The Snail Drunk
Ep. 1:1
I hope the waiter brings the chicken
wings in those little raffia
baskets and
we better get a full array of
condiments
not sauce in sachets and we want
our
two complimentary beers cold not
warm.
Ep. 1:2
The waiter brings the chicken wings
in raffia baskets with good cloth
napkins
besides, gingham, to match the
table.
The condiments are unrivalled - jars of
faultless, tart jellies and hot,
thick relishes.
Ep. 1:3
We specifically instruct the waiter - No
beer - but he seems to glaze over
at the
slight deviation from the menu. No
beer?
he repeats, stunned. He scribbles
on a
pad to confirm, No beer, then asks
again.
Ep. 1:4
No - his carbon paper smile obliterates all
our demands with officious welcome -
our
complaints or a compliment, thrown
to
break the ice, all are removed
alike - lovely,
lovely chicken - you're going to
enjoy it.
Ep. 1:5
Our waiter brings two cold beers on
the house and another two, then two
more and a peppy couple at the next
table hand us forty Marlboro light
and
a Marlboro lighter to light them
with.
Ep. 1:6
As the evening progressed the whole place
seemed to gather at our table. Everybody
was delirious with laughter, the
beers
were flowing — I was resigned to it
by then —
for anything I said met only with
approval.
Ep. 1:7
Then waiters brought chicken wings in
little raffia baskets and the full
array of
condiments and watched as a tallow
tear
bulged from the corner of her eye
and
set — your silken hair, my love,
like straw.
Ep. 1:8
I stared down at the chicken, incredulous
only noticing then the blotches of
faint
green cubing under its skin. Like
plaice
copy the sequencing of their
surroundings
so our chicken had too, from the
napkins.
Ep. 1:9
Suddenly her head began lolling over —
only the whites of the eyes left
showing
like two mint imperials. Faces,
swirls of
grimacing under laughter, orange
and
hot like a brazier’s empty into
hollow.
Ep. 1:10
I thought the moment had passed, that
her choking had gone without
epiphany or
remembrance. Not so, I ordered more
chicken, some cold coca-cola and a
pack
of Malboro
full strength to revive her.
Ep. 1:11
Her neck as suddenly stiffened to revive —
her pupils dilate and the throat
clears of
dyspepsia — you know what’s coming
next —
that’s right, you know what’s
coming, why
stiffen to revive, you know what’s
coming.
Ep 1:12
Two waiters come, one grabs the cloth
and pulls it away, everything on
the table
stays as it is, a miracle — everyone’s
amused.
Meantime, a second waiter is setting up an
adjacent table and the night begins
again.
Ep. 1:13
Peas rain down from the mezzanine floor —
more of a balustrade really I
suppose, with
its thick choke-leg uprights and
toffee-tan
varnish, like the type in Western
saloons — the
devil’s in the detail, garden peas
rained down.
Ep. 1:14
She ate with renewed vigour but I
couldn’t —
the missiles had grown from a
trickle to a
positive downpour. I glanced up and
one
lodged in my eye, to chunks of
laughter — do
you think we ought to move to a
quiet table?
Ep. 1:15
No, I do not think we ought to move to a
quiet table, I think we ought to
weather the
storm here. Waiter, bring us
chicken wings
in raffia baskets and we want two
umbrellas
and waiter, no peas with that, no
beer.
Ep. 1:16
So there we sat, she in a soiled frock, empire
waisted
and me in cummerbund and dicky bow
and two waiters are holding brollies over our
heads, it’s quite romantic really —
we’re damned
if we’re going to let anyone put us
off our food.
Ep. 1:17
It was romantic, she leaned over, whispering
this in my ear, if you must know — Oh,
my darling
how I love your chicken breasts,
pimpled and
grey in the cold. With that I
unbuttoned my shirt
and flashed her, raising whoops of
elemental joy.
Ep. 1:18
Hand on her knee, cold grey plume, Jesus
Christ, we’re kids again. The chicken arrives
and the peas subside slowly to an
occasional
insubstantial plop in the beer. My
love, your
skin’s translucent, I can see the
meat go down.
Ep. 1:19
Skeins of beautiful Vivaldi
stretch an already
beautiful moment out. As it rises
and dips I
imagine love to be something like
this, like
coming inland after years at sea
and I say so
to her, No, she says no, my love,
that’s wind.
Ep. 1:20
When the lights dim to a catheter yellow and the
waiter starts wiping tables, it’s a
hint that it’s time
to go. Smearing a glass with a tea
towel, he comes
over to inform us that they can
wrap the bones up
if we like, there’s plenty of meat
left on them yet.
