Straggling Monad’s Ruined Arch
By: Domenic Maltempi
4-6-10
Our king walked on terrible poetry
Only the worse
Flawless calligraphy!
Marvel at the dates and special purposes!
Recede in its caramelized strokes
It’s settling ruby pulp
Finest subjects of course!
Nine gated elegies
The big wigs muted trumpery
Every PR penny worth it
Succor for bereaving rascals On serenity
for gnawed vista prisoners
Only the bravest themes
Refined sensitivities
Marshaled for every tawdry show of hands
that make those stout clappity claps
Incorruptible parchment!
Only intolerant aboriginal animal’s habitats
partially destroyed used
And remixed by DJ Hash Hot knives for all to enjoy
Cutting the purloined beats with his cagey energy
in coordination with Sealtest East Platinum LLC
and Little Bitch Cheeby Bog
Ebullient breezes
Leased from god
Brought each sheet to the ground with predestined eagerness
No one thought the king a sort of ‘joke’
As one might say in 99, 2000 this or that
Scroll on scroll on
Casually, stoop chat
with cubed drinks
Quiet ice and drunken charm
Our king
Robed in khaki
Leather piping on the blouse
of who he is
is how he sinks
and so may I say
most revealing of us all
quailing intruders pretending we know where we are
taxi mouth
a tongue of spatula blue rubbery cocoon
poor delivery
Everyone
in every inner circle
The nobody clubs
in exurban suicide pact shops
eviction notice lipstick
the king is walking a 2k to help curb carpel tunnel syndrome
get a-working!
whatever one has to keep the drivel driven
calendar dolly changing ribbons
calendar boys fixing printers
Gutenberg’s shoe maker
meet Edison’s Mistress
a fine heal
a find pod
Excuse me!?!
What kind of party?
What kind of eschatology?
Couldn’t write with more pluck
Less aplomb
Couldn’t speed through this odium stripper’s
Elegant pantomime
This motley timeless knurl of gurgling knurls!
Words, phrases, without armor
Sea wiggler thin
to adamantine shin
Kicked in her crumbling tower
Oh lovely lady of that Old Dutch Sugar
Miss Missouri Moore
Guide me
Form me
a dusty tailed comet syringe
an anecdote when the merry is over-mended
run on it on a broken belt
run me off this procession
People’s Painter
` Angler Lou
Always rewriting his will
1625, 1632, 1633 (8 revisions in 33!)
Maligned and jeered by fools
that even God could not create or re-reproduce
with spliced rib from some future dynamite fossil
mixed with the genes
of an inedible genius
three legs, four legs
hoofed or unsheathed
these windows all speak the same
But you own nothing Angler Lou!
The fishmonger’s polished silver pail?
Pshaww!
Even there
A hollowing pall
dangles its whore’s legs as if it were the tender rococo wrists
of a lost pianist’s daughter
flitting from garish dock to dock
Choked with ever vulpine sharp
Up!