I want your fire!I want your flame!

My heart is like a tired the lamb
my knees feel better with raspberry jam
all of these toxins pulled by the oxen’s are more than a foxy of mayhem and proxy
What would a willow say to a dead grave?!
what would a chimp offer to the young gimp?!
Sometimes mumbles and jumbles are true
Sometimes the worst is the appleby brew
When your boss gets his chocolate you are set free!!!
but there’s a spider on the wire hidden in the tree!!!
It’s better to test your best guess on his breast
before you obsess over Obama’s caress
What are we to do at the lake???
there’s fire in the puddles and the birds want to break!
Without a jog or a tide you’re done in but the wonder as sunder will be sent home again
All those old characters hate my poor taste
and every performer is a jellyfish snake
Chainsaws are yucky and I’m joking when I’m right
there’s a little dog to cry to you when you’d rather say good night
And the beasts of better memories drink Chinese lemonades
but you’ll never reach the patio with your horrid woven braids
My wishes are but immature but my taste for wine is lean
it’s hard to make the beauty out when the structure has been seen
There’s goodies for the gaudy and treaties for the tame
but Martha was an architect so your maze is really plain
My mouth is full of iodine my tongue is soaked in dew
the Orient of Idlewood is hardly something new
My feet are bangled, dangled drops and roses fill my ears my mother tried to honor me with the tiger from Algiers
The occupied personified electrified tartare is tastiest with pasty zest and olive pits, by far
But fill me up with rotting cups of ancient honey glass, for as you preach your sacred tidings I see up your ass!!!
I don’t have the charisma and I don’t have the hors d’oeuvres, but all the other elements fit in my feathered curves
So give me just a bit of flame! Scorching burns will do!! I just love your dancing peaks of energy and truth!!
By Sarah C Louise

Dedicated to Anna, dear Anna.

Seeking Happy Nights Through Happy Days!

I found the most amazing pen.

It’s sharp and smooth, and reliable through any of my wild moods.

Sometimes it gets away on me, but I always find it when I need to say the important words.

It likes to be called “Velocity”. It’s got a special cushion for my working hands (how thoughtful!). And though it’s really just a one-time-thing, it will stick around until the ink dries up, I’m sure!

It has seen some strange words made in our brief time, yet it continually supports me, stating the words clearly.

We have stronger purpose together, you know?

If I find the right surface, we could really go all day, and well into the nights.

I’ll probably find one that’s more suitable eventually, but it feels really nice.

Unlike my barren sex-life.

By: Sarah C Louise

Give me a taste of your dreams. I’m hungry!

No one really wants to talk of dreams.

They’re dull to hear about and hard to describe,

so no one can truly converse on dreams

with any great degree of pleasure.

But isn’t that such a shame?

It’s a great annoyance!

These visions, absurd and haunting,

which bombard and abuse,

stealing your memory from you,

causing you to play along in a game you didn’t choose,

the puppet to your synapses!

You remember fucking your enemy in the ass and singing Brittany Spears,

and you remember cutting down a tree with your forearms to eat the worms inside,

And you remember chanting to a storm about your mother’s fair hair,

And you remember offering your fingernails as snacks to desperate children,

And you remember vomitting because you drank too much water from the bog,

And you remember how your key melted in the door lock,

And you remember trying to explain your tears to a judge, who shook his head in slow-motion,

And you remember ripping the hair off of a little rabbit because you thought it’s expressions were hi-larious,

And you remember breaking through the ice on the ocean with your heal, and pulling out the first blue whale to swim by,

And wasn’t it fantastic! Terrifying! Wonderous!

You mind made such a story,

Which can never be related properly.

There have been Max Ernst paintings who have frozen these active worlds,

And Dali films which have provided a realistic stream of events of the stream of conscious,

but what of your odd dreams?

I wish I could see them.

I would probably hate you and love you if I saw what you saw.

But I would smile,

since none of those images have any substance,

and are the most telling of all.

By: Sarah C Louise

Painting by Max Ernst

 

Miss Weirdo

Miss weirdo got weird at around five,

When her heart acted up as Hootie and the Blowfish played

on the technology-station stereo

Causing an arm-swarm, sway-array

Which worried her polly-pocket-scene-director friend

And depleated the numbers at her staple lunch table.

