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June 17, 2000

SONG FOR EDWEENA - bamboo book

SONG FOR EDWEENA

...

I never liked broccoli for its like like eels and I hold my breath almost a spoonful of garlic in your shake fits you. Any and all of your mornings on the windy beach filled with dead trees are going to spell the rust today. Edweena Edweena here we go again. Framing by frame | chanting by undercurrents | the sounds of dawn | the sleeping skin | the restless legs | parked in the cold | and wind and sand | and foam | where jokes wont help | and help wont cure | I use a pantograph | a thythoscope | a cheap disease | a bush of thorns | an early ween | a cobblestone | a lumpy page | a megaphone. Edweena Edweena here we go again. Here we start another rain | a dry new page | a serenade | a twisted smile | for-more-a-while | uncertain smile | you crocodile | there in the shade | of one more tree | there will you hide | sweet home cyanide. Edweena Edweena here we go again. Under the clouds | and in the shroud | of one more dream | with fancy cows | out in the outdoor | like in a game | I swear to get you | there in the rain | hide and seek | and fair and freak | and hide and seek | and faraway. Edweena Edweena here we go again. I better tell you | before the dawn | I better spell you | right by the yard | of all the corn | and little elks | the tiny creatures | down by the well | that I have loved you | you rather mild | and cold sometimes | with no much pride | one day I'll tell you | true whispering | to you again | of what I've seen. Edweena Edweena here we go again. This is a rush | not compromised | that this new day | is nothing new | and even drugs | they wont be cool | of terrorists | and more turmoil | and petrol leaking | the heavy wind | the fake prophets | your ugly gifts | the same couisine | that is not English | that I do know | of heavy German | and gritty coal | they smelled you well | its in the air | that like the vultures | we grab the bear. Edweena Edweena here we go again.

BUTCHER'S WORDS

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Fanny is the name, Clancy gets the shame. He was my firstborn. Scared and skating. Have I ever seen him? We showed up in Times Square that night at noon you could have got anything with zero interference and we did. And snowy in hell. The boys got one and crushed his long hairs. She was scared at the fireworks. EOM kind of job, you know. Nobody paid for the beers, I guess. When we woke up at the beach half submerged in the snow we left her icy dead. Bellbottomed like daddy used to, you shouldn't give away the goods to soon. Butcher's words. We spent a steamy summers hospital in Long Island with fishy faces nurses and dried cheesecakes. Walls of Florentine flowers. I gave up a milky soul. He was a healthy boy, I think his first word was "Gunter". We all laughed. The trend was smoking fried bones that year. Gunter is better. Jones the Scare Thee Fulla G got his first gun. Was a tulips like sugar-free. I retired here in the Gum. He used to come visit sometimes all wrapped up in his black spider's clothes. This was when he got the fangs and had the implant by Nicky Z-Stone of Bone's and Turf�s. I don't see him anymore now. I hope he stays out trouble. You know, yes, I think so.

YOU OWE ME FOR THE FLESH
featuring on "In Our Own Words: A Generation Defining Itself - Volume 6”, MWE, USA, 2005

...

Everybody had plans back in the nineties. People were organized and suited, prepared, planning. I guess they all missed the point, miscalculated, and just a few factors didn't show up anywhere in their pile of equations. At midnight that day the power went out and it never returned. After a while working on their Poisson distribution models, here comes everybody, that's what they say, and the trumpets trumpeted loud enough and chilled the chardonnay in all glasses. "What do you want?", they asked And the voice said "You owe me for the flesh! Now you pay and goddamn if you don't I'll eat your bloody guts you fucking losers! Negotiations got everybody busy for months with funny sides to it. Millions of people gathering in San Peter praying Pope to give up the job and officially recognize the Almighty. Nothing worked until somebody finally come up with this: "you get a condo with a view on Bryce Canyon, Jerusalem, all the C4 you want, and girls, all the girls you like. Almighty signed. He is now a major shareholder of Daimler Benz, AT&T and Amazon.COM and yearly fares are held in Jerusalem in His honor with hundreds of thousand of people dancing the Three Girls Rumba from Cairo to Delhi. He doesn't interfere much with the humans. Sometimes, when He takes the gelato trip to Paris, He is proud to show off, The Man Billy tied on chunky glasses on barking at the pigeons in Trocadero Square just like humans would. Sometimes, I think, justice comes in the strangest ways. It took a while to find out that the Almighty is affected, just like humans, by multiple personality disorder (MPD). And one of a kind at it. But that's another story.

BOMB BABY

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Cree, a small fishing village in West Clare, Ireland. 2 bars, good food, good conversation and no computers. I took a nap there during a trip. The van broke up and the mechs were swapping a burnt adapter ring. The couch wet tapping my loose brain down. Sidewalks in this area are so special. It feels so blue when it rains and everything sounds a little bluish. Company was great, drunk happy and smoked I was dreaming of giving an interview with a rep by the calendar-flip hour. The girls raised a toast for a moment I was blindly fantasizing on trying to recover a bloody engagement with somebody. More Yellow Gold in a Tankard woke me up again I see somebody waiving at me and ready to go it took some time in the morning they are all polishing off the last cock knish I am lying on the seat heated and cozy us and our clicking bomb heading to Dublin. The Congregation has no plans for the New Age. Each one of the members, according to the Book, shall operate assigned tasks and follow the orders.
Marnie interrupts up for a urgent broadcasting:
Koshineeeen,
Claire Jackson , Minnesota, beseech anyone planning to hack into HotMail's servers to please retrieve her password, which she had written down on a scrap of paper that has apparently disappeared from her wallet.
Happy New Lear.

© Fortunato Caragliano

Posted by lck at June 17, 2000 05:04 PM