Monthly Archives: February 2015


Dieter & I, dirty old men stalking

the Cyclone Sisters. Embryonic certitude/servitude

our forte, all we ask is to be piggybacked through

the next century, hocus-pocus, locus-solace etc.

with an option on gobble (snouts in the trough) lest,

undone by hunger, we abjure Our Every

Accomplishment, such as it/they is/are. Anyway

if our information is correct, that the fix is in it’s just

a matter of the right palliative to do the job: get

those cross-dressers off the street they’re scaring away

the tourists, the only source left, needless to say,

of our revenue (to pay the police, etc.). Is this

the best we can do – off the streets with nowhere to go?

Some decorum please. Why not hire a Santa, each miss

in his lap for two minutes (behave yourselves) & sent off

with a ticket to ride. Who cares where – Salamanca,

Lusaka… Going my way? Yes, obviously, why else

would I hoist this fag (this in reference to a ride I took –

hitchhiking – with a man who kept asking me to feel

his thigh, which, as it turned out, was made of wood,

artificial, lost in a war). Dress rehearsal for

the niche we’ll occupy when they’re done with us,

crammed in with some obscure saint Excuse me

can I borrow your halo I’m trying to impress

the girl next door, Jane, who I once saw naked

in her bedroom window (but, alas, only once, that

performance never repeated). If she isn’t dead

she’s a grandmother now. Is it time to strike up the band? –

When the saints come marching in. Is it time

(you might well ask) to stuff suppositories

in our ears? Depends, Deiter, if we’re talking

tragedy or farce, & by the way what’s

your favorite flic & don’t say Before Night Falls

because it won’t wash, it won’t do for our forthcoming

anointment by His Holiness Gustave the Good (who,

by the way, got off with a slap of the wrist). You want

I should buy you a new freak? – Belinda past

her use-by date & what with the GBS (Giddy-up

Boy Wonder) factor in play now we’ll never be taken

for your average working Joes. Too bad, it

was just beginning to get interesting, the known sleaze

isolated from the not-known it could with some

justification have been said (finally) that cranberry tithes

were never meant for the likes of us.



His life is sepia , & it glows.

His life is sepia , & it glows.

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