Sinister: Careful with that currant bun, Madame Librarian

[Will Porter]

WRITE ME DOWN AN ASS
So, I was crying in a supermarket, when all of a sudden, Seymour Stein
started playing.  Well, that turned out to be a dream.  A dirty
dream. The second one of the night, at that.
I had just begun to wonder, "Why is this happening to me, I'm not a
child," when I ran smack into Judy and spilled her pharmaceuticals all
over the floor.
That was too much for me, so I strapped on my terry underwear and took a
bus home.

DRAW ME A SHEEP
Well, I got hom just in time to wake up, only it turned out I woke up
right smack in the middle of a poem.  But the weird bit was that it wasn't
any particular poem, I was just stuck in the middle, where dogs go on with
their doggy life, where one stumbles over the bramble of
blackberry--halfway between April (which is the cruellest month) and the
mercy of time's means.  It seems I had fallen right out of my body and
into the pert where the limerick gets funny.
Naturally, I opened my mouth to protest, but all that came out was a
unique testament to the loveliness of a girl I know.  Quite a lovely
testament, as testaments go, but that really wasn't my concern at that
precise moment.
After a time, I decided to move, but that turned out to be too narrative,
and left me right in the middle of a forgotten epic.  So I turned back
toward a pretty how town (where no one loved anyone more by more), but I
tripped over a split infinitive and landed face first in a big pile of
incomprehensible synecdoche.
It became apparent that this was going to be a very strange day, indeed.
About the same time that I was picking my way around a patch of flowers
that tomorrow would be dying, I heard the unmistakable sound of a crying
girl.  As luck would have it, I fancy myself something of a storybook
hero, so I set about to finding the source of the sobbing.
After running a gauntlet of cannon to right of me and cannon to left of
me, I found myself quite winded (I'm a bit pudgier than you might expect
to find in a poem, especially in the middle).  I held my side and walked
slowly to a place where water comes together with other water.  I glanced
about, and who did I see but Porphyria.  It seems her lover had ound her
hair three times her little throat around and sought to strangle here.  I
crept up behind the two and, weilding a rather tasty metaphor, I whacked
the disturbed lover upside the head.  He crumpled to the ground, muttering
something about Xanadu and Kubla Hahn, but I couldn't make out the last
bit.
Her thirst for air beign so urgent, Porphyria gasped, then jumped into my
arms and began to count the ways in which she loved me in a manner so
metrical and tedious that I rapidly grew quite tired of it.  I dumped her
off the first chance I got (which just happened to be at midnight) in the
company of a middle-aged, middle-class woman.  It being so late, and I
having been so busy, I was quite tired, and so, using a preposition for a
pillow, I closed my eyes and fell fast alseep.
When I awakened, it was Sunday morning.  It being Sunday morning, I was
very cautious of my actions.  One never knows what the objective
correlative consequences might be for a given action.  But by the time I
had finished brushing my teeth, it was quite apparent that I had returned
to my own dull, none-too-well-articulared existence.  I was much sadder
about this than I had expected to be, but I knew better than to think I
could slip right back into poetry at will, so I packed a lunch and set
out to find what would suffice.

ummm
okay bye

will

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