Never forget how good I am to you. Deal?
First off, let this be my official announcement: There’s an idée fixe that’s been taking up WAY too much of my mental real estate. So, to make way for more positive, healing thoughts, let me say that
Shhhh… you know… Oh, c’mon!
I am DONE DONE DONE with posting my – well, let’s be honest, rather brilliantly written, but still time-consuming and ultimately spirit-dampening – diatribes about – shhhh – you know.
Oh c’mon. That guy who used to “run” Canada. The suit. The alien.
Yes, you do, the one with the lips like chopped liver and the eyes like a horror-film ventriloquist’s dummy.
YOU know… HIM.
Don’t make me say it!!
And while we’re at it:
I will henceforth and forthwith no longer debate evolution with fundamentalist christians; or, in my most reasonable tones, point out to male troglodytes and homophobes the error of their ways. No, sir-ee.
I’ll just hire my friend Vinny to beat their fucking ugly brains to pulp with a lead pipe.
Time management skills – because it feels so good when you stop!™
And now, for a complete change of pace:
Yet another in a seemingly endless series of instances of how good I am to you. As previously instructed, never, I mean never, forget this.
These.
You may very well be, in fact, wondering. Today’s random act of literary munificence by yours truly concerns a long-lost poem by The Child-Bride of Amherst, Emily Dickinson.
Emily D, or so she recounts, was once visited, while she was under the influence of a teeny bit too much laudanum, by the spirit of William Blake, who, seeking to get better acquainted with the “saucy little minx”,
knocked back several scalding-hot cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, chugged a couple of tallboys of Samuel Adams, wolfed down the greater part of Emily’s coveted, company-only President’s Choice The Decadent Chocolate Cherry Torte, then, duly fortified after his long, ectoplasmically-fueled journey – and after what he considered a decent interval considering she was a virgin-spinster and all –
Shtupped her.
Yep. Just bloody frigged her. Planted the purple parsnip, gave her a right old rodgerin’. Shagged the slag till she gagged. Do wo’, Bit of awright, How’s yer father. Bit of boffin’, copped ‘er off, got his leg over, polished his knob, had a nice long snog.
I can speak frankly, can’t I? I mean, we’re all adults?
Anyway, this hitherto-unpublished poem was the result. Yes, I am, and thank you so much for noticing!
Kytt-yger! Kytt-yger!
Kyttens — ? Tygers — ?
Flickering — Always — !
Down Our — Noon-to-
Midnight — Hallways — !
What — A Mortal —
Daily — Sees —
Depends — on His —
Dichotomies — !
~
Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14
This is why, for the rest of his life, Blake’s bro’s-down-the-boozer insisted on referring to their rakish pal as:
“The Daft Old Prick who Dipped His Wick In Dickinson”
Since you asked.
(Ed. :- A few brief minutes can, indeed, have far-reaching consequences. Ya bloody poofter…)
∞
