When Sophie Disavowed Greensleeves

When Sophie Disavowed Greensleeves

Hello there all. I'm back to tell ya I'm listening to my favorite choir's recording of “Be Thou My Vision”, which I'd stuck on my hard-drive so I could practice along. It's St. Mark the Evangelist Catholic Church Prayer Choir and somehow I keep getting them confused with a furniture company formerly of Birmingham of the name “Marks-Fitzgerald Furniture”. I often find myself referring to them as St. Marks-Fitzgerald being as how all the Irish sounding names sound Papist.

The Catholic Church, through my last two or three choirs, have been putting out some good Celtic songs for their choirs to sing. And of course, that brings to mind, Sophie. Ten minutes before service one day, she handed out an improvement to the great Celtic hymn known as “Greensleeves”. It required the tenors and basses, long noted for their spontaneous and independent arrangements, to sing an exotic scale, ascending some 13 steps or so.

Now everyone familiar with the haunting and familiar strains of “Greensleeves”, KNOWS that every note in the chorus should sound a bit lower than the one note before it. What no one suspects is that twelve men stuck singing a mixolydian harmony sound like James Earl Jones losing a pair. Sophie had kindly put this in as the exit hymn and everyone exited grateful.

But what brought this all up was listening to the St Mark-Fitzgerald Catholic Church Choir serve up a

tasty, yet melodically different rendition of that wonderful hymn, “Be Thou My Vision”. The arrangement I had learned with Sophie had been sung by a Mormon attending Bob Jones University on a faculty trade. He'd even mentioned on the back of the octavo that he'd practiced choral harmony with his wife in Salt City and that they had declined an invite to join the “I'm A Mormon” campaign as they'd just gotten back in from Greece.

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dirigible sisters

   dirigible sisters

There! There!-- Flocked in a swoon:

sky-dancing, drifting, dirigible sisters.

Frolic with mirth! Usurp the sparrow hawk.

Shinny-dip, skip through the sky...

Anterior whimsical, musical laden spheres:

one dropped, Dear Jesus, on our house today.

The bastard basenji broke both back legs barking-

dirigible sisters came piffffting his way.

There! There!-- Sandbags of soil-bound,

sky-dancing, piffffting dirigible sisters.

Frolic with mirth! Usurp the mighty shrew.

Sisters, dirigibles have come to play.

hurtling towards the creamed-corn miasma



Malfunction Junction



Seething mass of tangled lines

Explodes recklessly in air.

Horrid claps-- maid snapping sheets?

Angel one, you've got some gall.

Naked, brazen in the wind.

Orange pumpkin with screaming thud.

Corn field bound at speed of light.

Diving to ripe melon fall.

Jettison with mind-numb speed.

Falling, twisting manticore.

Colonel's bucket slowly turns;

Invites me in for one last call.

Corn field rises up to greet me.

Find ripcord! Reserve, deploy!

Reaper, keep your cold derisions.

Angel slaps me by the balls.

Copyright 2005 ejjobrien

Edward J. O'Brien

100 Insults For A Ball Hogging Dodge Ball Opponent!

Dodgeball 100 October 18, 2011 9:05 PM Birmingham, AL
Written by: Edward J. O’Brien, aka Ned O’Brien, aka ejjobrien



100 Insults For A:
                Ball Hogging Dodge Ball Opponent:



It's dodge ball, not lodged ball!
Hamlet didn't talk to Yoric that long!
What have you got?  Sphere of failure?
I've had stocks I didn't hold onto that long.
There's no such thing as a buzzer beater here!

Rubber fetishes involve your whole body!
Will they give you a new car if you keep your hands on it another hour?
Even Mary never held Jesus that tight!.
Thank God you haven't moved! You could have been called for traveling!
Robocop called!  Adjust your target acquisition!

Wall Street called.  You're occupying too much space!
I'll bet even Yokozuna could steal second on you.  And thirds... And fourths...
Hollywood called.  They can't give you your own action flick.
If you were Tom Brady, you'd be on your ass by now!
I've already given you the signal; it's supposed to be a curve ball!

