frankenstein

f4

 

There’s too many bad poems clottin’ up my mind
and the river’s turned from whiskey to turpentine.
My heart’s a swimming pool full of pork-u-pines
and I’m four nickels short of a paradigm.
I met the Son of Blacula and a Parliament of Swine,
we’re all shufflin’ round the graveyard like
Frankenstein.

Why, if the river was whiskey and I was a duck
then the river would be a philosophical construct
and the whiskey would be the flow of ideology
in a world without constructionist epistemology.
The drunk would teach the drunkard and the one eyed rule the blind
and we’d all get along like
Frankenstein.

Schopenhauer understood the bourgeois
the Nomenklatura and the chimpanzee!
He said “here is the church, here is the steeple
and all you sons of bitches are the fin de siecle”.
So tonight you’d better party like it’s 1999
and all get chopped and screwed like
Frankenstein.

Rollin’ and tumblin’ in the dust and clay
with a yeller-headed gal I met on Merle Haggard Day
Rollin’ and a tumblin’ in the mire and the murk
when the yeller-headed gal, she starts goin’ berserk
hollerin’ “whose gonna shoe my pretty lil’ feet and mend my evil eye?”
So she left me for wealthy Doctor
Frankenstein.

The President came for to throw me in chains
I fetched me up a hatchet and I spilled out his brains –
and the axe and the chain are so intimately weighted
that the norm of the truth is the fact that we’ve made it.
Presidents, they leave no truths, just tracks that intertwine
bad blood fused to rotten bone like
Frankenstein

If that river was whiskey I’d be stuck on the bank
chugging down a pint of purple drank!
Hesitations stockings and hesitation’s shoes
make a fine gallows platform and hanging noose,
so I’d take that fool notion if I was peculiarly inclined
but my head’s sewed on like
Frankenstein.

 

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This entry was published on 02/06/2015 at 3:43 pm. It’s filed under klf, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

7 thoughts on “frankenstein

  1. The interesting thing is, of course, learning to write poems again. This is clearly derived from a few sources, most especially “If the River was Whiskey”, which is a song of great antiquity, but I learned from Charlie Poole and this poem

    https://beijomacio.wordpress.com/2009/03/20/the-cats-got-the-whooping-cough-the-dogs-got-the-flu/

    to which it acts as an informal sequel.

    What I like about “If the River was Whiskey” and pieces of it’s ilk are that, 100 years ago or more, they were complaints about dissociation, exclusion, ennui and a sense of intersubjective experience (which is what the blues is in its simplest form) as the world rolls over you – which are just as valid today as they were then – only we have lost the ability to express our frustrations at the situation with wit or the wry and self deprecating sense of grievance of those days or the acceptance that we were accountable for improving our circumstances, not the government or some outside agency – now days we have outrage and political correctness, blogging that passes as citizen journalism and the three word soundbyte as social policy. We don’t understand the relationship between existence and essence (or we think we understand it and just pay it lip service) Fuck that shit.

    So we need to reclaim our responsibility for both the nature of our existence, the relationship between the forms of essence generated by that experience and our distinctions between what is personal and what is actually political and we need to find devices that do that, at least at his level, that do it as well as Charlie Poole did back in 1930. To my mind of thinking, that’s the way (or at least the rationale behind) learning to write poems again. I dunno. I talk too much. Good thing I only write one of these every six months.

    I’m not sure, by the way, that I have the verses in the right order here.

    • I do not think once every six months is a good thing! I can honestly say I didn’t expect to read something like this on Saturday morning (or any morning). I feel so bleary. But I read the poem twice and there’s no point in reading anything else now. Thanks for that, Seb!

  2. isiscambassassassassian on said:

    You know that “Son of Blacula” isn’t actually a thing, right?

  3. What a nice surprise to see you in mu in box. What a slight disappointment the poem was. Very hard to connect with emotionally and you haven’t moved on much from the last time you wrote about the American condition. Your focus seems off. You need to get back into the habit, though, of posting regularly.

  4. Great to see your words Seb, always a great read and never a dull line. More please.

  5. What a great Saturday surprise this be. Trudy and I enjoyed your poem so much. She has become quite the fan, and has never even seen the cat.
    Love the spin on Charlie Poole and the North Carolina Ramblers. They were a favorite artist on my radio show I’m Memphis, back in the seventies.

  6. Jo on said:

    Ok, this is getting ridiculous…how in the hell did I miss all these?! Glued to every line, what a true talent you have, art in words.

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