Not About the White Tiger

I shouldn’t but I’m gonna.

The white tiger is leaping

across the teeth of an electric eel (pretty bad, huh?),

sounds juicy, spoofy, a little tutti fruity (We’re off to see the Wizard…).

The image of the white tiger is at least

better than nothing,

give me a break, give me a break, break me off a pinch of that T-bone steak.

Sorry, my brain is under Martian attack, ships dodging, colliding,

and my tongue done dropped in a burlap sack (as for lips, forget about it).

The burlap sack is the underworld gag, where rain is pain and sad is sad,

where problems thrive,

like, where did I leave my head?

While I have your attention,

here’s a quick and ill-conceived addition,

no, no, no, too many revisions.

Back to the show,

the colors passing through the white tiger are like, hey, wow, far out,

this is way neat,

would you pass the spark so we can find the beats (going for sound).

Ignore next four lines, clothes drying, letting it fly today.

And the sun is a dope parade. And we are a hope parade.

And the porcupines are on the way, silly ones in boots,

cherries for spikes, heads spitting animal balloons (oh boy).

And as the colors pass through the tiger’s body,

wails come from phantoms in smoky tubes

with glow in the dark bodies in glow in the dark shoes,

nibbling blue cheese,

nibbling chunks from the world,

fat chunks from the world, as if the world was a dairy swirl,

leaving spooky canyons and the kind of pearls

that make a living by uncurling the sassiest curls

(they’re booked solid for weeks).

Now the colors beeping and burping

flying everywhere and out the ears of chairs

bouncing through midnight grass,

think turbo style without the jazz,

or a double cheeseburger without beef,

or a strip dancer missing his or her teeth

(or cheese, just think cheese, easier).

Why not let it go, let it go (let the goo go, man),

o.k., women sipping steers in bars of coconut land,

sucking tips of hair until roots are bare (nearly gone),

bringing sailing ships from haunted harbors home.

Needless to say,

trailing the sailing ships,

church bells shaking oblong hips

(satanic yawns pulled out of pockets like tangerine rockets).

Roll on ye butter roll, roll on,

surf the sea, take the hurt, write the grief, eat the shirt, roll on, roll on,

metallic bugs on jet skis,

kneecaps all wrong, antennas zooming through space,

bugs skiing over lakes of milk, Caribbean fish jumping, treasures growing,

somewhere a lightsaber a bubble is blowing (hee-hee).

Well, well, well, look what we have now,

Mr. Zebra Cow coming our way (are you still with me?),

going a million miles a second on a track of blue jays (go Speed-racer go),

and us on the outside of everything,

everyone else knowing more,

the game, the score, the roar,

the holy salute that awakens deadly bores,

and we stuck in the ice clouds, baby, not belonging, looked over, passed by.

I am going to cry.

Well, where to go from here.

How about three cheers, toss down a period, call it a day.

Peace and sweet dreams, my friends, Drew