Try it, you'll like it!
eBay called. Nobody's buying your act!
Rubber Duckie, you're the one.  You can make my bath time fun...
Stall that much, you could run for Congress.   Make that walk...
You'd hate Vegas.  Too much action...

Need a windup key installed up your backside?
At least in the Nutcracker, the toys came to life!
What's the matter?  Daddy didn't pitch catch with you?
Dirty Harry had more bullets in his gun than you do.

Can I borrow that?  Want to see if it works.

Let the schwartz be with you, Luke.
Did you know MythBusters proved those things can explode left unattended?
You waiting for better odds?
If you like, we can play four-square.  It's a sharing game...
No wonder you failed at marketing!  You couldn't pitch your ideas.

Delay of Game!  Offense!
You know, Al Oerter had this move where he'd spin before he shot put...
If we still measured by the stone's throw, you'd keep us in the dark ages.
Go Tex! Go Tex! Stop the Crimson Tide!
Last time someone stared at me that long, I got married.

Paul Masson called.  It's time!
Karl Malden called.  He said, “ Don't leave here with it”.
Somewhere my love…
Did you just birth that?
I'd trust my good clothes in a dunk tank....

Are you waiting to be President to throw the first pitch?
You 'd take two hours to watch 60 Minutes.
The Headless Horseman called.  You ride tomorrow..
Holding the ball is low, man. If a grasshopper farted, you’d get sand in your eyes!

Oh my God! Put your finger back IN your nose!
They call it a ball, not a sandwich!
Are you auditioning for a sculpture?
Did your mom forget your permission slip to play?
Are you waiting for an engraved invitation from the queen?

Why do mice have such small balls? Because so few mice know how to dance!
Are you posing for Muscle World?
Hey, out front just called. They want their traffic cop back!
It’s a ball. It’s a rubber ball. It moves. It has life…
Eye tests were yesterday.

It puts the ball in the air. It puts the ball in the air…
Stop dancing around! You’re squashing the mice!
And here we have the bust of the immortal (enemy name here), still clutching the one ball he was born with.
Your granddad called. He wants his truss back.
It’s dodge ball, not codger-ball!

Next week called.  They wanna know if should they look for you here?
At least the Tower of London leans…
Earth’s center called. They don’t need any help in gravity control.
You think you can love that thing like Tom Hanks did?
What are you, one shining beacon?

At least Newton TESTED the theory of motion!
Get naked! You and the David statue could pose off!
No! No! It’s not a substitute for a cup!
No! No! In your mouth, not in your ear!
If you’re going to stand there, at least put your good head on…

(singing) 100 bottles of beer on the wall, 100 bottles of beer…
We’re here, on the last green. He picks a club! No! He surveys the shot… He picks a club.. No..
Use it as a thigh master, why don’t you?
What are you posing for a King Tut‘s tomb?
Put some hair on me. Think you could hit it?
Put some hair on it, it'd be your twin.

At least the Statue of Liberty had a play named after it.
Mount Rushmore called. They said they’re changing their name to Rush Less.
Ben Stiller called. Can he have that doughnut?
You VILL throw the ball better. You VILL throw more velocity.
Forget your Fruity Pebbles this morning?

Dodge! Duck! Dive! Defend! Dodge!
Put the ball down, we'll just have a stare off...
If you love it, you must let it go...
The governor called. Take off that ankle bracelet and leave the house!
King Tut called. He said stop stealing his look.

At least cross your arms; be easier gettin’ you in the casket that way…
Dr. Kervorkian called. Will 2:00 this afternoon work for you?
Even in the Irish jig, you move your legs!
Call the medic! It’s Tommy John syndrome!
What do you want on your tombstone?

With one for the other side, you could be Dolly Parton.
Some people have cannons. Some people have rifles. You have a pop gun.
Aristotle’s conundrum only works if the ball gets halfway here!
You couldn’t even hit the showers.
You going to take that home as a door prize?

