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Damn that Crazy Artsy Woman
Damn, that crazy artsy woman, who really torments me
with thoughts of her 4:20 moments of mellowing out
drawing on a reefer,
while she conjures up fresh images and
new ideas on how many vices she can give
the garish angel fish that adorn her smock.
Nemo and Dory stare out into space,
blissfully unaware that fish such as they
are not supposed to be seen with a cigarette,
let alone a reefer between their lips,
as they wink sexily
with their googly fish eyes, at one another.
Nemo flexes and unflexes his fist,
in time to the music on his
brand new state-of-the-art
underwater waterproof ear phones,
as he shows the world his middle fish finger.
That same finger that warns us off,
that same single digit that says -
“butt out bud, this is not your concern!”,
or “I don’t agree with your philosophy!” and
“I will smoke what I want, where I want, and when I want!”
Damn, that crazy artsy woman – who wears her shirt with pride.
Complete with its purpose-made pocket,
where she keeps the tools of her trade:
long, sable paint brushes, that stick up
with the hairs peeking over the top of the pocket,
like a baby Joey - sticking its head out of the Kangaroo pouch.
If only motherhood was a simple
as climbing out of a pouch –
she’d have an army of tiny artsy-fartsy kids
climbing in and out among the paint brushes.
Marsupial maternity meeting piscean paternity.
Oh the brilliance of hues and the pallet of blues
as Dory and Nemo frantically fornicate –
spawning an aquatic adventure
where it is easy to imagine the voices of
Jacques Cousteau and David Attenborough, giving
a cinematic audio description for the visually impaired
and going into every detail, and I mean every detail as
to what is happening, so that I know first-hand
just what it feels like to get a fish pregnant -
Damn, that crazy artsy woman!
Standing on the Cinders
I am there silently,
standing on the cinders
under foot when I walk away.
I had scant awareness
as to what happened before
I came to be
standing on the cinders.
By birth or by nature
the bloodlines determined
who would live or work
for the Fatherland,
and who would die.
Buildings uprooted from
where I now stood
but unlike me,
they stand no longer.
After genocidal cleansing
many were razed
and row upon row
of neat rectangles
now line this acreage
of breeze-blocked foundations
stretching to the horizon,
like a giant chessboard
without the pieces.
Standing on the cinders
I can still see the local homes
that stood there
in peaceful defiance
of the Godless reality
that preceded me.
I am in silent remembrance,
of the Holocaust,
in this pretty little town,
which holds many secrets
in and under those same cinders.
Standing on the cinders,
as if guarding the past is
a heavy metal gate
inscribed in cast iron,
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Standing on the cinders