Written by
Ogden Nash |
What I was doing with my white teeth exposed
like that on the side of the road I don't know,
and I don't know why I lay beside the sewer
so that the lover of dead things could come back
with is pencil sharpened and his piece of white paper.
I was there for a good two hours whistling
dirges, shrieking a little, terrifying
hearts with my whimpering cries before I died
by pulling the one leg up and stiffening.
There is a look we have with the hair of the chin
curled in mid-air, there is a look with the belly
stopped in the midst of its greed. The lover of dead things
stoops to feel me, his hand is shaking. I know
his mouth is open and his glasses are slipping.
I think his pencil must be jerking and the terror
of smell—and sight—is overtaking him;
I know he has that terrified faraway look
that death brings—he is contemplating. I want him
to touch my forehead once again and rub my muzzle
before he lifts me up and throws me into
that little valley. I hope he doesn't use
his shoe for fear of touching me; I know,
or used to know, the grasses down there; I think
I knew a hundred smells. I hope the dog's way
doesn't overtake him, one quick push,
barely that, and the mind freed, something else,
some other, thing to take its place. Great heart,
great human heart, keep loving me as you lift me,
give me your tears, great loving stranger, remember,
the death of dogs, forgive the yapping, forgive
the shitting, let there be pity, give me your pity.
How could there be enough? I have given
my life for this, emotion has ruined me, oh lover,
I have exchanged my wildness—little tricks
with the mouth and feet, with the tail, my tongue is a parrots's,
I am a rampant horse, I am a lion,
I wait for the cookie, I snap my teeth—
as you have taught me, oh distant and brilliant and lonely.
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Written by
Russell Edson |
A man is bringing a cup of coffee to his face,
tilting it to his mouth. It's historical, he thinks.
He scratches his head: another historical event.
He really ought to rest, he's making an awful lot of
history this morning.
Oh my, now he's buttering toast, another piece of
history is being made.
He wonders why it should have fallen on him to be
so historical. Others probably just don't have it,
he thinks, it is, after all, a talent.
He thinks one of his shoelaces needs tying. Oh well,
another important historical event is about to take
place. He just can't help it. Perhaps he's taking up
too large an area of history? But he has to live, hasn't
he? Toast needs buttering and he can't go around with
one of his shoelaces needing to be tied, can he?
Certainly it's true, when the 20th century gets written
in full it will be mainly about him. That's the way the
cookie crumbles--ah, there's a phrase that'll be quoted
for centuries to come.
Self-conscious? A little; how can one help it with all
those yet-to-be-born eyes of the future watching him?
Uh oh, he feels another historical event coming . . .
Ah, there it is, a cup of coffee approaching his face at
the end of his arm. If only they could catch it on film,
how much it would mean to the future. Oops, spilled it all
over his lap. One of those historical accidents that will
influence the next thousand years; unpredictable, and
really rather uncomfortable . . . But history is never easy,
he thinks . . .
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
certain creatures it seems are never seen
straight on - they occupy the corner of the eye
once sensed (a second look) they're gone
the damsel even more so than the dragon-fly
she's a tough cookie for all her slender flutters
huge eyes strong jaws belie her evanescence
the kind of female to leave love's lisps in tatters
don't get sucked in by her immaculate pretence
if she's a she - she's there not there so quickly
no time to check - a female whisper or in drag
mosquitoes daren't treat such presence slackly
a wispy whoosh - the poor sods are in the bag
satan's emissaries (the devil's darning needles)
mischief makers - tell lies they stitch you lip to lip
they're elusive (haunting) as the best of riddles
forcing you to sense the eternal as a blip
illusion change - stuff timelessness is made of
beauty allure - life's compulsive invitations
what's wanted's lost - it's always on the move
the damsel fly enraptures such predations
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