Dear Auntie Belle,
I am a proud Greek. Both of my parents are worthy and educated. I spend virtually every waking-minute writing poetry in my mother's basement. I only stop when mama brings me down a plate of hot, buttered croissants. (a family recipe dating back to at least 1942.)
Needless to say, I fart a lot. It gets rather smelly down here. I'm afraid the stink may have permeated my poetry...
Turbated
Night
A
route U live too close two farts
Contained
therein tangerine dream's reunion
Momentous
rages impugns air's ponds
Loads
of stool, weathering so, thank you Don
(Hookahs
be a pine for me and doh-see-doh.)
Without
compassion, obviating inside every stranger
Empires
of an ideologue, more and more bright stars
Two
plots adrift abundantly a squamous satyr burns
Horizontal
mists, a bun, tight over the door transits
(A
formal ides of night-turbated sails.)
Winds
escape, adjoining your breath's still
Flagging
ptomaine persecutes you, a fiendish sigh
A
bun, abound, abundantly you cinder
You
use my arrant gases as your tinder
A
gift of my trajectory, caress you though I might
(Instead
I send you daffodils draped in un-masted night.)
I submitted a
few examples to a worthy and respected website in America. Their
reception was exactly what I expected, but it still hurt. I've
attached a copy of my best poem so you'll see what I'm talking about.
I think we can both agree it's an incoherent mess.Please help!
Signed,
G.Ovum
Dear Ovum,
I have seen three-day-old roadkill baking in the hot southern sun, heard the sound of maggots feasting upon its decomposing flesh (stirring mac & cheese will mimic that sound perfectly); I have waded waist-deep through raw sewage and helped recover swollen corpses following a flood. I have even been near a crowd of sweaty Amish women who were hand-washing the rags they use for those two months out of the year they aren't pregnant. I thought there was no foul odor I had not experienced, and then I opened your letter. The residual aroma of your flatulence actually made the stench of your poetry tolerable. And may I ask...what is that disgusting oily substance that came with it? I can't seem to wash it off my fingers.
If I'm not mistaken, Auntie, that oily substance is a glandular secretion from the common, ordinary Greek malaka.
ReplyDeleteIt will sometimes will take on a rainbow sheen, or even form uneven, iridescent rings on stationary, or envelopes. Hold the saturated object up to a high-intensity bulb---when it starts to smolder, delicately sniff the darkest tendril of smoke. If you detect traces of olive and horseshit you should go scour your hands immediately with a bar of Lava soap. (The Greeks have been using pumice on their private parts for centuries.) Note: hands may need to be washed a number of times before really feeling clean again. In between washes you may find yourself glaring at your fingers, saying something like, "What the fuck IS this shit???"
This is normal.
It is not often I need advice, but I appreciate this. I now have to purchase a new keyboard - it has begun to glow with that rainbow sheen.
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