Monday, June 10, 2002

Combustible rustable
grannies come marching
in waves from the caves
with their zinc eyebrows arching,
in tunics with tonics
electric on their lips,
cities of biddies descend on our ships.

“Great Montezuma!”
cried Macbethle Macwire
as the deck pitched to starboard
and the riggings caught fire.
“We’ll be beaten and eaten
and forced to buy crafts!
I’ll boil the oil while you
man the space-rafts!”

I sketched our escape by the nape of our nuts:
We’d man the space rafts and save our space butts
while brave but slow-running Macbethle Macwire
dropped that hot oil on the grandmas entire.

My plan went off like a stitch without hitch
as Macwire poured the oil on every space bitch
whose mechanical claw gripped the side of our boat
and their eyes looked surprised as they fell in the space moat.

But the grannies kept coming in tens and in twos,
with their levatrons humming and their New Balance shoes
squeaked like the shrieks of a million-sheik mob.
Pervis was nervous and Bruce saw fit to sob.

It was then I decided our goose had been cooked
and stuffed full of bread crumbs, our flight to hell booked.
When out of nowhere the grannies all disappeared,
quite to the shock of me, Petey and Bluebeard.

We found them reclined in the caves unaware
of our presence, they napped and snores filled the air.
We crept into space without a noun or a verb
and there on the space map, we marked “Do Not Disturb.”

Dinner Date
Swizzle-stick me in a jar, mastodons in foreign cars. Oh what lovely buggering bubbly sex shows on starships tonight!

Drink a Toast to the Liver
Consider once the lonely liver, liver of a life deemed lower, by those organs hip and trendy, who might be smaller or more bendy.

The Rickles
The Rickles like tickles and pickles and pee. The Zicklers are sticklers for conformity. The Mounces eat rayguns, the Olaffs smoke brie. Where did they all come from? Beats the crap out of me.