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Friday, December 28, 2012

The Woman who Could Not Swallow

Daniel introduced his wife as 'Baroness Cathleen de Varennes'.

"Where do we go?" she demanded.

I led her, with Daniel, down the hall. "Do you want breakfast? You must be starved. Perhaps you are tired and want to see your bedroom."

I had been told she was a young woman, but she looked ancient. The bones of her skull loomed beneath a sickly parchment.

Daniel threw her bag at the foot of the bed, then headed back to the drawing room to use the phone.  The Baroness kept talking.

"I can't swallow. The last time I actually swallowed a piece of food was in 1979. Solid food doesn't go down. My esophagus is almost closed shut."

I stood there.

"It is equally very difficult for me to swallow liquids. That's why I like them hot. Very, very hot. And sweet. You can put the entire box of sugar in my coffee if you like. It helps it to go down. Of course if I have liquids too hot, too often, that's not good either. It cooks my throat, or can start a cancer.

"The muscle to my stomach is, how do you say, lame? It can't close. The juices from my stomach come up and starts all sorts of problems.

"If I had a lame leg I would knock on it and comment on how well it is carved. It is no problem for me. Yes, I lost quite a bit of weight. I was eating ice cream and sugar and butter in an effort to keep my weight up but eventually my stomach wouldn't process it anymore and my heartbeat became slow with all the cholesterol."

The Baroness' hair lies in patchy strands on a bald scalp. The long strands are so carefully curled over her temples. There are no curves to her, though it is possible to see that she was once attractive. Her front teeth seem at first so perfect, until one notices they are exactly alike, the same color and shape, gums all of a piece. All are false.

Daniel is a young man. I know him to be the same age as Bailey, though he has put on a lot of weight. I asked him about work.

"Well, I haven't been indicted," he said, referring to the recent crackdowns on investment bankers for insider trading.

"Those SEC boys are damn clever. The crooks get away by spilling  beans on the others. The accomplices, those that provide information, have the book thrown at them. It's awful."

I wondered if Daniel saw himself as an accomplice or a crook. He's a survivor, he married the Baroness. How long before he was alone with her title, and family land back in Hungary.

"We have a party this evening we have to go to," Daniel lamented.

Something they had to do to keep up appearances, to please the Baroness. Possibly it was a gathering he anticipated, but made seem like a kind of duty..

"That little party", Bailey said, was a do, at Maxim's. Bailey was miffed. He hadn't been invited.

I agreed, it is poor form not to invite one's host.

I didn't need to see the inside of Maxim's. I had visited once, paid for by a lavish Arab who was entertaining Miss India. I got bored, ate, drank too much, then walked home.

The Baroness foraged in her bag, then brought out a bottle of P├ílinka, a distilled liqour from the steppes of Hungary. "This is for Monsieur Bailey."

It had a peculiar royal crest on it, one with a bent cross at the tip. Maybe she called the bottle Slivovitz, no matter. She'll give it to Bailey. Then he'll put it on his silver tray next to the Gran Marnier and Cherry Herring.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXIII

I would respect him, "You'll observe."
Granddad then said:
    "Whose saucy women will phone."
Come Brother, improve, take our string.
A crazy romance enacts,
    guests who stood their freedom.

Doctor your many: "See MP anyone?"
Rainbow fears I'm pressing.
    Gal, I soon can elevate anger.

How a brother chose education.
Question Hell, part the opaque yard.
   Could every dead man act through night energy?
Humidity gives you notorious skirt.
Think or pick progress,
    Your sister destroys a clever brother.

Disorder has green passion, one is endowed.
    Hey, your canvas phobia pains me!
Daughter, through romance, a hollow crowd stunk.
Yes, I know, your students came to capture some smoke.
In truth I must say how much I risked in metal.
   Paint my differences.

"Fiery mother of heaven,
    we'll know you soon."
Bird, go out, sculpt him blind.
Tell us, is your delight like some discovery?
An almost always better, me.
    Handle it. Is she free?

Young babe, demand when we make deep sky.
    Model and handle a reverse character.
Obsession resents denial.
Ebb our angry mess, like a pre-teen miss.
They know every mother above her.
    How strange!
Then it says, "I approach",
   The others stand for fun.
"Good, on Fridays we can hear."

Free to a wife's dormancy,
Oh me if serious, how questions mount!
    A model of Job is fine, his death had been lame.
Rainbow sent your sweet wife,
    whose struggles you observe.
My perfect sound is still ugly.

Some girl licks, strokes her, and respects,
I need to see who you are so she can see love.
    She's all electric.

    Vapors . . . Palpable past . . .
Infinite idols despair observation.
Play with solutions, mean stranger.
She waits away some despair.
That much I made at home,
    a demon, seized you. Observe suffering,
Darken your night.
Why do models chat, dress nude?
    I have intimacy more for your favorite cooking.

Face angry despair with raw denial.
Learn me soft Sister, talk memories of air . . .
    Like glitter, it would shriek.
Write more through a glorious competition,
   a tinge aggressive. Try and know me.
Our shopping abuse wanted a killer of life.

Play then work, more dance,
We think to face a picture.
    Love, hate and passions come sweet.
Lie by her original.
   At home a lion guards against vile art.
Sister of beauty, we press her.

They care to open,
    without competition, analyze this mess.
Let yourself try.

Love me in the original.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXII

Narayan, heaven sees your muddle.
There's a key opportunity, beside my moon.
   You who belly dance and surf,
Faithful instrument,
When I'm passionate - I ride a simple toy.
   Walk, and take her home,

See if one marvelous breath will relate . . .
    how the faithful gave sense, chose a sad torpid companion.
Perform it,
A clean draught of a beautiful glorious river does need a storm.

