[Newspoetry] "I saw three ships" song

[DL Emerick]

Crossed Words, Crosses and Words in an Ex-Crescent Time:

Deconstructive explains fertility; a constructive justification
for preceding poem (song) with a stretch in a sketch book?

 

Stimulus 1:  Occasion.  It’s Christmas Day, in lands where I live.



Grouch 1: drinking bars are closed, singing bars are vibrant:
world wallows in sty sense; words wasted on mangers.
In stasis, time can’t be happening to me; I scream a stream --
yellow as water leaving me in arc archaic before its time.



Grouch 2: war beats are different drummers in holy lands, hallowing hollow war.



Offish thought 1:
What do three ships have to do with either song – sailing or assailing anywhere?
Why three and no other and no fewer?  Why ships, anyway?



Stimulus 2 – 28,400,00 hits – many more promotions than true hits – duplicity --
Washington DC is well-known, has renown, a noun for Washington Dupli-City –
as in a city that can tell no truth, named for a man who could not tell lies!
Washington Irving showed us only some of a Delphic Oracular Sketch-Book:
Deconstruction says “Under every meaning is an equal and opposite meaning --
created by the same force of action as the hidden things of some reaction.”
Every construction hides from our view all the other sides of its meaning.
Deconstruction thus worries about ghosts; life boats for meaning machines:
it won’t float; it won’t fly; it never leaves the ground, so meaning says, in
outcry.



Stimulus 69: songs and poems – only the lonely have them.
Joke heard at bar last night --
So, an old fellow like me goes to a whore house for his 69th birthday;
He explains the occasion of his birthday to the Madame; she says “Choose.”
He surveys the babes in the scene, and points her points out.
The Madam waves the chosen one over to him;
She asks, “Want to do some sixty-nine times with me,
my dearie, my derriere in the dairy air?”
He’s confused by the languidness of her language phrase, her period phase,
so she explains sixty-nine, non-numerically, in personal tones of flesh and
blood.
He nods a knowing understanding, saying “Aye, condescendingly, I do, I do.”
He winks a dinky-winky of his consent in her eye, as if he plans to marry her;
Up in a bawdy bedroom she engages him,
ala sixty-nine, memes ‘n paps, papas-n-mommas.
He’s heaving and ho-ing when she heaves-ho,
flesh refreshingly farting in his old fleshy face.
He finally finishes anyway, though coming in last none-the-less –

Segue: “A true race is against time,” says Heidegger,
blown by Hannah’s-hand-jobs, Aryan handmaiden, Arendt arrant --
Thus, he sponsored a spanking for speaking of dissident Jews,
as they had no time for his “Heil” though they’d see in hell --
He was for closing their mouths, for stilling their tongues,
for filling all Earth with their being,
in graveyards of no grave care to him.

She asks, “Wanna go again, baby?  Sorry about scratching sounds!”
He says, “No, I can’t take sixty-eight more of your scratch-and-sniffs!”
Dumb joke? Ya-gotta-be, ya-wanna-be, ya-gotta-wanna-be-a-wanna-be
to-be-one so stinking drunk as to think he can appreciate such thoughts;
Sober minded persons depreciate them; they desire not-to-be-one
(they put in their “I” where it is not needed nor wanted - a voyeurism)
unless they, too, have passed such winds unwinding in the winding act;
toot-toot-tooting both horns and horniness, to be darn-tooting sure.

Six by nine, nine by six?  Are you a sexy six or just a naughty nine?



Deconstruction re-creates the world: it’s DC to anal AC analytics;
the texture of the world is not architecture, though its skin-deep --
DC restores world to its original state of ignorance before sin or sex;
no alternating current is left untapped of its power source citations.



Offish thought 2: Sin and sex – equivalent?  Be not so standoffish?



In a standoff, or even in a set of stanzas, timing –
even rhythm and rhyme – matter more than content:
you want to be content?  Play along with me awhile;
be not so discordant.  Contentedness is being empty.



