"curlers" poems
Twas a southern Christmas and from the front porch to the outhouse, everyone was stirring, even a field mouse. Socks were hung over the fire place with care, hoping they would soon be dry there. Grand maw was in the kitchen holding juniors nose, so he would take some caster oil I suppose. Mom was running around with curlers in her hair, if old Saint Nick saw her he would get quiet a scare. Dad and his brother in law were out of the house, hunting for a trophy buck to brag about. While grand paw was out in the barn, turning the yearly corn harvest into moon shine. A little home made spirit to give all some good cheer. So when you think Christmas is strange at your house, just remember how we celebrate Christmas down south.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
iPad Love
4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.
No need to tell you in sound, out loud,
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.
The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.
Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!
Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.
So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.
Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.
2011
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
A dream came true today
But was shattered just the same
And I can see it now
A room of pastels
A long line of stern faces
A delicate, submissive vase
Ma's in her curlers
Putting her head down
Pretending to sleep
Pa's reassuring quiet
His slippers tidy by the bedside
Putting on a mask of peace
A crease has grown in the mattress
Cause symmetry is strong and clean
I saw this image even clearer
When I set down my wreath
Even more so than when I
Was scrambling for words to speak
Twilight's glow of life
Was upon the snow that night
And never before have I
Fused so fully with such still silence
I watched my mute shadow
As I glided through the rooms
A vacuous face, but beaming heart
Guided me to a cerebral place
That suddenly paled in comparison
To any word, rhyme, or thought of mine
I lost my sense of touch
As I fondled the key and turned the lock
It was right where it's always been
Unused, dependable, like clockwork
Unlike me
I sat down in a firm chair that fit like a glove
But I wouldn't be its heir
Instead I went above to where
Sparks of light shoot and drift
Like a darting pen in the hands
Of a boy who's yet to learn to write
Here I can't be picked apart
While there, not a creature stirred
Not even my heart
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
wandering
across
the splinters of
squandered
seasons
the Hajj
of the
lost ones
completes
a broken
circle
returning
with hope to
burrow back
into the safety
of desecrated
graveyards
welcomed
home to the
embrace of a
cadaverous cloak
and the kiss
of carrion
smudged lips,
Hajji's eye
the decrepit
visage of
criminal
depravity
germination
of this
Arab Spring
mocks us
aromas
of jasmine
elude us
emulsified
concrete
clogs our
nostrils
burning eyes
filled with
asbestos dust
form
grateful
blinders
to the
ruination
of reason
betrayed
arcane
remnants
of our life
lay inert
in the open
****** of
fractured
habitations
amidst
jumbled rubble
the decaying
carcasses of
razed buildings
boast grotesque
sculptures of
twisted rebar
cradling artifacts
of a past life
pink
hair curlers
splashed
with sickly
blood grown
mold
scavenged
bicycles
limp on
banished
parts
smashed
skulls of
dolls weep,
her
dismembered
limb reaches
for a lost child’s
nursing
hand
the charred
remains of a
Persian rug
maps the
scale
of a city’s
deconstruction
and a frayed
regions
disconsolation
electric luxury
flowing water
the friendly bustle
of the street
bespeak
expired memories
foretelling an
unimaginal future
sectarian strife
enforces a communal
solitary confinement
in cold blood
we willingly
murdered
compassion
we
butchered
trust
we
euthanized
our
common
humanity
constructing
buildings is
easy
rebuilding
ourselves
impossible
Music Selection:
Segovia, Capricho Arabe
Oakland
5/13/14
jbm
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
slipping little feet into mothers shoes
lipstick deforms little pink lips
plastic curlers tangle knots
hands wiggle free from oversize cloths
that child is me
i am that child today
bewildered by our society
a child i stay.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC
They're digging up the cobbles in our street,
moving them to a classier area.
We'll be given tarmac, black and soft in the sun.
Yes, even here it shines - on men's vests.
They're red faced, drinking from lager cans,
while their women finger scarved curlers.
At least, that's what others think they see.
But neighbours do talk with us.
There's a code of decency,
though Mum says, 'some have hearts
as black as the tarmac'.
There's a hierarchy,
in minds and heads,
if not in pockets.
Some day the toffs will turf us out,
gentrify our street. We'll be moved,
filed vertically, pigeon lofts in the sky.