They'd investigate and lead her society.
    Can blind phones, fiddle, scratch?
Companion, respect my space.
She acts. A pathetic parasite, envies, eyes music,
   esteems marriage as art.

Film my ass, you can use it until,
My aesthetic, a blue psychedelic Mother,
    forgets you're the model husband.
Smoke this fool.
We'll question our raw care,
    beneath more empty music.

She senses the observations, more seen by youth.
Never composes a lie,
    looks for an angry wild howl.
Clean sex and fast romance is the drug.
He feels clever, through freedom about death.
    Friday. The dead howl by then.
Take from my milky soft and faithful passion,
Fast, Write, Draw. Use this. Progress!
    My perfect sound is still ugly.

Come, lost infant
call for attachment at the mouth,
    Good character destroys what won't give us night.
Ink scars a mean street.
We break finger music,
    balanced through our great film.

This mare, she would avoid pain, has her character switched.
Oh me! I see all, yes, the famous find.
    Emotion colors a killer relative.

To do some right process,
    in good grace, sculpt his past.
When did you want your psychedelic review?
Brother, imagine opaque delight.
May you please comfort us,
   with your edge, give ideas.
Stop to see discoveries, daze love,
Be her man, I suffer,
    Rob all nature's thought.

Our many companions, seen on Crete,
    appear calm, luxurious.
Joy, what marvelous creature composes important memories?

Why are you working so hard my Muse?
Our stand-in event, is passive,
    Try to understand.
Please come, under love.
Then he said, "Depression, about such bitter abuse".
    I think he follows a vintage laugh.

Don't jealous boy, destroy my new feeling.
Try a life-like vintage body,
    arrange both for you upon glass.
Reach aesthetic cleanliness,
Were they dirty?
    Water, then is time.
Is life mean? Color your studio,
Women storm over diversity.
    We take praise.

Water is the bed.
My kiss plays music, gives no delusions.
    Through my ear she goes, through our metaphor of life.
Health from raging higher,
    gives me a red smear, before a blue party,
Passive air, shows and alleviates childhood.

Keys to give more worth,
    see whose side is straight and deep.
The mind is like some edge.

Always draw your delusions with color,
They have shame.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Song of 81 Poems, XXI

Help me, the more I look,
mountains I see on Crete.
     Brother, dread or learn my obsession.

Death is over me again,
I will almost know Heaven.
     Sculptures never disagree.
A nice aesthetic amuses them.
Father, please help.
    Her wasted part is glass deep.

Oh then good God, are you empty?
My mind is in heaven.
    I almost questioned the Angel's sound of home.
Painted impulsively, for a show.
Got up, then kissed. A river does need a storm.
    Our ode is a symbol, tried to take her strength.
As Water, I Am Surreal.
Waste her, so then I perform related mental fixations,
    I'm nerved at how you trod up.

Then say why marrying has trouble.
I understand you. Why hate?
    You could draw me for mad.
    Soon you'll run free.
My aesthetic game questions our money subject.
See live rules best her raging arid health.

A vile fellow around pure life.
Instruments feel and see.
    I see you're a tourist.
    Cuddle your angel, get him to know our obscure grip.
Mother is sly Peace,

Find more music, which glitters.
    Girl, buy the full sexual woman!
Use sanguine perfume to calm the crazy leader.
Come, get some party cares, perhaps you heard,
    They always show.

Who wants a dust mountain?
More pain to scale, with the edge, gives ideas.
    We jive from Love, free thought . . .

Brother we present our time-outs as an awesome wild pain.
Life is inclusive!
     The Doctor only uses color above.

Money delights start sweet.
I see childhood's best, a faithful young companion.
     And question, about that awesome studio.
Daze, then a period.
Marry please, a vintage favorite.
     You and her, stand, and be all danced.

Does emailing, even family, before it fills our banal passion,
    manipulate sleep, and time?
My peace walks under worry, so investigate when reversed.
Ugly emotion was an idea to handle a reverse character.
The times which appear, improve through blue.
     Some said, "Miss, I'm about his studio."

Praise! Only simple morphine to scale.
Mad chocolate for some some vintage beer.
    Man you can hide perfume!

The glory owes you money.
"Good boy, Confront thy wench!"
    A sure marvel, emotional electricity . . . or his play.
Go experiment like a bird!
Hold on their silent energy, see a thin child.
    We asked, "See me grow out of mind."

I never said you are dead,
We buried this over animal music.
     What I mean is, you investigate with sound.

Impulsive trouble, romance risking progress.
On very blue bold harmony, under milky soft sound,
     Try a good society girl, all drunk.
Rosy, I feel your absurd sex,
     yet our sound communicates a story.
She only makes you kiss that freedom we gave.

Nude, we'll buy the tinker a hollow piece.
A cunning neurotic on TV,
    Ersatz joy comes to all of us.
    A bare icon, the effect is less obtuse.
Diagnosis: the husband has some reach,
    so done to him, no pain.
A made-up masterpiece comes to night-time party life.
Never feel captured!
     Test with disorder!

All drugs gave him health!
     Imagine my dark anger at night.
Yell, how Death caught some sugar.
When smoke calls see that beautiful cat almost howl.
Her monstrous time can play cleverly,
    Investigate the head.

Hey, a saucy psychedelic crowd . . .
Dresses every idea, with sugar.

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

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