Miss weirdo never said much,

but performed a rather rousing rapture

of the Skylanders rap

in a near whisper

for the talent show,

Between “Winter Song” and “I Hope You Dance”.

Miss Weirdo ordered a cat and rat skull for her 15th birthday,

To better understand the bed of the brain,

But hid them upon arrival,

For fear that anyone should ever know,

And eventually through them out with Tuesday’s trash,

relieved to be free of her weird idea.

And when Miss Weirdo graduated,

She found herself standing alone beside a fire,

While behind her someone got hit in the head with a shovel,

And someone got laid in a porta potty,

And someone got sick in the back seat of a steamy volvo.

Miss Weirdo prefered last night star musings,

By the dark, dense river,

to the rouge lounge hovel,

But longed constantly to be Miss Weirdo no more.

She made a plan,

to be a better conversationalist,

and a better companion,

and plans became rocky actions

and rocky actions became skewed intentions

and skewed intentions became awkward reactions,

which made her feel

all the more

a weirdo to the core.

The only thing which gave Miss Weirdo a feeling of

serenity

was to paint her weirdo visions,

and write out her weirdo dreams,

and act on her weirdo plots,

and share her weirdo schemes,

and then one day,

a not-so-special someone remarked

“you’re really fucking weird”,

and Miss Weirdo replied,

“why yes, I am”

with a juicy smile

and wicked eyes.

By Sarah C Louise

Where are the Edmonton Eccentrics?

Where is the woman who dines each night in the company of a chimp and a couple of gazelles?

Where is the artist who experiments with throwing paint cans at moving cars?

Where are the children who design backyard stages for productions of Titanic?

Where are the herds of demons summoned by the river valley wizard?

Where is that couple who makes their house out of glass?

Where is that lady who stands at the corner passing out the feet of old crows?

Where is that team of gothic devotees who constructed their own language to better be misunderstood?

Where is that wacko who created their own radio station to announce the astronomical dooms of the near and dear future?

Where is the nut-case who collects garbage from the river and designs gross, smelly statues for brand new condos?

Where is the man with 100 unaccounted for dogs who roams in mill creek in the mid-evening, searching for signs of his long lost child?

Where is the queen with the cafe of kooks who dance to rough rap and explore the extent of bodily pleasures?

Where is the psycho who cooks stews with little lamb blood?

There is that house on University Ave with the grand wooden star,

And that woman who hoarded 500 rabbits deep in the southwest*

And that guy who flew a plane under the high level bridge as a gesture of his love to his fiance.

Maybe I’m not looking in the right places.

Maybe they’re out of sight!

But I would love to see a few more oddities,

For eccentrics make life a delight.

Perhaps I should fill the roll

And make my peculiarity more strange

I can think of 100 things I could try,

Though true eccentricism is never arranged.

There are too many places that look plain

Too many people who keep their bizzarities shut in

I want to see all the craziest crazies!

And see how their days have been.

By Sarah C Louise

*http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/2012/06/11/edmonton-rabbit-hoarder_n_1587902.html

 

Oh! What Fun! The Bizarre Overdone!

There are no virtues in the virtual world

But there are often crews who act cruely

There is no son of the sun itself

But the planets know the plans of the sea

The government is governed; The city is cited,

But the wind cannot control a standing tree.

And friends can be fiends when friday ends,

As the french hate fries and there’s good in goodbyes.

And the infidels aspire to spark absurd trends

But the Jocks will throw blocks at any one who tries.

And Elves delve in the charade of the shade

Hiding mouths with their hushing fingers

And the dog will lick clean the floor where cheese gleans

And the child will hover where chocolate lingers,

But I once saw a shadow beyond the shade of a tree

And a bird with more words than Socrates.

If you would ride with the still river tide

Then you’d fall in love with the mud and the weeds

And the fire was sparkling while I was Joan-of-Arc-ing

to the busy clouds swirling in the strawberry sky.