Then they'll bring our cobbles back.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
While driving down a country road
One dark and lonely night
My engine began to spit and sputter
From a strange and mysterious light
I saw this little green spaceman
With antennas on his head
He was standing beside my window
And this is what he said
"Take me to your leader,
Or we will end your life"
So I did exactly what he said
And I took him to my wife
When I got home my wife was mad
And asked me where I've been
I told her about my crazy night
And about those little green men
She asked if I'd been drinking
And I don't drink a drop
About that time that spaceman yelled,
"Okay now, everybody stop"
Now my wife was really ******
And said, "Who do you think you are?"
She grabbed him by his spaceman ear
And drug him from that car
Now, there she was in curlers
With that spaceman by his ear
I think he might have peed himself
As he stood there in all his fear
Now you may not believe my story
But I've got a souvenir
When they beamed that spaceman back to his ship
My wife held on to his ear
So if you ever see a UFO
Don't scream and run for your life
Just take him to your leader
And by leader I mean, my wife
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 1:30 PM UTC
The street lamp flickers
Thick fog hangs like custard
A woman in regulation knickers
is cutting the mustard.
She hangs round the fading light
Vinegar drapes around the bar
she is eating chips at midnight
while her teeth soak in a jar
her curlers retired years back
when the colour made a sad farewell
she stands under the Union Jack
where the church rings its bell.
They were together once, a time
when she was not such a fright
he saw red but did not commit a crime
even then she ate chips at midnight.
Jul 22, 2017
Jul 22, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
if girls are so good at painting their faces
i wish we could turn them loose on a real canvas
see what they really mean
when they paint those black lines
every girl is a painter
she needs a real canvas
da vinci is lurking behind those sultry lashes
trapped in the eyeliner-barbed wire
a concentration camp of cover-up
clipping their own wings
willingly
with eyelash curlers -
every girl is a painter.
i wonder what faces they would paint
if they stopped focusing on their own face
i wonder if they would still have clown-smiles
and slanted eyes
i am looking for the next van gogh
but he has camouflaged himself
and is dying in front of an empty mirror.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
The Real Diva that most of us knew.
Wasn't those fools on television fighting and destroying homes.
She cherished.
She loved.
And defended the most.
Don't believe me.
Create a disturbance when her children's are close.
And watch her secret service kick in.
Even if you're a friend.
This is when the friendship might end.
The Real Diva don't always care about opinions.
She journey to the store with curlers in her hair.
Many of us knew mothers exactly like her.
And she was quick to point out honesty and truth.
Remove those curlers and she had gorgeous hair.
The Real Diva make her kids friends feel comfortable.
That many thought of her as a second mom.
She just were feel with warmth.
And quick to keep them in control.
Wasn't afraid to speak her mind.
When your friends tried to get out of line.
She fed them.
Even washed them.
She protected them like they were her own.
Mothers today make you wonder.
When you see kids getting hurt.
Or mothers getting tired of taking care of them.
Oh, we sure our mothers felt that way.
But these was old school moms that made away.
The Real Diva left a mark upon our lives.
The kind most men hope to welcome in their lives.
As their lady.
As their wife.
Come to think about it.
Some do exist.
We notice them.
But hate to give them credit.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
I sat on the front doorstep
with Lydia
of her parents' flat
on the ground floor
looking onto the Square
she had her thin chin
in the palms
of her small hands
her mother's words
still hanging in the air
from moments before
Paddington Railway Station?
you want to go all that way
to see a ****** train station?
yes
Lydia said
we want to see the trains
that go to Scotland
her mother stared at us
as if we started speaking
in a foreign tongue
it isn't Paddington
it's King Cross train station
she said
is it?
I said
yes it is
she said
I should know
her dad goes there
now and then
but not often enough
can we go there?
Lydia asked
what for?
her mother said
all that way
just to see trains to Scotland?
yes
we said jointly
and how are you going
to get there
walk?
she said
go by bus or train
I said
have you the money?
because I sure haven't
she said
or underground train
I said
be quicker
have you the money then?
her mother asked
I stared at her hair
pinned in curlers
red lips
arms folded
cigarette in between
her fingers
I can get some
from my old man
he'll give me some
I said
if you can get the money
Lydia's mother said
you can go
but don't be late home
or I’ll slap your backside
my girl
and she went in
and slammed the door
I looked at Lydia beside me
well are we going?
will your dad give you
the money?
