Meditations On A Cup 'O Mud

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

A metaphorical poem

I ordered my slut-usual at the house of mud,

and "a dollar eight, after taxes," she said,

reminding me, as I turned away, of the old saying

along the lines of "all you have to do is pay taxes and go kaput,"

something, oddly, about which I'd never chewed the mental cud

until I'd wrapped my lily-whites around that cup `o mud,

while, personally, I prefer the life-long habits

of eating, sleeping and indulging bowel movements,

though avoiding bowel movements

would be a helluva way - a painful one - of going kaput

and perhaps dropping by the yard sale of the maybe-Great-Beyond

to buy some faded, twenty-five-cent platitudes

and twisted, rusty, fifty-cent pointers

on how you should've lived and, while speaking of death,

I'm not religiously afflicted by "mysobiomania," (with "mysobiomania" being a

word for "hate, life" and "crazy" I fabricated from a dead lingo)

though I'm more than linguistically alive, in other words, around,

too lazy to be anything but an existentialist

crazy enough to cogitate upon death as a hyphen, an exclamation point,

maybe a question mark in the thinking, feeling bio-cycle,

perhaps a comma or a colon - with colon reminding me

to confess I'm not politically correct about bowel movements,

not neurotically apologetic for death

and not lax enough of rectum to whelp a holy cow over taxes,

After all, I'm a pinko Democratic socialist, who firmly believes

in the sanctity of taxes with thoroughly taxing representation...

... the point of all this being that I'm a twisted brain-twister of my own mind,

pondering the connection between rendering unto Caesar

and cashing it all in (often, so much simpler than filling out long - or short -

forms),

pondering that a dollar-eight is a shiny nickel and three red pennies more

than the yard sale price of four of those faded, twenty-five-cent platitudes

and two of those twisted, rusty pointers on how to live...

... so, while I hate to so abruptly bring this to a close

and leave you possibly pondering what follows death and taxes,

my twisted pointers are: Try the biomaniacal laxative of existentialism,

and be sure each April

to take your ten-forties along for hiny-wiping in the bathroom,

and definitely resist the temptation to fill out and file your tax forms...

... I do and have - for more than twenty years...

 

 

 

 

 

 


Submitted: October 08, 2014

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