Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Remnants of the elimae parodies

I used to parody the poems this one journal elimae published because to me the really short ones were usually vapid and just ridiculous. And I only ever read the short ones. There was this one writer who was in the 'zine every month whose work I felt was particularly bleh. I haven't done this in a while, and may not again. So I figured I would post some of what I have left.


Now I don't remember what poems these are parodies of. I do think they aren't all from elimae. What they are: all parodies of that one dude. 


Anyhoo and whatever.


Smother

He plucks his nose hairs, falling like Swedes. Her face the albatross underneath a New York Jets pillow. A tumbler containing her teeth on the bedside table. He pushes on the pillow. He pushes harder.

 
I began explaining

that a great, big, fat person can’t live inside an exclamation point; the loneliness and lack of food would be torture.
 

Upstairs
 
The tenant upstairs banged a kipper on the table. She placed her heart like a telephone receiver onto my shoulder. The valve spat chalk dust. He likes playing drums with fish, she said. He grabbed another kipper and played Wipeout.



Three Way
 
It laughed. She threw up. He dropped dead.
She played air guitar to There’s Only One Way to Rock and buried the corpse.
 
 
Old Lace
 
Tea time is something special. Arsenic, strychnine. She dons the skull and crossbones like a wedding gown. They come prepared to drink.



Untitled

She reels him in like a giant catfish. His hands are see-through and bark like newborn dachshunds. They’re as big as file cabinets, eating the skin tags under her armpits like Snausages. That one ring finger dances like Stimpy. He can’t reach to scratch his back. She helps him with a steak knife.
 

I Fell Off the Elliptical

Trying to impress a woman who answers to my uncle’s nickname. It’s all rotted cheese and beer nuts after that. I’ll sniff your toes and learn the piano. You’re a filthy liar, but I can’t handle the truth. I Hi-Lite Don’t forget my balls.


Not titled

Be truthful about kickboxing: it’s more fun with a lead pipe. We make pork chops out of the litter box. You ain’t over ‘til you’re a fat lady. The pig’s done Sylvia Plathed himself. White bread cooks like a Golden Retriever in the Ukraine.


Without a Title

And now I will eat off the table and the floor without using my mouth. Use my mouth. My eyes will be watching Mad About You.
 

Still No Title, Motherfucker

I’m eating a Snickers because I’m greater than or equal to. I’m Rocktober, so let’s count down the top five: I was mugged, out cold, married to my cousin, dead, my cousin was a widow. The theme is chickens flying an airplane. It’s serious when you perform it on the radio.

No comments:

Post a Comment