LATE BUT FOREVER

IN AUTUMN 1990, SOMETHING HAPPENED IN CHERRY PIE WOOD. MRS BARFAWAY REFUSES TO TELL & HER DOG LICKSPITTLE SIMPLY RAN AWAY. TEN YEARS ON, STEWART SUMNER ASSESSES THE INFLATORY IMPACT OF THE MYSTIFYING EVENTS THAT DAY ON POST-MODULATORY, MULTILITERAL, PREAMBULATORY CROSSOVER POETRY PERTAINING TO EXPRESS THE SHIT SANDWICH IN NON-GASTRONOMIC TERMS. THE FOLLOWING POEM HAS BEEN ENTERED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL SELF-FLAGELLATING AUTOMATED GARGOYLE ON A STICK AWARD 2010.

LATE BUT FOREVER
by Stewart Sumner

As the rain splashes
I see the cradle
To the grave
In scintillating shades
Of colour and dialogue
Freeze framed and clipped
To slip in my back pocket
On the way to the doc
Forwards, backwards then stop
A juddering footnote
To the incoming saline
As blue as the midnight
As fake as the PhotoShop
I say, did you hear that plop?
That was me

UP CHUCK AND DI

Avitan Demotional! Me, Me, Now!

(to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
words - Marcel DeClercq

Ativan
Ativan
Atta girl, you go
Take a chill pill everyday
Lest you go insane, hey!

Stop yer cryin'
Drink more wine
And beer and whiskey, too
Once you're tranked
Or mildly tanked
Your troubles melt away.

Dashing through the blow
Cocaine all the way
Oh what fun it is to ride
In a souped-up Chevrolet
Bell's High-Octane Ale
Gets you fookin' tight
What fun it is to smoke a joint
And get ripped every night!

Oh, Ativan, Ativan, trankers all the way
Oh what fun it is to chill
'Til your troubles melt away!

DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY

DELETED AND PURGED, THE UNHOLY TRILOGY
by Donia Carey, Marcel DeClercq and Stewart Sumner

(From a most unlikely thread about the future. Dedicated, as always, to the genius of the one and only Donia Carey)


Whilst exploring my genome
Inexplicably aroused
I prematurely
Creamed my genes

It stopped
So sudden
I got whiplash
Of the emotions

With this pistol
I thee deface
O future tense
Deleted and purged

Make bunions
On the bum
History
Wear lace

COMING SOON: THE OLD TESTAMENT, DIONYSUS, ITALIAN CULTURE, UNCONSCIOUSNESS, PREMONITIONS OF THE ULTIMATE EROTIC KISS, AND WHAT HAPPENED WHEN DA AULD BUFF DISCOVERED HUSSERLIAN PHENOMENOLOGY ON HIS BEDROOM DOOR

OF GAY DOGS AND COCAINE

WATSON: I've been thinking, Holmes...

HOLMES: Steady on, old chap, you might blow a blood vessel, and we wouldn't want that.

WATSON: No, really, I've been thinking about Toby.

HOLMES: Oh, dear. I do wish Hudders would fix the inflatable doll so I could distract myself from your daily dollop of mind-numbing claptrap.

WATSON: Seriously, Holmes, do you think Toby's, well, you know, sniffing up the other leg?

HOLMES: What on earth are you raving on about now, Watters? Have you been at the aniseed cake again?

WATSON: I mean, well, to put it bluntly, do you think his canine excitement lies elsewhere?

HOLMES: Oh, for Hudders sake, of course Toby's gay. I can't believe you've only just cottoned on to that fact.

WATSON: You knew? But when? How? With...

HOLMES: It was elementary, my dear quack, from the moment he started rising to the occasion on Primrose Hill whenever he saw Butch the Bulldog stomp by. Why, he even tried to mount Inspector Lestrade outside Scotland Yard last Christmas, if you recall.

WATSON: Oh, come now, he was only being playful. I mean, are you sure he barks for the other side? He seemed so fond of Clarissa, the poodle at number eight.

HOLMES: As sure as I am that that Moriarty partakes of an unsuspecting goat every now and then.

WATSON: No, Holmes! Tell me it isn't so! Why, the fiend. How utterly revolting. Does he, you know, dress her up and whatnot? In stockings and suspenders?

HOLMES: Watson, I have long suspected you of extreme perversity and unhealthy proclivities but this takes the Digestive. I can only say that it is better if you do not pursue this particular avenue of inquiry for your own sake.

WATSON: Yes, of course. All this talk of depravity is making me feel rather faint, old thing. I think I'll just go and have a lie down.

HOLMES: I fear, old chum, that that would not be a sensible course of action at this juncture. You might be tempted to have a flick at the old Freddy, what what what. Here, sniff this. It might quieten him down for a while.

WATSON: Holmes, you know I can't partake of intoxicating substances. It plays havoc with my bladder. And I'd be struck off in a whisker if the Medical Council ever found out.

HOLMES: For Pete's sake, it's only a pinch of coke. Never hurt anyone. Good stuff too, by all accounts. Fresh from the docks.

WATSON: Confound it, Holmes, what on earth would the great British public think if they knew that the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were discussing gay dogs and goats in stockings and suspenders and cocaine?

