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"whole world" by alex nodopaka
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Twisted Couplets
From
The Valentine's Share
Slide Show
(c) 2005 Dennis Mahagin
Tuesday night and Brie plays Low Rider
bongo beat on the tight black belly of Chad
with his head in her lap and bare feet splayed
on the teal shag of my sunken living room,
where we gather
to dig "American Idol",
scarf take out noodles, nachos laced
with veiny purple thai stick buds and
pestle-pounded Xanax tabs on top.
***
Brie is a Triple-X internet model, chatters
amiably and incessantly-- even jokes around
that the Blue Man-looking photographers
and webmasters at work cajole her:
"Smile Brie, and say yourself child"...
before every money shot--to
which she always attempts
squeaky wannabe witty
rejoinder:
"yourself child hee hee"...
but they
cut her off
every time
at that point.
Brooding Dan
in the caftan corner
sucks grape Slurpee
while nursing black eye
with horseradish, Spanish
Fly and cold cuts so
badly missing Brie
who used to be
with him
until he
tested positive;
for Hepatitis C, and
now he's on
a database, shit-
faced fresh out of it;
while old
hanging Chad
is the lucky guy.
On the screen there's an Amazon blonde
who's dead ringer for Courtney Love,
and Chad is like:
"Oh my god she's got it all... big tits
porcine cheeks and major league
caterwaul to boot!"
Brie has admitted to me privately
in the past that she comes really hard
just as soon as her hot darting tongue
touches heart hump twitch of
significant other cock tip
pumping pre cum...
Me?... I've got an inventory
of Ninja grips I use
just for jacking-- my
record is eight times
in one day, I'm not lying and
neither
am I gay but
Brie still calls me her
"bestest bestest bud"
anyway-- which does get old,
but I never try to stop her.
***
Brie goes:
"You guys you guys you
guys you guys!... you know that
Filter song called 'Hey Man Nice Shot'
is actually about Kurt and Court makin'
cute little Francis Bacon right?"
"Frances Bacon?" mutters Danny, "You are so
sadly mistaken... Sir Bacon was famous
Victorian astronomer, slut brain-- besides
that song refers to Cobain blowing his head off."
Chad chimes:
"Nope. You're both wrong. The song
is about Huey Long robbing a bank on T.V.
and when he's cornered by cops the cracker
blows his brains out with a Glock Nine Milly!"
"Oh oh oh oh oh," Brie goes, "I know
I know! He wanted bank booty for
sex change operation! I remember
the cameras were all over everything."
"No Brie," I tell her gently. "You're thinking
of the movie "Dog Day Afternoon." The guy
on the bank cameras was a politician, but not
Huey Long. He didn't need the money but did
want the whole world to watch him off his self."
"And Courtney's kid is called Francis
Bean baby," Chad adds, thumb-rubbing
Brie's stiff tittie buds as he blows some
cool air on her peach-fuzzed ear lobes.
***
Now there's a spot-cheeked skinny Hindi girl
on the screen singing "Shock The Monkey"
so badly off key it actually sounds kind of
atonal and avant garde good.
"Ooooooh, oooooh," goes Brie, "that is so
Apu!!... Right?"
Dan smolders:
"You mean Snafu, don't you Sue? Snapper Snaf.
Candid cam gaff goo? Snakes, Pennywhistles
and Date Rape Cocktails!"
"That's so whacked," Chad fires back. "Whiner would
maybe like another shiner?"
Brie goes: "Shhhhhhhhh....."
***
It's zero hour
on the "Idol"-- the moment
forty-odd million losers like us are
glued to their T.V's for every week:
A kid who looks like Lumpy from
"Leave It To Beaver" stares imploringly
into the almond eyes of Paula Abdul--
like sex slave getting it up for Mistress.
Lumpy just sang
a Tony Bennett tune
and not half badly but also
not as good as he
thinks either;
Simon Cowell is about to deliver cream pie
coup de gras right on the slick-pink cheeky
blind side-- and all I can think about are
crock pots on stove tops--with burners
gone berserk behind heavy load of
au gratin potatoes and leftover lasagna.
I keep hearing a sound:
far off tree limbs imploding in an ice storm,
while faint grease fire stench licks at clavicle
and my fingerprints are suddenly seared
to slate-black half moons like time lapse
orchid blight blotches on Discovery Channel.
I can't bring myself to watch Lumpy's demise;
I'm out of there-- to go count my cutlery, and
squee gee the toaster oven window.
***
By the time I get back from the kitchen,
the new medical mystery/malady sleuth
show on Fox is in full swing:
They are showing
us viewers
what a fatal
gastro-intestinal
hemorrhage looks like
from the wide red angle
of a trolling colonoscope,
and for a few hushed seconds
everything is totally copacetic
in the T.V. room again.
In A Green Dream Of Gregory Corso
he appeared
as Taxi Tony Danza
in long johns wrestling
with Andy Kaufmann
for the back seat
of a Greyhound
where a Shou Lin priest
in surgeon's scrubs
stretched out and snoozed
in the terrarium sunlight
pouring through the panes
and andy and
gregory stomping
the floorboards again
as they wagged forefingers
in windshield wiper arcs
trading diatribes like
park rangers on
nitrous oxide,
and kaufman said:
"i prefer the bus drivers who
get on their mikes and point out all the sights
enthusiastically like alcatraz and crater lake...
even though they are way more prone to
sideswiping an ammonium nitrate truck
when they recklessly take eyes offroad
in that manner..."
and corso retorted:
"The Kalimantan llamas who carry
Disease of Mirth in their sneezes will only
pass it along when the crow's feet on your
throat wattle make perfect picket fence
constellation stencils for condensation you blow
like Bird on lonely morning mirror of penitent
reflection... Likewise only then can I beat
feet back to my Village to stockpile weapons-grade
lost watches-- and hawk my black velour Kerouac
watch cap for some truly insane carrying cash..."
****
I shrugged,
and snuffled
like a sick duck
sloughing downy
crown feathers,
and this was my
dream cue
that corso
and kaufman
latched onto--
as their Beatle boots
bashed loose the bolts
on porta potty door,
releasing a cracked-dyke
blast of raging bile-spackled
shit rapids which
roused the priest at long last
from his slumber he
gagged, sputtered
and sat upright
so gregory and andy
could stop already
with the dam jokes
and just
take their seats
for the long journey
into night.
****
When I wake up
the gaseous green digits
of the bedside clock
say 3 A.M.,
five hours before
I have to be at work again,
and I reach for my stash of little
clover-shaped sleeping pills-- each
of which can kill a whole
belly-full of pain
in the bat of an eyelash.
Mick Jagger Could Kick My Ass
Old enough
to be my pop;
his fat lip stiffens
as I call him a Fop.
I take a swing
as best I can
but this motherfucker
wrote "Street Fightin' Man"...
Sixty years
of stone-clean living
are all about this
thrashing he's giving,
his veiny claw
clamped tight
on my craw,
my enlarged heart
quivers-- I yell for my Ma!...
What the hell
have I gone and done?
This rock and roll ruckus
ain't the least bit fun
and I doubt
old Keith
could give him
much of a run
either.
Mick sings me a verse
of "Jumping Jack Flash"
and bitch slaps me some more
as he bats his eyelash,
yeah,
Mick Jagger can
definitely kick
my ass.
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