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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535577" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Four Snortets, A Parody With Fondness For Thomas Stearns Eliot</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now we come to discover that the moments of agony...are likewise permanent with such permanence as time has...Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination-We had the experience but missed the meaning.' - from 'The Dry Salvages' by T.S. Eliot</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Burnt Snortin'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Mister, or Sir, rather, Thomas Sterns Eliot left his evening door, <br>late middle age, having lived into the postmodern 'new' millennium, <br>having again reiterated his propounded new diet whereupon <br>wandering on a deserted shore near mumbling twilight one might <br>meet a most inarticulate soft peach or unutterable yet edible Christ, <br>or a close match, a little kidding, upon which we may, if we dare, <br>reiterative quartet playing plaintive though palliatively, dine four <br>squarely in Piccadilly sempiternal before getting sodden after <br>sundown, preferably on Friday, which is a good time to do it, to eat <br>and drink again, remembering that it is end of the week, out of the tube </div><div style="margin:10px 0">finally unethered, trousers unrolled at last, the mission to get plastered, <br>doing lines in the stalls, toilet seat become an altar of dissolution. <br>But, despite numbness of lips and tongue, of nasal passages, <br>do not hope that trousers shall roll up again till Monday, and do <br>not call it fixity. And do not call it fistula for that is to come but not<br>quite yet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And who cares? or let us forget. Teach us, O Mannered One, <br>to care and not to care having lost muscle plasticity which a <br>good pair of dark socks can cover what was once pliant and <br>supple, now a gruesome obscenity. Have I overstated? <br>Shall I overstate again? Shall I? No? not now? how all things <br>crumble, even a souffle caves from expectation and thus we <br>wait with dope, we wait without hope for hope would be hope<br>for another line, and yet another, and we are reduced to shouting<br>repeatedly shouting, Muther f*cker! Muther f*cker, overwrought, <br>in the stall, temperatures and ovens not withstanding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So listen, I said to myself stalling for time for the coke to take <br>effect, wondering why the hell I mentioned a souffle, to kick <br>in wait without prematurely crashing, for the night, O Friday, <br>is still young though I am not so young, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I grow old<br>I grow old<br>I unfold a <br>hundred pound<br>note roll it<br>tightly tightly<br>greedy for<br>lines and <br>more time<br>more time<br>for laughter<br>remembered<br>in the bloody<br>garden now<br>grown with <br>weeds</div><div style="margin:10px 0">BOLLOCKS</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wasted Coker</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>so I said to my soul, yes yes yes wait without eating the dish eaten <br>last week which gave me the infernal trots, now giving me something<br>else to think about, f*ck that old Edenic garden, wait without faith that <br>the waiter will return the dish sent back merely because one can, <br>because one (note how I go to the third person but f*ck that) , ONE<br>ONE ONE is really angry at the boss and one is in the stalls not for <br>coke but for yet another freshly chewed double anus demanding attention. <br>And all things are stalled for in the stall all is bloody and ONE, <br>erhebung with motion too too much, squatting, endlessly squatting <br>wiping squatting wiping ad infinitum of bum unto bumbling attempts</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so I said in the stall, <br>wait, wait dumbly, tongue lagging, <br>for the dope to kick in, forget the late <br>arrival at office, f*ck Mondays! the usual scene, <br>one can recover here by porcelain cool</div><div style="margin:10px 0">white o white as <br>the lines are white </div><div style="margin:10px 0">which, too, porcelain, is waiting to be cleaned, <br>and all things shall be cleaned, but only after <br>midnight for I shall have left by then having forsaken <br>all hope and the sink where I have discreetly washed<br>my skivvies in order to go home again, return <br>uncomfortable, without support, to throw them in the <br>turning dryer to dry again for I do not hope to return <br>again until next week to probably reenact the same <br>scene again, (bringing another pair of skivvies with <br>just in case) , the patient server, harassed, must add <br>and re-add my check again and again because I am </div><div style="margin:10px 0">still </div><div style="margin:10px 0">very </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VERY </div><div style="margin:10px 0">pissed at the boss, at the chittering fetuses mocking, always <br>mocking, in the shrubbery near the well-used apothecary and <br>I shall go home foregoing mulberries, for I am too blitzed, having <br>forgotten the rejected dish, the wish for justice, for mum's steak <br>and kidney pie, and I have remembered all too late. Alas. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So let us go home then, which is a kind of personal Golgotha, <br>for which the rent is beyond my means but let us go and <br>make our supper remembering to take the gonorrhea pill.<br>No, let us purchase our meal though on a budget, and forget <br>even all this trivia. Let us forget all that, too, looking in, <br>deja vu, the bathroom mirror from the stall </div><div style="margin:10px 0">(have I left or do I remain?) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Recall then that I can leave the comb unhandled <br>until Monday morning. It shall not cruelly beckon <br>again from the toilet, or it can be justifiably ignored, <br>to comb what is left of what is left to fall, or grow, <br>but that's a laugh. Come Monday, and only then, <br>we must find the diminishing part again, searching <br>ever searching, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">scalp and England <br>all one, or soon shall <br>be One</div><div style="margin:10px 0">scanty scanty</div><div style="margin:10px 0">scanty</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Drying Assuages</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And all is vanity amongst these my ruins.