The Truth?  Thinking is the original sin; it creates a void –
when you stop following your thoughts, you’re open to sin.
The sign of sin is consumption -- eating, not sex, per se –
even when it’s sixty-nine, once, or sixty-nine times done in --
it is the appetite that is never satisfied by any thing ever eating it;
hunger subs sex for thinking; easier to reproduce than to produce.



A matrix is a square array, in one account; in another, a matrix is a womb;
Latin?  “Matrix: female kept for breeding purposes” – Virgin? Ask Mary;
Revelation structures an origin, by originary and originating structure --
prophesy, in essential sense of criticism, says what comes of or from it.



The days of Christmas mark the start of anti-semiticism’s origin:
Christians and Muslims are born anti-semitic rivals, twins.
Wars of Christians and Muslims as sibling sparring is likely,
as each fights for birth-right blessings of father Abraham:
Each insists that it has the absolute, a total right of inheritance
and wishes the old man were dead so inheritance vests in him.



Freud on Moses says the band of brothers become men of a tribe
when they united, killed and ate their father, in communion;
Freud almost, in book on Moses, adopts Jungian arch-memory;
tribal lore perpetuates old lines of penile-vena v-i-p symbols;
culture is nothing but manipulative representation of old symbols;
its dreams are memories of things past, long past, in live-update.



Only Jews talk to God, according to Scriptures old and new.
What do they say, “So long and thanks for all the of-fish songs?” 
(Adams was a second p-resident, v-peeing for the sterile first.)
Notice how a Father of his nation won a war for his patrimony;
patriot sons project it on other lands, in wars for democracy.
Judaism is only just for those choosing to be Jews, alone --
it forces no conversions nor coversions – only some circumcision;
it lacks an appetite for perpetrating ways of penetrating force -- 
it has no unlimited hunger to re-make all into its own self-image.



The three ships are wor-ships or war-ships – one is not the other:
Jew and Christian and Muslim – Father Son and Holy-Ghost, perhaps?
Fathers only have to keep their sons divided in order to rule –
the Babel lesson applied equally to Babylon and its babble:
a baby talk for a day cerebrating on an alleged baby’s birthday:
peace-on-earth as rest-in-peace, piecewise but not peace-wise?



What do computers do when their masters are on holiday?
They spin idle tests of core logic from their matrix bored.
Does anyone understand randomness except as the unexpected?
The unexpected appeals to no series, nor to a line of descent;
It acts as a genetic irregularity, a mutation, a putative divergence.
The truest sense of creation is not just a since of the words,
but forms some new meaning, unique and authentically original.

 

Termination is possible, even in word games, a cross word puzzle.
What makes a game of anything is a decision on how it may end.
Meaning is a game of substitutions, which are plays in the game.
Computer language directly translates words into implied actions:
some of the words are objects, nouns, things to be acted upon;
the living words act by animating life-less data object-things:
can you hear the machine humming as it loves its words to death?

 

Straight talk from the horse’s-mouth is just like the Word of God:
repeated by asses -- it’s yet more bull-shit from wine-drunk Baal.
Yes, it issues from a windy orifice, an ass-talking, backwards, farting.
Sixty nine?  Do you hear sucking sounds a sotto-voce vacuum makes, solo?
Suck on “one” awhile, mono-maniacal monotheistic big one; mono-a-mono.
Spurt seed implants the inklings of ideas, a squirming, wriggling snaky way.
Culture’s au pair: skin-tight stretch pants, behind hiding panty-waste lines.
Bend over backwards; accommodate me, doggie style, dog-eat-dog style;
Oh, mad-dogs in manger, in manger management, a la mange mangy mutts;
a la mongrels, Allah-me to introduce you to each other, to put on a show:
Adam, Eve; Eve, Adam; a damn naïve, a navy dame; an eave, am done.

(Eat my shorts, Pearl S Buck – Thank Father, indeed!
I do more on Christmas mourning than you only read.)

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