Look, look, look,
get out of your Jacuzzi for a minute,
swizzle or swallow that Martini's cherry, wonder:
“Where'd you put your housecoat?”
Naked's not too bad on you, still
snow's a-piling, bending boughs in silence, except
you just stand there, a-dripping and a-dropping,
until you're just a tiny trickle
to your people
anymore.
O, the Jacuzzi crowd prefer their sweet martinis,
so they can place the cherries in between
their moistened lips and languorously slip
inside the silkiest pajamas, gripping cherry pits
between their perfect teeth.
& even if a little dribble tickles at their chin
they know someone will lick it off,
like the ones who seem to say:
"I am a mighty river
to my people!"
Looking out
over the lip of his Jacuzzi,
limbs adrift-o in the boil, our a.k.a., Mr. Linguini,
from his fetid broth, will lift
a steaming finger: a sort of signal which,
beyond the bathtub rim can hardly wallow
any further; the gurgling water swallows all,
apocalyptic now, like Martin Sheen
(though his muddy Mekong would reflect
the dream-sung air-strike), whereas here
only the lingering whiff
of a sweet morsel:
Chilean (still half-eaten) sea bass.
Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele!
& pray tell sweetie, how can I say more
in French? Encore? Staring in the mirror,
speckled trout? Artic char?
(Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...)
the dream undone, he'd tried to order pizza
& instead now found himself in bed,
or soon to be so, foreign tongue
tastes best confused. Denial?
O he was into it, over his head,
with crocodiles, our Monseigneur,
at last, exposed to darkness
& the fishiness of darkened things, to feed the beasts:
to reach, to squeeze, to raise the hemistichal stream.
Snow sloughed off an over laden bough
& slapped its spot of sunlight:
this would be afternoon would be.
He rose, our Mr. Linguini,
at last took stock of things
just as they are,
just as they were
& surely just
as they shall be.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 6:58 PM UTC
Look, look, look,
get out of your Jacuzzi for a minute,
swizzle or swallow that Martini's cherry, wonder:
“Where'd you put your housecoat?”
Naked's not too bad on you, still
snow's a-piling, bending boughs in silence, except
you just stand there, a-dripping and a-dropping,
until you're just a tiny trickle
to your people
anymore.
O, the Jacuzzi crowd prefer their sweet martinis,
so they can place the cherries in between
their moistened lips and languorously slip
inside the silkiest pajamas, gripping cherry pits
between their perfect teeth.
& even if a little dribble tickles at their chin
they know someone will lick it off,
like the ones who seem to say:
"I am a mighty river
to my people!"
Looking out
over the lip of his Jacuzzi,
limbs adrift-o in the boil, our a.k.a., Mr. Linguini,
from his fetid broth, will lift
a steaming finger: a sort of signal which,
beyond the bathtub rim can hardly wallow
any further; the gurgling water swallows all,
apocalyptic now, like Martin Sheen
(though his muddy Mekong would reflect
the dream-sung air-strike), whereas here
only the lingering whiff
of a sweet morsel:
Chilean (still half-eaten) sea bass.
Mais, mon cheri, c’est de vous qu’ils parlent a la tele!
& pray tell sweetie, how can I say more
in French? Encore? Staring in the mirror,
speckled trout? Artic char?
(Incroyable! les Anglais ne savent pas manger...)
the dream undone, he'd tried to order pizza
& instead now found himself in bed,
or soon to be so, foreign tongue
tastes best confused. Denial?
O he was into it, over his head,
with crocodiles, our Monseigneur,
at last, exposed to darkness
& the fishiness of darkened things, to feed the beasts:
to reach, to squeeze, to raise the hemistichal stream.
Snow sloughed off an over laden bough
& slapped its spot of sunlight:
this would be afternoon would be.
He rose, our Mr. Linguini,
at last took stock of things
just as they are,
just as they were
& surely just
as they shall be.