I've got some
in the blue
metal money box
he made me
I said
enough to go
to Kings Cross station?
should have
wish we had enough
to go to Scotland
she said
maybe one day
I said smiling
she looked at me
let's go then
she said
so we got off
the front doorstep
and made out way
across the Square
leaving her mother's
words behind
smelling adventure
in the air.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Today she wore curlers in her hair
looking like cannons staked out ready to blare
Her lipstick and powder
like bouillabaisse chowder
And when she demanded a goodbye "peck"
I said "No way!" to the wreck
Which made her rear back and bray
"Go home then and kiss a stingray!"
She cackled and cackled
raising my hackles
Thinks she is the second Joan Rivers
but she only gives me the shivers
Soon I was fearing another fight nearing
seeing her witch's eyes evilly peering
And when she rose in those clumpy army boots
I heard an arpeggio of loud flatulent *****
Forcing me out the door needing fresh air
and away from her threatening glare
But one day I'll be back
once I can align myself on the proper son-in-law track
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
She walked through the throngs of dancers
They looked like in their drinks they’d found answers
A young girl yelled her over and bought her a drink
Sometimes the job was hard but everyone had their financier
They took a picture and she left to get dressed
Shading, contouring, hair curlers, and glitter were her enhancers
She stood at the edge of the stage and heard her intro play,
As they shouted her name, she realized that this profession wasn’t a cancer.
And though it was a hard life, she loved every moment,
They kissed her hand and clapped with joy, and there she found her answers.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
The fanciful girl with hair in curlers
laughs at her inverted existence.
We dream to make the world more interesting,
her only moral absolute.
The plastic diamond necklaces
are chains around her neck,
red lipstick is a garish neon sign
erected for the benefit of the blind.
*All the red silk scarves in the world
can't buy the attention
of the one you want.*
The child in the mirror laughs;
she is not yet accustomed
to my particular brand of self-denial.
For her, each slight glance is a tender caress.
She passes unnoticed for pages,
fading carefully from view.
Each mention is a resurrection,
a new life for the invisible girl
who wears her red dress
as an advertisement.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
I am never more human
than when I’m riding next to someone
who makes me shudder.
I am human as I sit and I wonder about their life
the way their hair curls to the left instead of the right,
if it was on purpose or done with curlers, or if everything in life is just accidental.
She probably didn’t care which way her hair curled. Neither do I. But I do care
about the way her ankles look with them crossed, about the way her eyes are angled
out the window, about the way her jaw clenches when we hit a bump. It probably clenches
the same way when her boyfriend is ******* her.
I sit on the bus, shuddering and wondering about the bus riders’ lives. They’re probably the same
as mine, as yours, as the guy’s who is behind me, digging his knees
into the green leather of my seat, which is cracking at the edges. I see a piece
of yellow foam pushing out the edge, and I cannot resist the urge to play with it.
The person who sat here before me probably did, too. We cannot help but play with things,
always hoping we’re never the one to finally break it.
We are all the same, we all live to love, or love to live,
or maybe we don’t,
but we take comfort in knowing that we will all die one day
whether its on purpose or by accident, though it is always accidental.
But maybe we really are different, after all,
we’ve come a long way, from discovering fire to discovering better ways to put it out,
concocting new chemicals to cure every ailment,
fabricated or organic, physical or mental,
and I cannot get out of my mind that
our minds revolve around the world which revolves around the stars,
the ones in the theaters and the ones in the skies, the ones on the covers of magazines
like People and Science Weekly—inside they’re half advertisements—
how else do we advance in the world without cash?
Their covers are full of sequins and *** tips and shuttles with surveillance
cameras snapping photos as they watch our every move
from behind the cover of the planets who grin with the knowledge they will never reveal,
because they, too, are plotting against us.
