Tuesday, 6 February 2007

French Omelette

Delectable dreams.
Candi(e)d revelations.
Mad margarine and messy marmalade.
I'm a French Omelette.

I live in a saprophytic,not symbiotic,cosmos.
Mushrooms.(Seriously).And I turn down
Onion Soup.Tastes somewhat like grass.
Not the intoxicating variety.

Will you take me to a chapel?
To offer prayers?Can a French Omelette pray?Is it allowed?
Would it have been better
had there been some olives(in me)?

Olive branches being,you know, symbolic.
You have them in pieces of peace,corny
and cliched as it sounds.
Being transcendental art,or thereabouts.
Akin to me.

I wasn't born to be breakfast.

Born for greater things?Like a square meal?
No;not born symmetrical.
Born sad.

Ah,said the discerning gourmand:


vast despairing dark deeds Death dormant mere words or mortal aspirations
and some such things like melancholy
laughter at unsubtle humour or pauses without punctuation and
blatant bad breath or other afflictions.
disjointed Joyce-like latin american you-know-what mojo stories violence and love
and hatred and sex but all without rhyme and reason to water plants of insanity,
insincerity strikes like rabies ;to die of hydrophobia and you wake up and find
dogs and cats and rats all vampyre bats
blood sucking instruments of poetic justice. but you don't think it matters much when
the debate is poetic justice versus poetic liberty because all roads lead to Rome
Gypsies don't call Bohemia home and Utopia is a land no map will show
Only your mind which moves about like your mojo and mainly vegetables don't grow
much in kitchen gardens in this Utopia
no punctuation again no cause for much pause-only obsessive dreams and angst ridden ideas
as expectations exceed the insincerity
insanity bites the dust lust you must...
where are you when they kill your neighbour
where are you when they kill your child
where are you when they kill you
you should attend your post mortem and a most post-conscious concept to do so
you can see your heart and kidney and spleen and your bile and your brain and all that is green
and call your journey through some strange idiotic epic,some land
only a utopian or some such understands. give of your best to the master what master
comma or coma or trauma and you know that they don't want to know
who's dead;wouldn't mind it so if it was you and you and you and you....
dimensionless-Death and all the stories of endless lifetimes and eternal sorrows
without pause or punctuation but with mojo
like all higher feelings all together now and call me later;please call will you; I love you and I love it and I love shit and I love liberty and equality and mojo
and endless decisions and never any justice.