the king & the fat lady

i
have never had son
to
simply name Chronos
neither
a little girl
to
simply name karma
who
would bravely swallow
her
brothers golden tooth
buried
in an insidious rotten apple
and
in altruistic return
my
tenacious son would
protect
his immaculate sister Karma
from
the pubescent purple heads
of
the indoctrinate dying soldiers

no
i shall never
have a simple son
to
slay me a giant
nor
a mute daughter
to
play me music

did
you hear the tale
of
a long despairing King
he
called in an opera company
to
summon his apocalyptic dream
well
he immediately fell insane
at
the voluptuous embellishments
of
the fat lady
brought
along to sing in his climax

well
the fat lady spurned
his
crazy third eye dribling advances
while
she danced a jazz playing spoon
across
her amply delicious udders
before
refusing to sing him his dream

so
the defunct king
carried
her to his barren rock
that
was red as a gleed
where
he was going to build
his
temple to the accusers Nobodaddy
made
from his enemies
Sauté
finger bones

upon
his glowing rock
he
marooned his lusty siren
naked
and staked out half baked
glazed
over with manuka tribal honey
for
the inquisition by the moon’s ants
while
the king made his puerile escape
bouncing
away in the porridge filled pouch
of
a giant inter-species
inconstant
burning bush dwelling kangaroo

butt
no end song could the moon milk
so
the King returned the next day
from
his time conversing with plants
carrying
some legal documents
tablets
written in the shadows blood
foretelling
her burdened fate
which
he sniggered into her ear

“hear
the distant war drums fat lady
for
the messenger’s a deranged octopus
that
shall stuff your garden
with
dead bloated pheasants
and
polutted clogged streams
made
from the vines bitter grapes
till
you howl torrents of vomit
into
your martyrs challice
till
filled to the brim they explode
like
a suicide bombers final tear
into
a fountain of blood and limbs
and
the braying crowd will cheer
for
to see such a simple delight
of
such a colossal deadly spawn
brings
glee to perpetually dead prophets
shamans
who with their pants on fire
run
around sacrificing their fawn”

and so it was

i
can tell such a fairy tale
for
i shall never have a son
simply
cursed Chronos
nor
a daughter
simply
burdened karma

by bg 2011 ©