Are you checking to see if the air hole is your size?
Is that your new bust enhancer?
That's gross!  Stop feelin' yore mama!
I hear your girlfriend's growing one too!
If it starts turning green, get surgery!

Put it on your head and you'd be a double dip!
Why isn't your other one that size?
Oh My God! No wonder you had it removed!
I'm quitting at 99.

The Street Charles DeGaulle Walked On

---

dans les jardins de mon pere, les lilacs sons floris


I already knew the big wooden sign
cut in strange foreign words
said, 'Children Not Wanted'.

The angry man had,
with his affliction of waving arms,
made me understand French

by saying it louder
each time he yelled.

I got off his precious grass.

Mon ami, would you like to see where i work?
It's just around here on the street Charles DeGaulle walked on.

He was new to this garden,
this oasis of sand
and I had already dug my moats.
So, I followed him

out of the garden
and into the street
all the way to the corner

to the place where strange shadows
grew in musty, cool air,

a big concrete building
with the

drip drip drip
of water.

He talked of his family,

then taught me to sing
his favorite song

in French.

He handed me his wrench
and said go ahead

so i shut off
all the water in Versailles.

Denying the Carnality of Onion

And what of those boys with bad skin, in Camaros,
ciggie butts snazzed up their sneers--
left, useless arm hanging halfway to hubcap,
other hand clutching a beer?

At eighteen, they left here, went cruising for angels
in towns with no names - like "Haiphong",
to cheer up those hoveled-down, domino bootie-boys
sandbagged by calls for reform.

No angel cum mannequin, backflushcunt angel can
ease their need for Cindy's charms.
What angels spit arrows?  What's left to repair those
lost boys who we took back with stones?

Let's fill up the dime stores with beer, porn and leather
meat slatterned by pre-packaged sheen.
Have Harlequin Cindies shag packages, grimly
chant mantras to what might have been:

  Inspire me, leftists!  Remind me why cameras wept
  cheers on the vandal-clad throngs.
  I'd thrill once again to trill "tear-it-down" rhapsody,
  gush to your vain call to arms,

  stop seeking salvation in disparate measure,
  let numbness salve holes left with guns--
  live elegant life as I hoped I would find: one
  more moonie coked up on darvon.

Log Rhythms

I've spent hours mauling
them. Next, I'll form rows,
nearly chest high, on iron dogs

out from the garage. Their length
has been coded to master design;
to fit snug, but not squeeze

over the firebox. Here, twenty-two
inches of free BTUs left over
from last season's hurricane.

Their prettier sisters have gone
on to be bookshelves or a bedroom
suite, perhaps an ergonome's chair

or some other new thing from Ikea.--
Think spotlights!-- and giddy
rushed spiels from the pitchmen--

think glowing
in halogen poses.
These will get picked up

by grateful new owners,
who'll invite neighbors to the unveiling.
Mine, cradled, just lie here--

in second ascension--
absorbing what sun's rays they come to.
At night, when the opposums come visit,

they'll pull on their cobwebs
and dust off their vines, ready
to proffer their sweet grubs by morning.

But mostly, they're aging,
if dislodged, left akimbo,
they'll be snatched by the lumberjack,

formed to the pile again.
Some romantic notion compels me
to gather them, burn them

to carols and wine.
Those that are younger, that seasoned
too green, may chitter, sap-swollen,

a time, in one massive flame
rose that won't tarry too long.
Would their beauty be fleeting

if beauty were viewed from this precept:
The embers and ash linger on
to be swept from the scuttle

with other debris
while their essence
is rendered to smoke?

switchblade

---

the handles' fake plastic, yet
comely in dragons, the rib's sporting
crossbars to parry the blow
it glitters; it shines:
the neck, burnished, furrowed
it flits in your hand, this cold steel.

slip hickey from pocket,
silk-screened obeisance
infanticide fantasy, wield
closed to my side
one push on my hilt,
deft cracker, slit
cranium
know i deal death:
my erection

Gourmand

I shall eat freeze-dried curds
of lentil and fatty lamb, steamed,
or better: a stew vacuumed
in polypropylene oven bags,
perhaps a repast of collards
and shoulder meat
fit for the gizzards of gods.

