Monday 14 April 2014

An Epic. The Viscous Circle of the Couch Potato. (Cheryl Penn, South Africa/Marie Wintzer, Japan) Book 1

An Epic. The Vicious Circle of the Couch Potato. 


GET OFF!!!!!
NO!!!
I SAID GET OFF!!!
AND I SAID NO NO NO NO NO NO!!
There's no escaping a Couch Potato.
They hunker down next to one
round and knobbly on the chair
growing fatter and uglier every day.
They wear your lipstick and
ladder your stockings.
MAN! I long for lying low.
Your Lip / Stick
so let's go couch fishing
Toss the baited hook
out of the closest window
Real Life Heroes, Pizza,
Smells like Napalm, Tastes like Chicken.
(an old sock)
I didn't know Couch Waters
were so deep
and cheap this time a year
Did I say, did I say NO?

Subsection two                                                                             warning to all couch potatoes                                                  upground, underground
boiled, braised, fried or peeled
skins on skins off your days are
numbered
lumbered 
with the baggage you bring you're
not wanted
stunted
lip - 
-stick-
back
         -slack
Mack the knife
strikes twice
s-p-l-i-c-e
you're done.
Fried and peeled,
the couch Waitress is gone
and gone too far
Back at Couch Potato School, where
they teach you to 
Lick
Plates
Empty
(    )
Stop poking Common Sense or
I'll miss tomorrow's pillow marathon,
the oddest
Avalon
Couch
Crouch
Cage
Encaged Enraged
But the passing is sweet.
Sounds smell stronger
more fragrant on the tongue,
the shadows grow whiter as
the ink of madness fades 
into
ether.
Hump day too
will dawn,
The Pouch Philosopher
mumbled 
through his rusted electron tube.
Remotely un-controlled
in muddy waves (not unlike
Potter's Clay)
of grey,
Gully groove to
nowhere in particular.

Discovery
By Prof-Med-Phil
The Worm Hole in which
Couch Potatoes form
is filled with worms.
Squirms.
And I 
spoke
to 
1??
Or at least I thought
I heard it 
skillfully screech
in my Daydream.
The thin line
between awake and the ceiling
seems to shorten
as days get longer
(for all we know a saving grace).
Still.
For them worms it's all the same,
silk or muck
your butt's just stuck.
Magenta Crash
Night Spills
Butt still stuck.
The space between
the ceiling and couch grows thin.
I breathe suspicious air 
Night falls
Daylight retracts,
Ink is spilt into her 
slight
light.
The cough potato glowers. 

How many hungry moons
reclined
on the fostering inside arm?
Many, 
or too few to recall.
Those Lotus-eating Roots
poking through Moleskine.
Wound-up paths
dry as Bone.
See, a breeze and they
tumble off
in a flush of Decay.
On the other side: the faintest hint
of bloom.
Too soon to bloom
To late to sate
The appetite once filled
With
Feelings unknown
Countless coffee cups
Endless swirling words in worlds of
Lemon grass chicken stir (fry)
A knock -   a bang -  a grate on bone
Ripples on water turned to stone.



Pictures on screen
are traveling that Road of Déja-vu
I hit pause but the blur 
lingers.
Sitting on orange peels
I can't feel 
their familiar tickle.
Strange.
Skin must grow thicker when
eyes blink reluctantly,
a stagnant attempt at 
catching
the drowsy slipper


feet once shod with grace
fleet of bone marrow
ample arms that held
the light on grasslands aloft.
The walls of the world
Ring
With shrouded Orange Sent
From minds and feelings
Awash in  Magma Magenta.


She lived in the see-ling
space between
Living and not living
For so Eon
That the roots
Were orange strong
But today
Or yesterday
There was Magma Magenta enough
To pull free.



No comments:

Post a Comment