one word chuck: berry
I must confect:
the blood was real,
the berry lines were
calling & time
was all a-dither,
whether here or there,
whether the sins were calling me
or I them:
which would you choose, if
the answers were in the sharing?
the blood was real,
the berry lines were
calling & time
was all a-dither,
whether here or there,
whether the sins were calling me
or I them:
which would you choose, if
the answers were in the sharing?
Labels: boozle
posted by murat11 at 11:23 PM
18 Comments:
Does "chuck" here refer to its meaning in Shakespeare's time or are you channeling jivy musicians again?
I love the lines "time was all a-dither" and "whether the sins were calling me or I them" (no wonder you are so perturbed by a convention of collared clergy).
What pray tell is a boozle?
The rhythm in this suggest jivy musician, it really swings along, but some of the other lines are reminiscent of bawdy Elizabethan sentiments... maybe it's a dual-edged poem.
berry??? we waited all day for BERRY?? Props for using this prompt. I went dead blank thud...
Teresa: Chuck Berry wuz/iz a jivy Elizabethan of the first rank. Bawdy beyond compare. And surely the collared would be anathema to the brother.
A boozle is one that has not yet been bam'd.
Ms Dee: Now you're sounding like the resident Muravian ranter...:-D
And to think that I once complained of sandal.
I like the beginning of your poem: dead blank thud is a great line.
dead blank thud
the line on the other end
said why not
but thud was blanking
& I had no taste for more,
after the evenings long
perils, easy confections,
and loaded guns:
entry in your diary,
Schnozz, if you're still
man enuff to share,
pictures at the exhibition
icons of your stare.
I just noticed another interesting point in the poem: "I must confect". Was that a typo or is Chuck also baking strawberry shortcakes, blackberry pies, and raspberry cobblers while jivving along in his bawdy Elizabethan manner. You have so much good food on this blog...
Teresa: I was off on some bizarre search for information about why, in the older days, only Catholic priests drank the Communion wine: the minions were only served bread. The Holy Roman Empire seems to have squelched all mention of this, but while surfing, I found mention of a priest who did not serve wine because he was a recovering alcoholic. The question was raised as to the validity of the sacrament. The response was that the priest did not confect a complete sacrament. I loved the use of the word, knew it had to go somewhere.
Soon after, we confected the sacred Black Cows.
And did you fizz your nose in less than five minutes?
You seem to do a lot of bizarre searches.
I find it also interesting that Joshua's Chinese Black Ox sobriquet can be also translated to Black Cow in English. The Chinese do not differentiate among their bovines. He will enjoy it if I confect a sacred Black Cow for the heroic Black Ox Prince.
His head may also swell up to three times its normal size and burst with pride, pleasure and brain freeze... But we'll mop that up when it happens.
Teresa: I celebrated the internet as an objective correlative to the synaptic chaos of my own tangential inner workings: it was a match made in cyberheaven.
I love the Black Cow/Black Ox synergy: there is something wonderfully ontological in all this: the Simarillion of Chinese mythology. It's all so mythically fizzy.
T: As for the <5 minute barrier for consumption: any properly confected Black Bovine should assuredly disappear in under 5. Keeps the buoyancy factor down, and ushers you right along to Phase II: the follow-up BB.
BB as in big belch???
Teresa: I suppose that is a possibility; I was thinking of the obligatory follow-up Black Bovine. Surely, one can only lead to the need/desire for a second round.
It seemed that so much lactose combined with fizz and brain freeze would necessitate a big belch before one could inhale a second black bovine, but maybe that's just me.
dead blank thud - glad I threw that at you! It stuck to the wall - frameable :)
T: I think it's just you, but only because, after years of chasing the sacred cows, we are, indeed, professionals. We can arrange for low-residency certification.
Ms Dee, you're the genius who threw the awesome first line. I love your Michigan country girl throwdowns.
Well, Mr. Professional Bovine Wrangler, is this perhaps the root hair of the rodeo poem for Sunday? Rhinestones, root beer, and Asian princes who ruled China... You combined it all. kudos to you.
No, kudos to you, Sister Teresa: I can't get over how wonderfully root hair slant rhymes with root beer.
Post a Comment
<< Home