Let's teach this broil of halibut
fresh caught last night on Aisle 2,
to sizzle and pop
in its microwave pan
appearance bisque-mocking
the serving suggestion
enraptured in paint
on the lid.

Top it off with a lemon sauce
and, oui m'sieur, it's properly dilled
with hefty doses of pepper tossed
from a plastic beaker
several times warped
by the broiler plate's
convection.

Leaving The Vampire Breathless

Snow is a vagabond oat, dear.
It permeates winter: this wandertime
stooge who'll traipse, come to town-- thin
vanity semi-schooled, fluorishing
six-tongues unholstered.

We'll call it shock-- the toxic
accretion of some comic pain.   Your hand
is a sandwich for children
who magistrate--
   On your sad knees!
Sodding river.

The meter slows-- hammer on tarmac.
Decant the old words, crack
one rust-colored fuse.  I've licked
the sparse wine from the glass-stem
                        in what you
laughingly called a silk suit--
                                 Bus stop posing.

      When were you radiant, angel?
What stray cull stillbore you? You cradle
thin bowls.  Lend me one,
Danaud, I'm bailing; I'm bound
      to your side by a stone.

Come, come aerie!

      Take flight to your reason-filled haven.
Perfection comes ordained: it's sanity, rouged
by the miracle images kept of ourselves,
untarnished by parallax cues.

                              Too, too cozy.


      Stop bleeding feng-shui on my table.
I take back my life.  I have no wish to be your
white-coated gentleman of needles and plums,

      Tick
            tick    tick tock

tickle


(coughing)

gas can man vs. the homeboy twinkies

(i)
his mind sings of the flower-
the macabre day lily; declension

a mako of rare pearls and gardens
pilched on 4 seats of the red line

a mako? no shark, he: a scion!
low e train torn from its railing

mere tensored greenbrier sprawl
pilched on 4 seats of the red line


(ii)
exotic drippers slappy ! ! happy day
be done, dude travail shalom...

fly this train to grain, when
!windsanity
"pilch these no more tonight"


(iii)
sug fish brawl entempest fugit
toe knee muscle macaque mud stone
salt-
ambucco choose cheery choke cherry
gloam knee-lights pantwaste kirk loam?


(iv)
snapback!
fordude
this can
can
can you

slopsy
dripsin
dresden cream cone

phartridge phondue
you nasty-cracker

--backpack--
attack!
! jumpback
napalm!


(v)
brave molly, come save me, the train's at the station
loge fishbowl commuter gun gear-grind etude
velocipede-steeded grey dudley do do-right
imprison the mantis who damps us in crude


(vi)
his mind shrinks from the flower-
the macabre day lily; in tension?

declension coal-smokes his eyes
this mako of rare pearls and gardens

and jack all, no card he, i spy him
low e train scorned for his railing

manacles tangle and jangle the mangled one
pilched on 4 seats of the red line

slats from the marriage bed

Suppose this fall we go install new shutters
on our windows. You know the walls have not fared well,
old neighbors spot their every bruise. The possibilities
are endless. You would choose a genuine wood:
a cedar or cypress or west-coast pine while I would opt
for dripless caps in plastic from Home Depot. I think
I'd paint the damn things black. A sentient clerk could propose
a lighter tone to soften our brick facade.

Then in spring we can chuck it all, take a trek
along Schuylkill, past the kirks and fabled malls
to my folks' house in Walden. They have cottonmouth
under their bridge. It's a lonely place
with aging wood, they bought it cheap and then condemned
their bliss-free years to salvage the wreck
and bring it up to par. With shutters caked
in many layers, my father worried and scraped
the paint; then lost his life in his attempt
to find the wood again. At times, I envy him.

Or, say one night it rains in Versailles and there
you'll lie alone in bed; listening to clatter
as mid-winter gales shear the pins inside the holes
of lattices bent on slapping blindly. One floor down
the fury unmoors the railings from the building.


