Ley lines

I’ll add more stanzas to this poem over the coming week. Check them out if you’re interested. 

P.S. Al and Fred are the Alfred, a major hospital in Melbourne.

This time you can’t

destroy my morale, Al!

No more will you

fuck with my head, Fred!

Say they are an illusion

each Martian canal:

to a sorcerer from Mars,

spiritually divine,

who’d know it’s hard

to get Martians into bed,

couldn’t each really be

a charming ley line?

 

And a Martian pharaoh

simply couldn’t wish

to awake in a finer pyramid,

a better sphinx

than those that

WAH-PSSH! WAH-PSSH! –

over aeons were plainly

painstakingly built

by social workers,

psych nurses and shrinks

all rightly enslaved

for their congenital guilt.

 

Truly I am your pig.

Truly I am your barrow.

I pronounce my penis

to truly be the scepter

so righteously raised

by the Martian pharaoh

who, like the cleansing hairs

of motile cilia,

ruled mad love to be many

a lucky receptor

overloaded not by erotomania

but astrophilia.

 

The film director got married,

had a daughter,

only proving herself

more than skinny-assed

by all but proving that on Mars

there was water.

Just look at the meteoroid

that fell on Tissant!

No one has proven it to be

our fallen cineaste

but in this universe

that doesn’t mean it isn’t.

To be continued…

 

Or perhaps this arrangement will please you more…

 

This time you can’t destroy my morale, Al!

No more will you fuck with my head, Fred!

Say they are an illusion each Martian canal:

to a sorcerer from Mars, spiritually divine,

who’d know it’s hard to get Martians into bed,

couldn’t each really be a charming ley line?

 

And a Martian pharaoh simply couldn’t wish

to awake in a finer pyramid, a better sphinx

than those that – WAH-PSSH! WAH-PSSH! –

over aeons were plainly painstakingly built

by social workers, psych nurses and shrinks

all rightly enslaved for their congenital guilt.

 

Truly I am your pig. Truly I am your barrow.

I pronounce my penis to truly be the scepter

so righteously raised by the Martian pharaoh

who, like the cleansing hairs of motile cilia,

ruled mad love to be many a lucky receptor

overloaded not by erotomania but astrophilia.

 

The film director got married, had a daughter,

only proving herself more than skinny-assed

by all but proving that on Mars there was water.

Just look at the meteoroid that fell on Tissant!

No one has proven it to be our fallen cineaste

but in this universe that doesn’t mean it isn’t.

To be continued…