HOLMES: Watson, I strongly suspect that if they knew, book sales would go through the roof and we'd become a global brand. Then we'd be able to retire to sunnier climes, with totty and booze and barbiturates beyond our wildest dreams.

WATSON: Oh, abomination, sugar and spice! Are the public so puerile, so base, so corrupted that moral upstanding has no place in society any more?

HOLMES: Never did, Watty Poos. It is but a meaningless, stifling veneer through which we breathe. Now feast your hooter on this. Go on.

(TOBY HOWLS IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, Toby! We're going to hell in a basket for this, Holmes, mark my words.

(BUTCH THE BULLDOG GRUNTS LOUDLY IN DELIGHT IN THE DISTANCE)

WATSON: Oh, woe are we. (SNIFFS COKE) Oh... Great shit, Holmes.

HOLMES: Indeed, Watson. Gay dogs on cocaine at eleven.

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

The milk of human kindness
Doth runneth over
And turneth sour
And clot
And stinketh to high heaven.

PUBISTAN WRITERS SUPPORT CAMPAIGN TO REVIVE INSOLENT RUDDER

COMMUNIQUE FROM COLLECTIVE OF WRITERS OF THE PUBISH TO THE GREAT INQUISITOR ON INNER NET:

My Dear!

Please release great comrade and eternal friend of Pubish revolution, Tim Ljunggren, to continue on the paths - revolutionary, economic, social, five year orientated and promulgated through institutional instruments of rehabilitation - to the glory of the worldwide creative thrust!

Thank you!

We kiss you!

But not your ass!

Verdimita "Steve" Ripyorebollokov

PS Is me, Maxim. Ha! Pull finger out, Tim. Let sun shine in!

You remember this below?


NOTES FROM PUBISTAN PART 3 – by Maxim Ripyorebollokov
Translated by Stewart Sumner

Dear readers, it is me again, Maxim Ripyorebollokov, the future of literature in the unfree world! Greetings to you all! As I squeeze the final drops of fervent dew from the horn of the affair with Larissa, Miss Pube 2007, a vegetarian, I thus seek the ultimate clarity (Trans – the Pubish word for red wine and lucidity are the same – klarkost. It is unclear what Maxim means to convey here). But where to find clarity? To shout loudly from the tree branch? To shudder in front of farmyard animal traffic? To pluck hair from a rabbit till the bladder is on display? “Drink to thine clarity”, the great Pubish poet Dmitri Ripyorebollokov – no relation – proclaimed as night was drawing in over State Rabbit Farm 6.5 one hoary night post-Revolution (Trans – you’re on your own here, the meaning is all but lost on a non-Pube).

O Sweet clarity, come forth to me. Show yourself, if thou’st dare. I was deep in thoughtfulness at the office yesterday when I was approached from behind by the man they call Spider. Officially, he is chief of quality control and a fine sculptor, which is a amplitudinous shame since sculpture was banned in the Second Decree of the Post-Revolution Phase of Our Great Revolution. So Spider – genuine name Richard but Spider since he is full of mischief and malice and crawls rather than walks. Also, he is deceptively quick to pounce. “So,” I said, “Spider, you are here!” “Yes,” Spider said, “I am. I have recipe for rabbit cake. You want?” I suspected a trap. “Yes, all right, Spider. Please.” Ha! He gave me no recipe, just the price to pay for such top secret information. You know, the last time rabbit cake was made in Pubistan was in the cruel, foreboding, winter of ’76. That was when we still had an abundance of cream. For your intrigue, now a bowl of imported cream cost 2 Pubes on blackest market. That is roughly 10 million of your American dollars! So anyway, I watched intently Spider with his hairy legs as he slowly crawled back to his darkened corner by the trap door to the exit used for employees who have displeased the furtherance of the glorious State of Pubistan in some despicable way. Sometimes, it is possible to believe Spider is indeed a spider and that it is my self-deception which maintains him to be a human being, but that way madness lies, and the trap door.

What does Spider want in life? What can he hope for? Will he fall through the trap door before he has realised his dream of assembling the greatest collection of octopedes the world outside Pubistan has never seen? Despite the fact that he is truly creepy and smells like a rabbit’s genitals after a prolonged session of heightened activity, I wish him only happiness and a resolution of his mother’s gender reassignment issues.

But sorry. Really. Where is the literature? You ask. I present you with two paragraphs of my novel, which unfortunately, do not follow sequentially, consequentially or even logically from what has gone before. You like? There is hope.

Night fell. The burrowing began. He stretched his arm out. The hand was not there. Just the newspaper with no news and the walking stick with no handle. They would find him. Soon. The trail of imported peanut butter would lead them to his resting place. His movements were slight. More twitching than calculated. The in-tray of despair mounted ever higher.

Were you gripped? And this paragraph. I think this might be the end. We shall see. Forgive me, for it is short.

The words tumbled. The wind blew. The extremely happy rabbit clucked. A pause. A heartbeat. Silence.

Oh, joy extended beyond, my friends. The literary journey continues. I must extinguish the candle now and think of Marsha, Miss Pube 2008, a carnivore. She could partake of my meat any day.

Long live The Pubish Writers Union!

Hail words together! May they never be parted!

I kiss you!

Maxim