Tuesday, June 7, 2011

An "I Wrote This" Moment (it's probabily bad writing)

Frye Museum Degenerate Art Impressions

A man living at the park
told me about
little red ridding hood
she wore a large hooped dress
She was on a craggy bluff
and bent down to look between her legs
and observed a boat floating into another world:

A toothless man
with dentil probes for fingers
stood knee deep in mud
He wailed on a three stringed harp
he sawed the bloody bow
across a bodice made of rusty nails
he sang, “give it to me now,” in tenor
An old woman,
waited for a bus
her back was bent double from a lifetime of work without reward,
she screeched “get the fuck off my foot.”
She drug a mannequin by the hair
It had a twisted face and blue wax skirt
It melted into the moon
as it wiggled over the sidewalk
Morose dancers
contorted their bodies
they replayed the scene of the crime
They stirred piss in a hell’s caldron
with long femors
and served the soup
to angels masquerading as reptilian aliens 
Lion dogs’ screamed murder
they jabbed spears of their rage
between bars of their cage
A deformed man
made love to a machine
producing children of agony
Bee people crawled from hives
hanging from an ornate cathedral ceiling
they stitched with long finely tuned strands of saliva
melodic shadows of torment
onto primordial cave walls

“High up, there are things waiting to be seen,” the man at the park said
“I am going” 

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