Epithetic Elephant Erasers

image borrowed from bing

Epithetic Elephant Erasers

“All the world’s religions are just the mirror

of the One Face.”--Dada JP Vaswani.

Never give a pink goose      a nickel-plated .45,

                             for you need paper-mache 

rhino skin to survive

                     all those impregnated voyages

                             of discovery,

                             or deeper yet, dropping below

                     the sagittal crust.

Words can be

           spoken,

           sung, or

           written,

no matter whose foul gums they have been between,

            but certainly before

            utilization,

                                 as you spew their spawn

            like dancing dew bubbles dangling lustily

all along the dazzling ditches

                                 of spider web blue highways,

watch the five crows flying

                                 on gossamer bat wings

                                 into the dusky jeweled colon

of the nearly noxious night. 

Truth is, can be,

         as gritty as alkaline dust

         clinging to the calculus

between your malicious molars, because

         everyone already knows,

                         but chooses to ignore the fact

that Morality dissipates quickly

                         after the angry guns

                         are drawn,

because God & Jesus don’t ride Mopeds, man,

                         and the Beasts can easily outrun you. 

If you do shoot a grizzly

                         in your pajamas,

how in hell did he get them on?

So conflictingly droll to see God daily

                         using public transport,

mantled China Red in bloody robes,

                                               like a mad monk,

              postulating that Music is

              the Gospel Silence

              between the black lines,

                             below the bars,

                             adjacent to,

                             over the naughty notes,

because elitist demi-gods ride the hot rails

              preferring first class,

                              thrusting invisible wisdom

              into brown sausage skins

                              beyond our pitiful grasp,

worshipping manic mimicry

             over any form of original thought. 

Contrary to media blitzes, Plato

                   was so much more than

                   a randy cross-dressing putz

                                running roughshod

over his nubile harem of young boys, so

if your female doctor

                    asks you to stop masturbating,

                                 perhaps even with her wet lips

                                 pursed, she only wants

to listen to your heart, being

                    dismayed at hearing the half-beats

of loneliness, realizing that you have neglected

                     to connect

to that counterpoint companion

                     that still might complete you. 

We do adore our heroes

            until they machete off their

            girlfriend’s head, disregarding

that only Monarch butterflies

            fully understand the transience of Beauty,

while rejecting longevity, 

burning brightly, never missing a chance

                           to appear at a Town Hall Meeting,

                           or to flutter naked in

a Butthole Surfers rock video. 

Is all Art just

        shredded reconstituted

        plagiarism, of do we come

into this world astride a bilious bubble

              of cosmic dew,

already cognizant that Sartre

              ate horse shit sandwiches,

already understanding that Paul & John

were not popes, God forbid, no

              they were Beatled revolutionaries

                               leading us blithely to the government

ghettos of Dystopian Depths

                               or Utopian Heights,

as city planners enjoy the developer’s dole,

           greedily suckling the neon tits of Graft. 

                       

          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this Dada poem to you?