Ep. 1:21
No, we’re going, I tell him, but then the chef
comes out of a back room with a
bottle wanting
to engage us now his shift is done
and we can
hardly turn him down — OK, just one
small glass —
waiters appear out of nowhere with
chicken wings
-- Andy Hirst
the call came at quarter
to
is she there, you know Mom?
nah
you remember what Alex and Wayne did
to you?
nah
you wouldn't with those stars stuck in your eyes.
what
they get it the way of you seeing
ok
there still there i can tell
beeeeep, beeeeeeep.
--Joanne Falvey
I knew the mathematician
the zero
the king of kings
and his little dog.
He told me too
and everyone else
about the zero
the king of kings and
his little dog
He impressed me
secretly, he is the was,
he is the is,
he was the is
you and I both knew
he always was.
Stupid is that!
How stupid was that?
Totally! Why!
he was scared of flying!
--By the real fake Albert Einstein's
Sweeney Squirrel cracks his nuts,
Swears against his tendonitis.
In the pub Sween's wife declares
Nothing's wrong and nothing right is.
I told the man from the council, I told him straight, Wipe your feet on the
mat before you come in, I said, and take that grin off your face, I said. You
don't /look/ like someone who can fix my piles, I said, and you know what he
said? I'll tell you what he said, he said
nothing.
O, unreal nothing!
Nothing comes
Of nothing, nothing
Ever did.
O O O, if there were the memory of a nothing only!
But here there is no
Nothing.
Well did you ever?
What a politician at the swell party
(Full of Pernod, fat and farty)
Spoke is not for us to guess;
Not for us unless to bless.
No, not for us, who are forbidden entry to the rose
Garden. No, not for us, yet perhaps also for us,
Who may turn a no into yes
As easy as the seller of Cuisine Française turns thoughtless testicles into
Money, giggling, jiggling, jug-jug-juggling
Drib. Drab. Drib. Drab.
This is likely
To go on for
Quite a long
Time, isn't it,
As life all too often does. BOO!
Nothing ever ends. The graspèd
is conquered by the greenfly of Destiny and
DA!
the badger of eternity (so long so long I
did not guess it was such a big long one) prioritises
The digging-up of roots, all our happy roots
that were once happy but are no more.
They were once happy. They are no more.
"Happy roots", I thought, as I dug like the squirrel
or perhaps even more like the mole
or the unadventurous Earthworm King
Who fishes alone on the muddy spade-turned shore.
But the roots were, and are not, happy.
The squirrel ate
Them.
And, yet, perhaps, maybe,
DA-DUM-BUM-CHING!
This is not, after all, a joke
At the expense of the
Stetsonsed men
On the bridge
/Sur le pont d'Avignon/
But rather, when we return to the rose garden,
A moment for reflection
And not for reflection,
And not a moment:
A time when one mulls
And a time to break some skulls
(Including Webster's)...
And yet not ever really a time.
DA-DA-DA-BOOM-TEE-AY!
And O! children sing in the playground:
Hurry krishna, hurry krishna,
Hurry up please it's time, it's
Almost
Over.
But will anything ever truly be over?
So, mere mortal man, brown river flows.
Perhaps, mere mortal man, the squirrel knows
More than you.
So long.
DA-MN!
-- PJR :-)
Lipstick too red nails too long
Pants a little tight, I let out a cough
I was soft spoken at the table
Then laughed too loudly at a joke
I rang the bell one time too many
Filed my nails way too short
My shirt seemed a little low
My one son is too short
The other is too loud
The oldest, you just can’t figure out
I came with my three sons
No other man sat beside me
Wondering why I fly solo
Ponder why I date too much
My lifestyle keeps you puzzled
Assumptions come in droves
As I watch you take a shot at me
I wonder when you’ll ever cease
I bear the insults that you hurl
And the whispers behind my back
The mean looks you think I don’t see
Never feeling part of your crowd
Wondering if all this I can live without
Family is not what you seem to me
More like strangers with each encounter
My life I’ve kept my own
Opinions of mine you never cared
Dismissing any views you didn’t share
But my stubbornness that you’ve despised
I’ve refused to be compliant and suppress
For that is what I consider my strength
and refuse to dismiss the part of me that’s wild
So continue living in your little circle
With your minds of the same size
For I’ve never really been inside your world
And I now choose to remain only in mine
-- Bklynbred
Ah but the ficklest of psyches
has wrought so gently
the irons of dogg'reloid stupidity--
Sitting in obtuse corners,
conical caps atop our hapless pates,
we grin and weep in duncical bliss,
until at last we expectorate
this motley miasma,
this nitrogenous naivete,
this visage of vacuousness
that slither and dance
beneath the skull
like linguini under marinara.
Come, let us celebrate the purge
of the nanopoets
and revel in the sweet vintage
of the versologic giants!
--Teresa B