Friday, August 28, 2009
2 lbs of mucus, stir briskly in a bowl until light and fluffy
blow on this mixture until it cools down
and when it's good and cool
add a pinch of salt
add a medium-sized pimento
and a tsp. of cayenne
then throw the bowl at your neighbour
the one with
stank fish breath
because he was eating rotten lobster sauce all night long in a condemned vietnamese bakery
Afterwards, shut up your ding dong in a old silk sock
it'll taste like a hot dog (children don't lie).
If not about about eggs, what about craters? We stopped cooking and resumed star-gazing, big sis and I. She grew up strong and healthy, in the early 1100s, which was a rarity. The stars were no less hearty. We would watch until we discovered food in the 1200s, I think it was. This is all extraordinarily speculative, since we are several centuries removed from these blessed events. We were really something under the stars, we'd say. They distracted us from eating, we began to reflect, as we ate. Later, we repented for this low account of star-gazing. What could be better than a little moon-worship for two eggs like us?
Tra la la beee tra ma da. it's a funnny way toooo live.
Been around the bend and back
Tilllll the morniiing light ssssssshiiinees doooown.
(sung in a very high falsetto voice that cracks every so often)
I hammered away at my song lyrics, sometimes for days without eating. It was obsessive moon-worship, as well as something beyond obsession. The lyrics encapsulated how I felt, while restricting feeling. I began to stare at the moon with eyes too calculating, and my posture was the first evidence of the imposition that, physically, my bad habit of writing songs while gazing at the dark sky was. We were a mess then, us eggs. We were yolk, without halogen whites to brighten the "unmentionable" areas of our brother- or sister-lover bodies. Heavenly skies, delightfully myopic. Blind as bats, we wrote songs like this.
I'm croaking, cracking, crimping for your love.
Hair's on fire like bees bees spider spider
moose deer rhinocerous pelican
I gazed into brother's eyes, my own filled with tears. In his there were crusties in the corner. Damn this moon pulling on the groin of my womanhood. I can barely contain my emotions.
sister: it's strange that we came from a zygote and the penetrating sperm. Who taught him to swim so well?
brother: i taught myself to swim, and it didn't involve sperm. it was slow, my father holding me, and i kicking.
sister: your father is our father, so why do you insist on being possessive?
brother: our fathers may look the same, but they differ in small ways. my father taught me to swim against a strong current, much like sperm, i guess. your father taught you to swim, but he was underwater himself, not breathing, and you worried the whole time, and swam too slowly to impress him.
sister: that is true, I didn't swim. Honestly, I floated.
brother: i've never seen such floating.
sister: I'm a natch. Floating came easily for me, trigonometry more difficult.
brother: it was math that joined us, you see. we're two, with our father three, and now that he's underwater (still), we're back to two, with an honourary extra half.
sister: I love you.
brother: love is a potion sprinkled by the poor on the weak, or by the strong on the healthy.