American Kitsch

I.
lady i swear by all flowers
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh
Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn

II.
I hear America singing
The varied carols I hear,—
A killer bee that’s stinging
My inner inner ear.

III.
I see you, Allen Ginsberg, in a supermarket in California,
fondling nakedly a pair of hairy kiwis,
smoking a cigarette with dirty fingers and a gratified expression,
fantasizing about Walt Whitman fantasizing about grocery boys
fantasizing about free bananas,
farting windily from your often-plugged-up-with-cocks asshole,
smelling like the unvenilated bathroom at Joe’s Greasy Sandwiches,
squeezing goop from a volcanic & holy pimple on your forearm,
weirding out the children who see NAMBLA written in your eyes,
scandalizing the squares who can’t handle their fruit in public,
waiting for the police to come give you a happy ending.

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Variations on a Theme of Robert Frost

The Secret Sits
We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Var. I
Ring around the rosie,
A pocket full of knowsie.

Var. 2
Atomically
Are we, and be
The nucleus
Unknown to us.

Var. 3
Musical chairs
We roundly play.
The music airs,
We circle away.

The music sounds.
The beats, they drop.
We ring in rounds
Without a stop.

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The Recently Discovered Lost Section of Algernon Charles Swinburne’s “Étude Réaliste”

A baby's cheeks, creamy and soft,
      Would tempt the angel who seeks
To touch a heaven 'neath her loft—
         A baby's cheeks.

A plumpness puffs the chubby peaks
      Where roses bloom as oft
As streak their slopes with runny creeks.

Kissing the cheeks with peach-fuzz puffed
      That near speech with the weeks
Will send the spirit's soar aloft
         A baby's cheeks.

* * *

Étude Réaliste by Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837-1909

I.
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
      Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
         A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
      They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink
      Gleam half so heavenly sweet
As shine on life's untrodden brink
         A Baby's feet.

II.
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled
      Whence yet no leaf expands,
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,
         A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands
      When battle's bolt is hurled,
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
      Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world—
         A baby's hands.

III.
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
      Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
         A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
      And sleep flows out and in,
Sees perfect in them Paradise.

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
      Their speech make dumb the wise,
By mute glad godhead felt within
         A baby's eyes.

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Monolith

Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.

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To Every Beamish Child

The day began at 6 PM;
   At 6 PM it ends.
At 6 PM a cherry brehm 
   Will puff with harey friends.
O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!
   I chortle in my joy!
A madly glad Mad Hatter Day
   To every girl and boy!

At 6 PM I drank some tea;
   At 6 PM drank more.
At 6 PM the Tumtum tree
   I smoked, then went to snore.
O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!
   I urkel loud and wild!
A madly glad Mad Hatter Day
   To every beamish child!

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