*

borderline

 
on the mexican sidewalks:
pudenda and beer and crones
       almed with cones

for sport, toss nickels
to chicos off bridges
they'll snatch them
    or suffer
  their bones

       cigarettes (horseshit)
and switchblades for sale
chess sets-- black onyx/soapstone
                               always the pull

of the strange, strange man
with lurid sorties to sell         (she's swell)

cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes!

(pontiff, i care) beware
there's always good tail
yo, mato y picadors        bend        
bend         send         lend         ears
                                       corrida!

look on me!         soon to be!         frail!
 and aware

unmuscled, soft-
heeling through shoals.

it's carnivale!
 haloes and parrots all
shuck-beat
the worn path from hovel to woods

candles burn lifeless, hymns
 sting the mass. i sing
  quarterflash: harden
                         my heart

and, i'm in ecstasy
       clinging to mud

hurricanes slung through my veins

primordial arches in fungus, ebullient

Start at the toes.
Those pristine phalanges of mental confusion
contain in themselves a most sublime cachet.
Savor each growth and each razored, palled bunion.
If the middle toe's longer, then just run away.

Yes, I'm a pediphile.
Most days I'm up for fromage du pied.
Champignon toes are parfum to my nose--
a whisper of ginger: a roll in the hay.

solipso, in tenso blotteau

We extruded our ducks and sought carapace
among the last motels in Lobsterworld.
But, always some puny task
required my needing.
So, I merely clove sallow smoke.
You remarked, "Only invasion can cure silent creep."
We were two storms behind the near fall, uglying
into sinister when candy time came.

Out in the real world of shrimp
shacks and cheap beer, oysters shuck
themselves. Tiny feet pit-pat and juice-scream
from their shells. Hairless
clits frog off as the bar band
flambes, "Ode To My Sister, Irene".

Ever notice how noon wind will bark at trees
in crafty earth ditties that drive you insane?
Or how one windsong tearfully sung
keeps you one leaf ahead of the gutter?
Or how the laden branch always shears off

always ahead of the rain?

hurtling towards the creamed-corn miasma

seething mass - rat-tangled lines
explode reckless in the air
horrid clap - maid snapping sheets
angel one, you've got the gall

naked, brazen in the wind
orange pumpkin with screaming thud
corn field bound at speed of light
diving to ripe melon fall

jettison with mind-numb speed
falling, twisting manticore
colonel's bucket slowly turning
(invite me in for one last call?)

corn field rises up to greet me
find the ripcord, i implore
reaper, keep your cold derision
angel slaps me by the balls

Shoe Fly Pie

I was angry with shoes. I would walk
in the secular meadow, watch rivulets
churn the red earth into chasms.

My cold thighs would shunt
butterflies aside.

There, in the stream, striders
feast gaily upon the remains
of damped insects. I kick

one grey carcass, a crawfish dead lately
into slow waters; it sinks.
Gives up its cargo:

A spatter of houseflies heels
to the surface, beetles
flock to this meat.

Those pattern-toe sandals you left
in my care,
find their way to the water.

elizondo

elizondo reruns his dink
juke-joint dive, scum
sucker, hey you fucking schoolboy

the register reels to pink
madrigal rants, it's thursday
cock-sucker, eat hamhocks

and beans, do you fart?
well, then leave, pussy boy,
you eat my shit, you'll want
the water

and so it comes 'round
to thursday again,
what say we go see elizondo?

Platinum BBW

Soooey! Big and gooey! Selma, sizzle; Rock, love kitten!
Electrify my mornings with your wrinkled, tinkle love.
Mercy, mother sturdy, how you perch upon your mittens
To accentuate the curvy, evanescent, nexus hub.

Blonde bestride the Simmons, no you're not the perfect sleeper,
But a juicy little moosie perched atop a mattress, spread.
As nighttime flits to ether, on my pole you rate a keeper,
And I'm certain, should we find it, we could take your maidenhead.