Sitting there like a forgotten 7Up in the barn on a hot day.
You’re all dirty again, dumb dumb — nobody’s fault but your own. The whipped cream is not for shaving, if anything it’s just glue for the kick-back of hay.
Like a leaf blower to a birthday cake burned by Ina Garten:
aren’t you having any fun at all and at the very least
wasn’t that funny?
It’s a lonely booth in a crowded brothel, to have this body. It’s a toilet plate,
flushing condiments — flavor the fish, savor the sushi “That’s what my father always said”.
Famished, Arlecchino can find nothing to eat but himself. Starting with his feet and working up to his knees, thighs, and upper torso, Arlecchino devours himself.
Late night,
the 7UP still there,
rows of horses and their twitching backs,
mostly silent and steaming from the mouth;
that’s what it’s like to pet him,
I wonder if that’s what it’s like to dance with him in a crowd…
The servant-girl empties a chamber pot out the window. It hits
Pantalone as he serenades Isabella.
…Alas, it’s probably more like the last of five hours spent cracking open and eating pistachios
About as expansive as the view from a 50th story NYC apartment, the walls are the television.
Shall I bathe or shall I eat or shall I stare and try to make out shapes?
You’re kinda like a TV…
“Why?”
Because you’re reflective, fun to watch, and when I put my hand near you it feels fuzzy!
“Haha!”
While others are speaking, Arlecchino lies on the floor chewing
stones, which seemingly break his teeth and cut his throat.
Nobody tells jokes anymore:
Have you ever assisted in birthing a cow?
“Haha, no!”
Smearing lotion on a slice of bread;
remember God and remember that thing you said.
Quick! Bring in the band!
The sound of marching and drums and horns approach in the distance, and small flashes of colored paper, that seem to be spinning and bursting, appear.
The smell of matches and lily water intensifying little by little,
Startled, Arlecchino, holding a full glass of wine, executes a com-
plete backward somersault without spilling…
Dancing
is just walking funny and poking ice to the beat with a straw;
these are the agreeable things.
The rotation:
puppy-dog eyes, odes to garbage, something actually special, the squint of fitting an entire living room inside of your ass.
Toe on the ground,
heel lifted,
rotate the ankle:
show the shoe.
“I dare you to drop a house on me”, smiling into a cocktail.
Pant and then go home and then sleep and then wake up:
Burattino pisses against a rock, Zanni appears from behind the rock and
embraces him.
I hope I can be one of your best, best buds that you love to have a good time with, that would be
so fizzed up.