you say, “be encouraged”
i say, “be an egg”
so i can lay you, crack you
and eat you raw
i’m feeling righteous
like a man possessed
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017
The Mosquito had been writing poems for as long as it could remember. Yes, that’s right, a very long time. Literally aeons. Three whole days in fact!
Of course, the Mosquito would accept only heroic verse. To wit, iambic pentameter. Trochee? Anapaest? These were for brain dead losers. Only real men wrote in iambic. Shakespeare, for example. Pushkin too. And now the Mosquito.
He was also a Debonaire-Vervain. The Debonaire-Vervains were titans of the corporate world. Blue bloods. Old stock. The family line went back generations. Weeks and weeks at least. Investment portfolios. Start-ups. Feelers in every pie. The Mosquito had studied at the finest schools and universities. He even lived on a posh arm all his own. Nothing but prime real estate all the way!
Anyway, the following is a poem that the Mosquito wrote for his ravishing wife on the eve of their ruby wedding anniversary. It had been two long, glorious days since their meeting! Where had the time gone? Of course, he was not yet master of his craft, and his style had yet to mature. But none could deny that he was full of ardour and passion, and it showed in his words.
Buzz me not to the buzzing of buzzed minds
Admit imbuzziments. Buzzing is not abuzz.
Which alters when it buzzeration finds,
Or bends with the buzzer to rebuzz.
O no! It is an ever-fixed buzz
That looks on buzzpests and is never buzzen;
It is the star to every wand’ring buzz,
Whose worth’s unbuzzed, although his buzz be taken.
Buzz’s not Time’s fool, though buzzy lips and cheeks
Within his bending buzzle’s compass buzz;
Buzz alters not with his brief hours and buzzes,
But bears it out even to the buzz of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never buzzed, nor no mosquito ever lov’d. *
Naturally, Madam Mosquito was impressed, and instantly gave birth to another fifty bloodsuckers. Oh, these modern women! They don’t waste time, do they? Of course, they’ll say they want a man who’s arty and edgy. But what they really crave is a domesticated homebody who embodies the traditional family values.
But the Mosquito was an ambitious sort. Yes, he’d won the heart of Madame Mosquito and gained her feeler in holy matrimony, but it wasn’t enough. He also wanted everyone on earth to hear his poems. That’s why, after being informed of a top secret mission (Code Name: Star-spangled Mooning) from a fly on the wall in the Soviet Government, he put on his best suit and tie, grabbed his latest manuscript, and caught a taxi to Baikonur. He’d decided that a rocket antenna would be the best stage from which to orate his flowery writings.
Fortunately for him, he was not at all late. The Soviet vessel was still being readied for its maiden moon shot. The Mosquito landed right on the front glass, got himself cosy, then quenched his thirst with a droplet of cherry rum. After this he pulled out his manuscript, thinking for a moment about which poem he’d be proudest to grace the airwaves with first…
And now for the main event! The final countdown!
Ten… nine… five… two… one…
Nine kilometres per second and history was about to be ma—
Because I could not buzz for Death
It kindly buzzed for me
The vessel held but just
Ourselves —And Immortality.*
*Thanks to Shakespeare and Dickinson for the buzzspiration.
he didn’t walk free on the third day
he preferred to play possum instead
the stone of inevitability
was rolled away, but he chose to stay
in the tomb, he laid to reminisce
but god the father kept making calls
he ignored them and added the contact
to his black list, he was rather pissed!
the needy seek salvation
but who cares for the soul of a saviour?
“stop harassing me, you bearded schmuck!”
he prayed, snug in his burial cloth
“i wanna sleep in, have coffee in bed
not hear your muck! patronising cluck!”
so, he pulled out ‘jenga: day of doom’
blessed the morons who’d banned this comic
buried himself in its yellowed pages
happy on shrooms, human life resumed
the needy seek salvation
but who cares for the soul of a saviour?
This is the story of some grass that was rather illiberal. It took its own sweet time to grow, and it grew anywhere and anyhow. Yup, it was an uncultured mess. Even the city’s pavements were unable to tame it.
The grass wasn’t the same green as all the other grass. Its green was less radiant, less prone to reflecting the sun’s rays in a manner that pleased the eye. It was bushy and undisciplined. Sometimes it waved provocatively in the breeze, but usually it just sat there, stiff and foreboding. It was large of blade, and shameless and unapologetic.
This meant that people were afraid to leave their homes. Children would wail upon seeing it, and hide beneath their nannies’ hems. Elders refused to play cricket in the city park. Even the rain stopped falling there. It’s painful for gentle drops to plash against such proudly rigid grass.
One day, the grass grew out of a punk rocker’s left ear. She didn’t notice this because her mohawk was the same colour, and she hardly ever looked at herself in the bathroom mirror anyway. She wasn’t vain like all those prissy little daddy’s girls that used to tease her at school.
Still, she’d always wanted to be a flame-haired pony, which is why she couldn’t pass up an offer of Barclay’s Miracle Hair Crème when she was at the subway. A shady looking specimen was there doing the selling, and she totally fell for it. He whispered something in conspiratorial tones about this being a once-in-a-lifetime exclusive offer and how she was in luck.
Apparently, this miracle crème had been specifically produced for the ponies at the Royal Mews at Buckingham Palace. He’d been shipped the last remaining bottle from a secret factory somewhere in Pakistan. It was a miracle that he was even able to get a sample as it was never intended for public sale.
So, the punk rocker paid $1.50 for this two litre bottle of especial regal goodness, and hurried home. She couldn’t wait to use this miracle crème, to finally feel like one of those majestic ponies at the royal stables. She was going to whicker up a storm. To stamp her hoof something fierce. She would flick her flamey mane with glorious abandon.
The miracle crème smelled like heaven, like fresh unicorn farts on a dewy autumn morning—but with a hint of ambrosia and oats. By god, the punk rocker couldn’t stop. She wouldn’t! She soaped and lathered and rubbed herself, and then washed the foam away. Then again. And again. And again. At some point she laughed in her happy delirium, and that laugh sounded rather like a neigh.
But the punk rocker was oblivious to all of this. She just wanted to get lost in being a pony, so continued to bathe. Then, after ten minutes of this madness, she began to feel a ravenous hunger. But why? She sniffed the air. Oh! Was that enticing smell… grass? And then just like that she began to chew the grass growing out of her left ear.
If grass could scream, then this grass would have done it. The pain was excruciating! It was being eaten alive, and there was noting it could do about that. If only it had grown out of Lady Gaga’s brassiere instead. Then it would have been famous, and idolised by millions across the globe.
But, no. It got eaten. The end.
Oh, hold on. Not the end because then she ate all the grass that has ever existed everywhere ever. And that’s how the entire earth became a barren wasteland.
Okay, now it’s the end.
The setting sun’s an angry red ball, though the beach is charmingly pink. A trick of the light? She cannot say.
Still, that isn’t her most pressing concern right now. Reptilians are all around, flaring nostrils and licking the hot air with their viciously forked tongues. They can sense her presence. It’s driving them crazy with lust.
She’s the Blood Queen. She gorges on the blood of men, and sometimes even wears their entrails for fun. Naturally, she’s going to attract attention from the local population.
Never mind. The odds are good. She’s the prize for whomever gets her first.