<br>And Sweeney, whoever he may be, <br>tidies up neurotically, gin on his breath <br>for he is bored unto death but awaits<br>daily the post for possible liberty<br>which he once took with a wealthy<br>widow who mistook him for someone<br>else. The scar forever reminds of <br>dumb lusts, and dumber luck, for loot, <br>never dreaming she was a black belt. <br>His teeth, now wooden, remind him to <br>be mindful of the good against all wants, <br>and so he sits, wise, chaste, chiseled <br>in the ruins reading Beckett, but that is <br>another story written in the stars Centauric</div><div style="margin:10px 0">qua qua qua <br>sisk boom ba <br>'tween Fuquaad<br>& Apothecary <br>near the corner<br>time forgot<br>but o not I <br>when the clot<br>broke and people<br>screamed no<br>help at all as I <br>stood pale, <br>pale, paler still<br>leaning upon <br>a tailor's wall<br>he, too, no<br>help at all<br>threatening <br>to call the cops<br>It closes me in<br>again to recall<br>qua qua Fuquaad</div><div style="margin:10px 0">amongst the forgotten roses <br>where one is hungover in the supposes<br>he began with, that he can never finish <br>like this, pissed, which goes on, <br>which goes on, 'I can't go on. <br>But I must because I am losing hair and so'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">dot dot dot into eternity </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and so we must wear a hat but let us not go then, <br>you and I, patiently into all that now for come the <br>proper time </div><div style="margin:10px 0">now then here then, <br>remembering the chaffing bloody garters</div><div style="margin:10px 0">we will pack our Preparations H, grateful always, <br>no longer walking funnily sideways in the garden, <br>in the wandering streets, the half retreating steps, <br>without itch or burn, the tissue roll turned slowly<br>with pleasure not to double, or even triple, ply.<br>We cleanse what cannot be seen but only reckoned<br>with, and sniffed, pull at our chains and buckles, <br>then pick our pace doubly up for we are late yet <br>again for work for one because we think too too <br>much and get caught up in cadences but <br>never mind for reality is </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the boss will chew us out another one thus the suppositories</div><div style="margin:10px 0">forgetting the time but not the talcum, trailing little<br>clouds, each hurried step a flurried reminder of<br>divinity glimpsed, if sought at all </div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Little Skidmarks </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>O the stall, stall, stall, we all go into the stall</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nevermind, just follow the trail of yesterday's shoe, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">talcum and dust mingle taciturn<br>undoing intention to haste <br>powdery traces unhidden guidance </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the prayed for thunderstorm never come to wash <br>tell-tale treads reveal some rash is spread, <br>scaling crud of gory glory and more stains to wash <br>but what of shame? Do we not hope to turn it to other <br>than no more to blame? Thus we gait without soap, <br>panicked, for what is to come, to scrub, to un-stain, <br>but soon, the boss is pacing. But what is to be gained <br>in running knowing already what waits ahead? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Another annus. Another anus. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hidden children in the mulberries<br>chittering, heard but unseen. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Note to self: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Must take Thorazine before bedtime.<br>Goddamn wankers! ! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But let us leave them for another dosage, <br>for another week's prelude sans qualudes, <br>the sullen departure to work again combing <br>the faces in the crowd pitching, another aphasia<br>I prefer to call an 'occluded interlude', yet <br>another distracted fit caught in a sun ray upon <br>seeing that the poorly stitched seam hastily done <br>between the shower and the tepid tea, <br>between the sorting through the dirty laundry, <br>the deepening ennui for something to wear, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">o do not hope to wear it again and again evergreen </div><div style="margin:10px 0">(whatever, BTW, 'ennui' is, but it is fun to say and <br>in this aesthetic some other language needs to be <br>gratuitously writ to make the poetic voice more valid <br>if Americans attempt to art, 'writ' is a good word, too, <br>let me then write it repeatedly: writ writ writ, to wit) <br>begins yet again, o Ariadne, obsessive compulsive <br>to the end, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thorazine Thorazine Thorazine<br>must must must remember to wit! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">...to unravel that which is still, to look on the <br>bright side, yet another beginning, the public, <br>pathetic, peripatetic tugging of shirts and blouses <br>over the widening rip in the thinning trouser's seat, <br>pant legs remembering to be gay scrolling ever upward.<br>And yet we still call these knobs 'ankles', forgoing gaity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nothing to be read here, now, in Merry Old, <br>but old age, varicose. the blank stare dreaming <br>comatose, of repressed rage, still pissed at the boss, <br>shamed of ankles, the chittering twats in mulberry bush<br>near home, following, following</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No wonder these <br>little snots at me laugh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Them I'll clobber <br>here then now then</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shall we turn the page again? <br>Shall we? Shall we turn over yet<br>another leaf? Shall we repeat it all<br>again forgetting the unraveling stitch? <br>The itch and the burn? <br>The Itch and the burn returning, <br>for one bought the store brand and not the original. <br>Now it hurts to sit or stand. Shall I say it again, <br>under fetid breath, dentures stained? <br> <br>Yes. Yes! <br>Sit or stand. <br>Sit or stand! <br>Now goddamn it, <br>bloody move on! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I shall say it again because I can. <br>But later. But let us remember</div><div style="margin:10px 0">indulgently </div><div style="margin:10px 0">now then, here then<br>hidden laughter behind<br>hands pointing at loose stitches, <br>boxers gray. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forgot to do laundry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Another note to self. <br>Another task.<br>Do the wash.<br>Most important.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, it is a good Friday so, sighing, <br>at last forgetting all Mondays past <br>and to come <br> <br>not withstanding, for it hurts either <br>way to sit or stand, the late pay check, <br>piss poor pittance, mind, is cashed <br>probably on bloody Monday but<br>never mind. Let us presently pour <br>our penurious libations </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Chianti Chianti</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Chianti.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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