Tonight we are under the cover of the blankets and I am watching her just as we are watched by
the planets that spin and the stars that shine and the moon that just wants to see the light of day
because she only knows the dark of night,
and the eclipse of her *******
eclipses the eclipse of the moon,
and the cross around her neck is blinding me with reflected light and reflected values
and I can’t look away but I can’t look at it
because I want to deny it but I want to accept it and
I marvel at how one taste of her
can show me what it is like to be saved.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
She tiptoed through the city playing 'Hot Sticks' on her snare drum
Her fire-engine-red bright-as-shit-mother-fucking-snare-drum
Midnight street lights jumped off the chrome tube lugs harder then her four sixteenth notes
Never had realized how good the acoustics were here on 47th
Not so much an echo
A reverb
The lights on behind every curtain
Children pressing oils stains into the windows leaving little ovals of fog from their nostrils
Old ladies in the middle of dialing 911
The telephone wire shoes tap dancing her rhythm on the sky
pop ta-pop-pap-op pop pop-pap-pap-pap-ta-pap-pat
Tip toeing
Like she was yelling the whole world the biggest secret she could think of just wanted to make sure she didn't wake her parents in the next room
I can't remember what she wore
A dress, I guess
Whatever
She kissed my cheek and bit my shoulder
Tip toed away
Blue high heels...hooker eye-shadow blue high heels
I yelled at her, "Why are you tip toeing, you've already woken the whole neighborhood?"
Without a thought
Without a pause
Without missing a beat she yelled back,
"If I am going to wake them all up anyway it ought to be with my song, not my step"
I sat down and heard the stem of a flower snap beneath me
The drumming was gone, all the lights were off
There were no footprints to follow
My shoulder dry
My cheek a tingle
I had woken them with my step
Had no song to put them back to sleep with that night
Tried to whisper a lullaby
Instead pulled the trumpet from my pocket
Blew 'Taps' the whole way home
A string of cop cars, and yelling ladies with their curlers in behind me
Stage lights and groupies
And from somewhere in the fog my desperate attempt to wake them all up became a duet to play them back to sleep.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
I woke with a start,
the cracked wooden shutters banging wearily in the wind, hinges groaning, slowly rusting, fully unaware that their time had past, instead they hold on like steadfast soldiers defending a front that no longer matters, in a war that’s already been lost
And, as sleep dissipates, my attention narrows and I -
I realize that I have no wooden shutters, that they have not
been attached to a house in which I’ve slept for more years than
most dogs live in east coast towns with half lit neon signs
O en 24 rs
and yet somehow I heard them rat, tat, tattering like the
shuffling of shoes attached to a woman that needs a wheelchair
but refuses, in favor of a walker, who never leaves the house without
removing all the curlers and putting on her face
None the less the shutters, some time long ago
were torn and left asunder, when the house was removed from
its foundation, by a chipped yellow painted machine,
with enough torque to remove the home in which I grew from existence, leaving a gaping hole that was the basement
where I had my first second base
But there is you, laying beside me, gently breathing in the dark
like the consistent flow of ocean waves, lapping the shore with certitude then slowly disappearing into the vastness of the green blue sea
You are more than I ever could have hoped for, more than I
could have imagined decades ago, when, with a pillow pulled upon my head,
wishing that the wooden shutters attached to my blue green house would drown out the sound adults in family rooms make when
screams are louder than Carson and the studio audience’s laughter
Instead of falling back to sleep, I prefer to listen to your ocean’s breath, the silence from the family room that you and I occupy, while hoping to one day hold you steady long after you need a wheelchair but prefer instead my forearm and a cane
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC
Sunday morning
and I walk down
the concrete stairs
to Lydia's flat
on the ground floor
over by the end.
I knock on the door;
her mother answers
and stands there
a cigarette
in the corner
of her mouth
and her hair
in a turban
hiding curlers.
Yes?
She says,
eyeing me.
Is Lydia in?
I say.
Yes she is why?
Her mother says.
Is she allowed out?
I ask.
She went out
yesterday with you
to the cinema
where now?
She asks.
Just out for a walk
to the park maybe,
I say.
Park?
What park?
Jail Park
just over the way,
I say,
indicating
with my thumb.
She looks at me sternly:
she was out
with you yesterday,
I can't have her
going out every day;
last week it was
the train station
looking at steam trains,
now the park,
she moans.
We like steam trains,
I say.
I don't care,
she says.
Lydia creeps
to the door
and appears
by her mother's side.
Hello Benny,
she says.
Her mother
looks down at her:
thought you
were making the bed?
I was going to
but Gloria's
still asleep snoring,
Lydia says.
