possible reason could be that that is exactly what it is!

On the other hand, I could claim that it was an "artistic experiment"!

Jeeze, that makes at lest as much sense as the Codpiece's latest definition of "success" in his "democratization experiment" in Iraq. Comparing Iraq to Israel, he now says that success doesn't mean the bad guys don't get off a bomb now and then as long as you can reply with strong forcefulness...

First of all, this makes success against insurgency sound like a game of "Smack the Mole"!

But worse than that, in Israel, most of the country is secure. In Iraq, it sounds like the Codpiece is saying that a secure Green Zone would be called success as long as you can bomb the shit out of any other place in the country where there is resistance to the Occupation, bulldozing the occasional residential for special effect.


I

It was built by Jackoff Jerry of the jam at Sears and Roebucks.
Full of see-thru underwear, it was the first choice
of choosy creamers everywhere.

As squiggles of delight jut across the nighttime skies;
images of panties and bras flash by -- but screams
are heard when the batteries run down...

The Rubber Grubber Lover Machine -- it's price tag alone
was declared to be so obscene, it was strictly forbidden
to even mention it in public!

As life became a desperate struggle to just get ahead,
young degenerates of every color and creed turned to
New Ways to find the sweetness they craved...

II

It was then Johnny Endpull drove into town in his battered, brown Buick.
His clothes were strange, as if they were "log cabined" from hundreds
Of "dirty-clean" handkerchiefs.

He was enema enemy of all hard-core azzholes everywhere,
and one of the few professional reusable ass-wipe
cleaners left in the "free" world!

What he was doing in Poosah City is anybody's guess!
Was he looking for a "quick-trick"? It was hard times for "his kind"
since the days of Rubber Grubber stickiness!)

In these times of Tortilla Madness, your guess is as good as mine!
Perhaps he was sweetly dreaming in nostalgia of
the long, lost love of his youth:

When he carried everywhere a bag of raw chicken liver.
"It's in the bag!" he used to giggle in his strangely, cracked voice,
spittle dripping from his chin...

His eyes were glazed for seven days when he lost his liver lover!
He'd gone to see a movie and all he ever found was a box
of brutally crushed, hot-buttered popcorn!


III

When the Poosah City Police spotted him with a carport canary,
They shouted, with flashing badges, "What! Are you doing it here? Again!"
Then they smashed he phone-booth he was in!

The indignant cries could barely be heard above the clanking sounds
of the steam-powered pooper-scooper used to crush the booth,
lifting it high into the air...

"We don't want your kind in town! You're leavin' in ten seconds -- flat!"
They had to shout above the roar of citizens who came
to applaud the Poosah City Police:

They held their nose shut with one hand and pinched their lips with the other,
They blow and blow and blow until finally the head explodes, and brains
are spewed high into the sky.

The chunks of meat rain down like the sound of the Mississippi mud
crawling from the river bed, craving revenge for the insults
of centuries of careless shitters...


IV

(They think they know, but all they know is how to drive to the corner,
grab some groceries and drive back to the house with arms full
of parcels, packages and tainted treats.)


V

Who writes the words on bathroom walls, composing the dirty sheet?
Whose the will and whose the need fulfilled by all of these
orchestrated obscenities?

The flashing neon lights proclaim the latest lines of
"Beat your meat!"; "Cheat your mom!"
"Eat some helpless creature!"; and
"Heat a fixture for a flaming finish
to the pain of being smart!"


VI

What the hell is going on, what on earth is really happening?
Why are these pearls precious being so casually thrown
at the feet of the Beast of Mud and Cream?

(Madness beckons!
Bony fingers, half-eaten by ants, then
mercilessly jammed into a rancidly juicy ham-hock
wiggle like strangulated hernias!)

They lie, they lie -- they all lie for the sake of putrid garbage!
Their only claim to fame is a fart they made in the Mind of Man!
I repeat: garbage and foul farts!

Some do it for pay and some for free and some for the mad joy
of being on a drunken spree. They clear their whiskey throats
and slyly stroke their sacred goat...

My stomach turns as I turn off the news
and yearn for an easier way to throw up!

VII

But who can say there was a better way to snatch the glass
of burning wax from the shadows, from the glades of shade
into a Better, Brighter Day?

The Master Mark, that which makes us stand apart,
pearl, upon the garbage heap: is the ability to win
the darkness for the day -- to wring victory from defeat!