Talking With Myself

Talking With Myself

(Repetitive parts influenced by Gertrude Stein’s, If I Told Him, A Completed Portrait of Picasso)

You keep things

within yourself you keep

yourself within yourself

you keep within yourself you keep

within yourself, a keep a keep a dig dig dig

through healthy graves gone sick.

Without salvation there’d be no sin,

without sin no need for cleanse.

News flash: We win in the end.

How ‘bout we mix things up. Twirl numb chucks. Pour the ketchups. Hiccup, sorry.

How ‘bout we go searching through a bottle of 7-Up (might as well, life is ours, hooray).

And why stop,

why not go searching through cans of violin strings and bicycle chains.

And you know, you know, you know,

life ain’t always blue, ain’t always a total screw (gonna cry, boo-hoo, boo-hoo).

And sharing ain’t sharing if only one person is caring

(no duh, Sherlock, tell me something new),

ain’t talking spending Friday night conversing with cabbage stew,

unless totally stoned

then baby, it’s E.T. phone home, phone home.

And within you, you within, within you

a wobbling bowling pin in a bowling alley made of gin

full of show-off hens, jet-setting hens dressed to the nines and tens,

(could be better, could be worse, could be alley of tap-dancing turds,

hats, canes, beer, pretzels, burps, the whole shebang, ding-ding, ding-ding, cha-ching)!

Quick question: Ever tried tickling the belly of a butt sniffing beet?

Not as bad as it sounds, delicate hands and feet.

Wish I played piano. Wish that I could sing.

Wish I was Flash Gordon and could kick the ass of Ming.

Keep driving your truck without wheels

made of cupcakes and other sweetie thrills

across ponds of three-headed ducks (sucks, sucks, sucks),

that’s a b-horror movie steal (zombies munching through brain shaped orange peels),

do I apologize now or wait, was that my belly rumbling or an earthquake?).

Please don’t stare my cuddly cute, my banana shoot (or your choice of any funky fruit),

glide with me over the pearly gates,

let’s see if we got what it takes,

(how’s that for a date, a cruise through town, a see-through night gown).

Blasting trumpets. Giggling towers. Red hair showers. No frowns.

Baby, you got magic,

magic spraying in eye sockets of raisins,

raisins stirring cereal in clockwise directions,

mixing this and that with cats who know secret locations

that could rip the universe to smithereens.

And while we’re on the subject

of whatever it is we’re not on the subject of,

a bunch of streetlamps are brushing brown bears,

swirling around the Murfreesboro square in nothing but Batman underwear.

Keep you keep you keep keep

within a keep keep a double keep

within a grave you dig a beep a bop a beep

you keep things keep

thingie things within yourself,

a bad thing to do, they say,

unless inside you got demon elves

hard at work, harder at play,

then best fall and pray.

Sweet dreams. Merry Thursday. Drew.