algormortis

Our dullard walls of cream Too oft encapsulate a fever-dream Wherein the wife's a tiger or a polar bear That hubby like a hunter stalks Between their aimless evening walks And meekly mumbled breakfast talks That drift like crippled butterflies through air. "There once was water where we dipped our spears, But soon congealed into a foam, And then, dry land," she says, adrift in fears That they'll forget their old Herculean feat Of clearing earth to pour the new concrete With which they built their pleasure-dome! Her mate's not listening: With gristle in his teeth, he looks Through aeons, past the living room And past the coffee

Tonight she eats with flexing, twitching hands upon the table. Vulgar girl, she rhymes some doggerel at them. Her mouth and hands are locked in gestures mocking them with rhymes. They chuckle. She stands up and lifts her hands to call for quiet; announces without rhymes that she is tired, and for their work of hands this evening she gives thanks. Politest rhymes of gesture spill out as they clap their hands at her, refrain from cheerful vulgar rhymes. She trundles off to bed, clenches her hands. Each finger curled down, the hands are rhymes. But as she leaves, they're staring at her feet, Her bare, mercurially soft and springing

A chilly feeling's spreading in her bones; She tips the man who's polishing her pointed shoe. "O timeless interplay of stones, I consign thee unto outer darkness," says Lulu. Lulu walks down Forty-seventh Street. The aforementioned stones are gray. She walks with stretched-forth neck and wanton eyes, and says "O town of gorgeous sleaziness, this day, I consign thee unto outer darkness." But her composure is impeccable: the lioness. She hates the thought of him, Some rich old man she's walking up to meet; Lulu walks down Forty-Seventh Street. Her days are over of streetwalking and of lunch from Sabrett's Carts. She contemplates

Who wants to eat his brain? Tastes just like pork. Who wants to eat his face? No takers? Well, Suit yourselves; this man is Robert Bork, Conservative extraordinaire. In Hell, He clamors for some drink with wearied voice. “There’s not one drop to cool your tongue,” says God, “Not one, good Bork.” And yet he stands with equipoise As fires rage and Satan mocks. How odd That this esteeméd judge, so grand in life, Should face the auction of his body parts, Viscera severed with an angry knife! The auctioneer holds up the silent heart: “Who wants this?” No one. It is grossly tinged With wickedness

It was late afternoon on Monday, and Susan and Patricia had just enjoyed their first experience with marijuana. The savvy Lavinia, who had been the supplier of the herb, sealed off the door with towels (Susan thought of Sylvia Plath’s suicide), and rolled them a joint, licking the corners in some obscure process that made Patricia think of her mother licking mountains of envelopes, when the time came to send those little bread-and-butter notes for Christmas presents. “But mind you I have ethnology tomorrow morning at 9:00,” said Susan. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Lavinia. Lavinia was from a blueblood family

It was a Chinese propaganda poster. Patricia had come back to the room to find Susan absent, and this colossally statuesque black woman, a cherubic baby on her back and bayonet in hand, staring down into the room with her lioness' gaze. At the bottom was some Chinese nonsense, written in blaring red, with Roman letters underneath: Mei Di Guo Zhu Yi Cong... how could anyone speak this language? When you read it it sounded like a bunch of bells being struck, all out of tune and with no rhythm. And it could mean just about anything, Patricia thought. This was just the next manifestation in a long chain of strange behavior from Susan. It starte

This is humanity alone. I fill my box With evil spirits, dirtying the space. White-plastered walls cannot absorb the grime. Upon the floor, a mess of shirts and socks And grass that came from outside of this place. I dragged it in on wearied feet. The time To sleep is now, and yet the thought of rest Eludes me, for distractions now abound, And pointless drudgery is made manifest. I often wish that I lived underground, For only there is idle nothingness Called 'hibernation.’ There could rest be found! Above the surface, thinking I am mocked, I hide my face, and double-bolt the lock.

It was so dark-sided. In Jesus' name, I pray, Get out! Go from this house; this little Christian fort, Thence to some other door, your lies to bray, That they may greet you also with retort. You see? I now am ripping up the check. I want no money. It is tainted; vile. I want my family, God, and self-respect, And thus I shall defend my domicile: A small perimeter I can secure. Within its gates, resounding joy shall reign; My children praying, and myself demure And stoic, wrapping food in cellophane. Within these walls no sin can penetrate; I do rebuke it. Get ye from my gates!