|
POEMS: a selection from Impeccable Regret
by Judith Fitzgerald (1952-2015)
DEAR READER
Hello, There . . . Howzit? I hear you — Been
Where, done what? Learned abso-deffo zen-zap-zip
Zero-zilcharoo until one appeared too near you?
We say Ixnay on the cloudspray, agency Earsay,
Regency light. G’Night, Mother Might, G’Night, G’Night.
Welcome, M’Dear ’n’ Cherished Reader. Welcome
To Our New-World Ordered, flux-familiar bordered.
You will immediately recognize its utterly brazen
Shuddering attack-lack of down-and-dirty disguise.
O, lavish parade of freshly skin-skimmed foreign aid
Milked to the max: Sea roiling, his constangular boiling
Point . . . And all that which implies, impugns, repo ultra-
Glides comblastious. Ascension in bled-red lather. Pax.
Growing, glowing, going gone when it all goes hellarious?
O, Dear Snipper-Snapper, even Dearer Gripper-
Slapper Wonder-Whipper where every silver lining
Features a zipper. (Another day, another deficit.)
All Fall Down. Ol’ Possum Rulez. Man in a Million, eh?
My Love, My Love, My Eternal Blaze of Brittle Glaze.
Grimpasse sur Mont Parnasse Tomb in plain abstrain
Anguish — Kiss her shapely sweet ass. Notoriocrass.
Valence versus High Holy Mass. Say, half a nice day.
Full disclosure. Fracture bones. Skip stones.
Why refuse your life, Jim-Jam Slim-Slam?
Entreatly allow conspicuous consumption,
Reinforce your murder vision, Hoardherder?
Grimslum, bloomstun, here comes exenocoluthon
Right on cue. Fasten your seatbolts. Travelling
Lodge Lander’s End Game — Help your collocated self.
Or forgive this upstart heart’s enshrined faith in dread art,
Its inverse on the impulsable mythereens crystalline
Undines; but, palpably present among skin-thin invisible
Defeat, utterly awestricken, thanks to Lady Brutalia Beat.
“O, didja say-saw, Jimmy, down at The Fist ’n’ Pout?”
Still a pirate of extracurriculur circumnavigation.
Jumpstart your heart — Reset it to that yesterday
Just before you reconnoîtred illusionsway. Here, Dear
Reader: I freely share the key unlocking the eternal mystery
Yielding to your blue hue: They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
O, Terrora, O, Madre — Smother, Sister, Slaughter, Daughter;
And, you? Forget punishments wrought past due. (They do.)
|