Her mother
inhales deeply
on the cigarette
and looks past me
at the milkman
delivering milk:
Hey Milkie
three pints today,
she bellows,
making Lydia jump.
Righto Misses,
he replies
with a nod
of his head.
Can she go
to the park?
I ask
her mother again.
The mother blows
out smoke
like a dragon
without a flame:
I suppose so,
she says,
but not late
dinner's at midday
not later understand.
Yes of course,
I say,
and Lydia confirms.
The mother goes
back indoors.
The milkman
puts the pints of milk
on the doorstep.
Lydia and I
walk across the Square
making our way
to the park
for an hour or two
having nothing
much else
on a Sunday
to do.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
Nosferatu would have balked if not gone bald.
They, too, from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate the lily pond,
Iron Lady in the swaddling baking egg pies, with spited
Curlers in our fronds and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict — is
A plumbed plum; a dendritic denizen for the cypress,
Willow that 's hung! Willow that sung! Soothing it hugs
the sights — such sour honors — so smooth-over the boy's club, so you can get in or out whichever youregoingfor;
bring them their rose water which drips next to the
chiffon and the lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
mato-mottled lunar ligament: by dew of the top lip, do lay —
go gray in taut winter
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 6:42 PM UTC
Advent at the Dollar Store
The ***** roachy desperation of
the unswept dollar store’s cellophane dreams
At Prices You’ll Love boxes of oilless
popcorn poppers deep-fat fryers massagers
to sweeten generational desperation
behind the counter cigarettes locked up
We Cash Work And Welfare Checks can’t afford
Lives collapsed so we console ourselves with
electric hair-curlers and boxes of chips
singing NFL coffee machines
shiny new bicycles to be stolen
before the end of January or
left out to rust in the February rain
dusty plastic holly shiny CD
players for the administration of
anaesthesia Jumbo Bargain Gift Wrap
for Your Happy Holiday Shopping Pleasure
No Shirt No Shoes No Service No, No, No
Hyphenated Industries of Chicago,
Tokyo, Seoul, and Taipei wishes us
a Merry Christmas
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
Do you know what we men love, ladies?
We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'
We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams
We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching
We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?
but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
There she waits
on the doorstep of doom
with curlers to scare
as she points with her broom.
There he totters
up the street
with beer in his brain
and two left feet.
"Where have you been"
"cant you guess that!"
He replies with a brave note
Bowing removing his hat.
Not wise, the broom raised
He moved in the nick of time
awkwardly - backwards
in the gutter amongst the grime.
she smiled, her curlers winced
The broomstick bent
The drunk wondering
from where the stars were sent.
She threw him a blanket
the gutter for a bed.
"Make your bed, lie in it"
She madly said.
the door slammed
He was with his dreams
She cried buckets
or so it seems.
Her and him
it will always be.
Him outside and her indoors
that is plain to see.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
is short and stout
(the kids in the neighborhood
call him "roly-poly"
but not to his face)
he's somewhere in his late seventies
cloaked in a dark green l.l.bean hooded coat
sizes too small on him
and he's shoveling snow
when he suddenly falls down
topples really
in the gathered snow
a small heap of flesh
buried slightly
where the driveway slopes down a bit
after a short time
a few neighbors run over to the site
and turn him over
one of them checks his pulse
the crowd thickens
someone cellphones 9-1-1
and then
ever
so
slowly
the man opens his eyes
starts to smile
his head turns
to look at his nameless neighbor
across the street
a neighbor framed in a window
he's a kitchen poet in fact
who stares right back at the forlorn sight
mister roly-poly's wife
runs out of her home
in a skimpy blue housedress
her damp blonde hair wrapped in curlers
she looks very angry
yelling at him
calling him "a spectacle...
a drunken ******* to be exact
in the meantime their two labradors
who've been watching the drama
from a bay window seat inside
charge out of the house
and the wife yells "no! no! no!"
the man sits up for a moment
the whimpering dogs run to him
they start to lick his face
and the man tries to get up
then an ambulance
races up the street
skidding on the icy patches
the siren screeching insanely
in the frigid air
the wife keeps yelling "no! no! no!"
the dogs keep licking
and all the 9-1-1 people
rush out of the vehicle
and everything looks just like a scene
from a marx brothers feature
but no one's yelling "CUT!"
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC