bungalow

i am writing this for one of those girls, you all know the kind. anyway, she has a dirty habit of thanking me for spending time with her, so this is a response to that (some of the references are specific and personal--the alligator, our 'Walden'...so while they might be confusing choices for you all, she will understand them). i intend to keep adding stanzas until i'm exhausted of things i wouldn't rather be doing, i also intend to polish these a bit more. this is what i've come up with over the past few hours, probably won't actually give it to her until i've spent a good number of days on it. thought i'd put it up here first...for comment and critique.

MORE than feast my palate
On a Child’s bourguignon, or
Teach des mots d’anglais with
Small French children looking on,

MORE than fashion poetry
Grown timeless and renown’d, or
Sail the lonely ocean without
The unnatural din of human sound

MORE than light green-fires
And let fumes whisk me away, or
Gorge myself on chemicals ‘til
Color’d spectrums melt the day,

MORE than find Enlightenment
With living Buddha in my tow, or
Resuscitate dead Lennon and
Have the Beatles do a show,

MORE than drink cream’d coffee
Sugar’d lightly for the edge, or
Retire quick from mara-thons
And fall resolutely into bed,

MORE than meet the President
And grasp his tens’d firm hand, or
Dawdle with Ms. Désirée on
Royal tours of Swedish lands,

MORE than trap an alligator
(unless it was with you, of course), or
Tend out to your Walden-found
To let the river choose my course,

MORE than fuck a beauty-queen
And press her tight between my thighs, or
Stand square with many evil-men
And jam long fingers in their eyes,

AND MORE than this and so much
More, would I rather be with you,
Sitting silent, sweaty, pulling weeds or
Doing whatever it is you want to do.

SO PLEASE don’t ever ask me,
Or thank me for my time, ‘cause
More than you can really know
The pleasure has been all mine.

VEGANGELICA

Oh! You are in love!!!

Bungalow, I think she will love your poem you are working on.

Really, this is all very sweet, and partly because it isn't *all* sweet. You are very blatant and specific about all the activities you have done over which you'd choose being with her. And I love the concluding stanza, a very good and direct summary of your feelings and the poem:

I noticed one spelling error you may want to correct: in "Inner-tube’d, to let the river chose my course," I think you mean "choose" instead of chose.

I think when she reads your poem, she will melt. This is a lovely gift for her.

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bungalow

thanks for the comments erica! one in this forum can usually count on you. i did mean to use the word 'choose' (damn me for forgetting that extra 'o', the line is already too long and now it's one character longer), i think i will be re-working that stanza as it has the worst flow of any of them. i also thought i'd throw up a few more things i wrote:

HERE, the ground is pallid, scorch’d,
Loose between my toes, kick’d
Playfully onto the sleeves of
My up-roll’d plaid shirt, mix’d with
Sweat and turn’d to mud on my
Hands, on you, on your hands, rubb’d
Sensuously through my hair, down
My cheek, track’d from the callous’d
Tip of my forefinger ‘cross your
Blue-cut fray’d shorts up your thigh.

Sticky wet deliria, red heat red
Skin, freckl’d glimmering skin,
Skin soft and hot to caress, skin
Salty on the tongue and salty press’d
To the lips.
_______________________________________________

LOOK at yourself
Sitting there
Nervous to speak
Give me Words
Give me some-
Thing. Move
Your lips, mime
Sentiment.
You won’t bury
Me, you couldn’t—
So relax, drag again
Your cigarette. Open
Your mouth, be true, be you.
___________________________________________


YOU young idealist, you open-heart,
You prickly legg’d fashionista who will
Bright'n days with a dry-clean
Only dress. You maker-of silly mistakes.

You bard of dreams, whose reality
Melts and drips away like heated oils
Meld and mound on flaming canvas—
Drops away like the Dali on your closet door.

You deserving cheese-thief, you yolk-
In lime pie-artisan, graciously sweet’ning
Palates and filling empti’d stomachs.
You smoker, you toker, you owner of

solo Joe Walsh records,

You dylan-esque conductor of canine
Choral duets, you woof-rouser, you
Whose descriptions invoke th’ surreal and
The incoherent and the senseless,

You captivator of my imagination, you
Daily captive of the world, you who will
Inspire more poetry than contain’d here,
You mak’r of days, you ruin’r of days,

you pretty, pretty girl.

You sufferer of temporary reprieve, you

who will be alone, again.

bungalow

JUST an inch off the ground,
Just a black and tan hound,
Just a stray that you found,
Barely saved from the pound,
Just five inches around,
And just won’t settle down
When harmonicas sound,
But will prance ‘round and ‘round
'Til the thing is laid down on the table.

A curious, leash’d leader ever
Tickl’d by leaves of grass, annoy’d
No doubt by his lack of stature,
Desperate to be distinguish’d, fear’d,
He—perpetually manipulated, forever
Cute.

I am King Charles! Full of shit and piss!
A stream of urine for the world that would demean me!
I piss! I shit! I piss on shit! My bladder is
Rarely empty! Stand aside, Giants! Move
Faster or unleash me! Why does your nose
Not quiver? Why does your mind not race?

And back inside, to reclaim his couch’ly throne.

bungalow

LITTLE vine, won’t you perk up?
You have fallen behind your brothers and sisters,
You slouch beneath the patio. Have some
Confidence, stand-up straight, fan your leaves and
Steal sunlight—for what does our Little Star shine
If not you? Look at the trees all around,
Do not you aspire to their heights?

Perhaps red-balloons can lift you, fasten’d

secur’ly to your base,

Perhaps you will grow around them, as they

pull up towards outer-space,

Perhaps one hazy day the neighbors, in the

midst of head-cock'd stares,

Will believe floating tomatoes, are now

ascending from the stairs.

Flower Child

My goodness bungalow, you make it look so easy.
A beautiful, beautiful poem. And its just about right- its sharp and your vocabulary is unreal but it doesn't come off like you are trying too hard, and you have that personal flair to it that I'm sure she will love. I'm impressed.

wildmountainthyme

this is very good. if you can find someone who is happy to do the weeding, who doesn't need to be amused every 2 minutes, told how clever, how pretty they are etc etc ...then you are a lucky person.
good stuff bungalow.

thomasracer56

i wish you luck, and i salute you!

VEGANGELICA

Hmm...this is an interesting poem about how you imagine a puppy feels since he is doomed to be perceived as cute.

I read the poem last week and again today, because bits of the imagery stuck with me: the grass brushing the little puppy's belly, and your line, "Perpetually manipulated, forever cute." Also, as a vegan I like that your poem takes the perspective of the puppy rather than the perspective just of humans.

At first I thought your post included two poems...until I realized the second part contains the dog's thoughts, showing his disdain and desire for domination! I think I was thrown by the "I am King Charles," since a dog would never think that (at least, I don't *think* so! but I'm not a dog person, so maybe I just don't realize dogs have dreams of grandeur).

Your poem reminds me of a cartoon I like that shows a cat's owner looking disconcerted as he watches his satisfied-looking cat who is thinking, "If I were bigger, I would eat you." Ha ha! Probably true, which is what makes it so funny.

I have one suggestion for all your poems, bungalow. I feel you should drop the archaic contraction of words that end in -ed, such as when you write "leash’d" instead of "leashed." People read "leashed" as one syllable now anyway, so getting rid of the "e" is unnecessary. Using a contraction as you do makes your poems look very old-fashioned...though maybe that's what you want?

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