February  2004

Mondo Gah-Gah Poems

Dolce Loca 

 
Not enough feathers, snakes, hide & chic

Never enough brunching hours, tofu go food,

And Friday girls to expose the overdressed,

The figure obsessed by the wrong perspective,

Sublime turned raw between corset and thong 

Caught frozen in a moment of studio time.

 

The cold eye of Olympus-like culture

Critiques flesh the way glass meets jelly

In an automat for the soul, a take-out reality

Spelled out by hipster lightning-rod nouns,

A numinous glow shown down on every

Accessory for Eve’s electronic garden with

Disguised underpinning and quick disconnects.

 

Joanna Stepford has a new meal in her lap.

Forget happy, who taught her to eat that? 

 

There’s bare-knuckle nudity dished out by

Sallow camera jocks bent on sun-spot realism,

Aurora skirts all the way down to the ground.

A 24/7 magazine flattery gets pushed beyond

Wet dream leather and Mondo suburbia

Out to landfill trashers and flea-marketeers

Where everyone’s uncle did something bad

To them at the end of the dirt mad road that

Made their ignorance inescapable because

Simplicity is too complex for consumers.

 

Rosy fingered gender IS exploited, open to

Frontier gulches of inability and expectation.

The overshadowing fantasy of the sweet life

Strangles on glitz while diamonds dissolve.

 

 

Mondo Gah-gah (Culture Watching)

 

Spare me your script font imprimatur that

Tries to go back and make it like it wasn’t.

Give me the Langdon Jones version, soul

Floating on ice and drugs unable to tell

Acute pain from a rotten flesh-eaten smell.

Skip the random sales pitches, one can

Only go so far into third world diet and

Regimen, can only bear so many tour bus

Rest stop gift galleries and bargain

Souvenir items without once encountering

A frieze of Prometheus bringing Man to

Life while the gods pretend to look on.

Maybe a quick glance down the Stepford

Computer list of illegal possibilities will

Change forever, YOUR internal dialogue,

But I am too burned out to see the future

Coming to meet me with her hot, leathery

Attitude and her white-out smile bites.

Culture is something you wrangle, leave

To wild animal trainers and Las Vegas

Promoters who hire video freaks to turn

Cameras on the super colossal hyper

Boatload of bizarre circumstances, the

Sponge Bob yellow education of gen

Spooked zombies unable to cope without

See-thru, drive-thru, smiling services

With all its wig-hat wearing authorities.

I am an arboreal throwback to the sepia

Inked Apocryphon of empirical learning,

A candlelight visionary scribbling away,

Not part of the rock audience, pop idle

TV hip-sterical diva worshipers who

Believe the future is a biological rite of  

Passage to the gah-gah neon world of

All-night-eat-drink and sexual fondue.