Seafood Risotto

“I'm not adverse to verbal and physical clowning for cheap laughs,”

A wise man once said.

“I bear no shame, neither do I swell with pride.

All in all, I am profoundly aware that I am a figment

Of my own imagination,

Just another monkey snatching at the moon's reflection

Upon the surface of a pond.”

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O Magnificent Moon,

You're the bee's knees,

The cat's pajamas,

This young sap's ...

Lament.

Order me another bowl of primordial soup,

But know this,

I'm not content to wed the fortune I got from the cookie:

Emotional baggage - that old ball and chain;

Non-erotic, erotic tales;

Dreams lacking a hidden meaning;

My winning lottery -

Numbers.

-

You're my big bang, baby, the equivalent of Achilles' heel:

My busted sheen.

Your alien pillow talk, as round a Buddha's belly,

Is rounding me out,

Turning me Japanese.

We frisk lightly here,

Now let me lay hands on you

So I can perform one of my energy-infused healing rituals.

My mojo's free,

Surreal ...

Subliminal.

-

One day I shall serenade you with my choice cuts, quotes and excerpts,

While I observe a crow shaped shadow through my ruby-lensened monocular

And sketch bizarre, godlike comic book characters of my own design

Deep beneath the rock garden that houses my antiquities: my memory.

This toilet paper philosophy may sound like another ode to a booger,

But my nansensu is noting to sneeze at -

“Crap dry sushi, hold the Buta niku!”

-

I'm your Romeo on a stick, chick,

The unnamed one, a martyr for intellectual evolution,

Hung on the cross to dry.

Just give the word,

And I'll purchase myself the smallest violin a broke-ass poet can buy.

Then with the power of my mojo's wing-man,

I'll bend your mind into improbable yoga positions

As your body meditates against your will upon the meaning of life.

-

Breathe deeply ...

Take me in.

Feel the occasional itch of my battle scars

That I acquired through ill-gotten gains,

While trying to save your decadent, self-loathing society

From howling rock 'n roll journalists and desperate spoken art performers,

That hunt, unashamed, disguised in your ethereal light,

The pubs and clubs of a semi-Victorian Victoria.

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