But the wave of the pavement procured a new statement;

There were radio waves flying by,

the spots on the Aloe made children feel shallow

For a spotted cure can’t cure the sick

And the knees of the bees burst to smithereens

when the cat smiled at the riled candlewick

Dogs have their toots and Queens have their poops

and the darsh-gonnet ministers will stay

And the churches have windows that are all filled in

You’ll get sweaty hands when you pray.

Old-hat uranium and last-week’s plutonium

spill over brand-new lunolium floors

And mothers will cry, they will weep! They will sigh!

When you dent up their acura doors.

You’ve got no candy in your little fancy jars

So buy some more quirky containers.

The mailman’s a woman, the fire chief’s a trans

and puritans are really the blamers.

The rocking chair is frozen and will crumble with a swing

The dish and the spoon have no legs.

Holiday vegetarians and homely vegans are tired,

they eat roast pork and buttered-up eggs.

The bushes were naked and so was your father

When the planes hit the towers that morn.

but when we searched for the graves of the ones who weren’t saved

The grass was ramped and the words were worn.

No one wants to be a capitalist’s whore

But the money can buy silk pajamas.

Even Shakespeare ate cake at morning, noon, and night

When he shared his bright golden stanzas.

No one likes papaya and nobody wants peas

But they’re stacking in dumpsters down the road.

You can’t kiss the boy you have stared at for months

So you gave up and made out with a toad.

 

Isn’t it queer? These words I have here?

Shouldn’t there be some air of reason?

Do you hate them? Despise them?

Wish to print and shred them?

Don’t hesitate, I implore you to burn them.

Or even learn from them

Or offer them to worms in your garden

But if you should touch them

Or hush them

Or spurn them,

Then my words have won you

For then you have read them!

And they are bizarre!

And they are ABSURD

And they aren’t professional

And they aren’t prefered

But you’ve have a dose

Or my silly medicine

And perhaps, if you liked it,

You might come again.

I hope they were strange, my phrases and puns!

For oh! What fun! The bizarre overdone!

By Sarah C Louise

 

 

 

 

The Poxy Post – Tuesday Review – EDUCATION CONSTIPATION

We at the Poxy Post have received complaint from an instructor at one of the Cogito schools of the Edmonton School Board (which will remain unnamed for the sake of maintaining Poxy’s persistently fictional status), of a most shitty situation. The instructor has been interrupted throughout every day of his “immeasurable” lessons by the unsettling sound of lavatory action.

“When your classroom is located across the hall from the largest washroom in the school there is no hope of maintaining an orderly lesson with already obdurate students”, explains Archie Archibald, who has taught in this same room for the last decade. “I have had enough! While outlining the regimented rules of an assignment students will be giggling because of the disruptive and unmistakable poofing echoing through the halls! When it is time to lay out the unfortunate results of an exams, which I am confident is a result from the unbearable distractions of plopping and wizzing, goodness! How can anyone feel at all at ease when all through the day one is subject to such polluting noise!” The principal, Mrs. Stanley, was not available for comment, since the subject was too embarrasing for her to address.

The school was built originally in the 60’s, during a wave of “openness” in the design of schools. These ambitions of “hding nothing from the student body” had the original intention of alleviating students from the tention of closed doors and hidden subjects. “There was an effort to create schools which embraced the natural qualities of every person. The mixed bathroom design was the first of it’s kind in the otherwise unnecessarily ‘traditional’ structure of schools, which often upheld ancient attitudes. So, the idea was to get it all out in the open”, says Dr. Rehmhart, a professor of Architecture at the University of Alberta. It seems, however, that this dream of transparency has gone a little too far.

“It’s gone beyond the point of being a silly little joke for the kids. I think some of them feel as disgusted as I do, though there are always the few who will never seem to get over the poop jokes. And that’s the other thing! I was never the sort of person who would say the wretched words attached to such a subject, like “poop” and “pee”, but I have now been struggling with this problem for too long to put myself above those words. My life is poop. Something must be done!”

Mr. Archibald demanded that the school’s budget be directed entirely to industrial doors, though Principal Stanley won’t have the funds to support such an investment after buying the elaborate costume for their school mascot: the skunk, Sampson the Subjugator. Much of the budget was put toward fire-proofing, to prevent the same end of the last mascot costume.

By Sarah C Louise