When Richard Flatus Blew His Horn

for lovely Courtney

When Richard Flatus blew his horn,
All the kinky girls came that day,
Singing: “¡Oye! ¡Oye! ¡Oye!
Do me break-a-dawnee!”

And the wise old platypus came out
Insane, pouring gasoline over the
Fires of love.

There ran beautiful ragazzini italiani,
Which have swallowed the sun raw
And uncooked, while the moon was
Still baking in the oven.

I looked for you, my love, on this
Jubilee of my despair—
You had eyelids of gold that radiated
Rays of delight onto your
Perfectly diamond-shaped breasts,

While Richard Flatus was blowing
His horn, wiping his greasy lips with
The pages of the old Bible,
And the beautiful ragazzini italiani
Mangiavano molto pasta—
Macaroni con formaggio—
Or something like that,

And you were like a beautiful moon,
Stretched out on these sheets of
My half baked verse like
A scrumptious lasagna—

You had those eyes that spoke of
Italy and la dolce vita,
With your skin like olive oil
And your heart of abbondanza—
You were the richest woman in the world,
Spreading butter upon this dry toast
Of my existence,

And I was like some et cetera,
Caught up in misplaced verbs
And pointless modifiers—
Like sweet sorrow and bitter joy—
I felt helpless and lost,
While Richard Flatus was blowing
His horn, and the Indian chieftain
Sucked his long peace pipe like
Some tramp sucking on a dildo—

And I knew it was love
Because I was lost in rumination
About something very beautiful
Like sunny Italy and the girls
At the beach—

And you were like a scandal
In a public place, exploding
Mad thoughts to the obscene
Public without underwear—

Yes, they ate it all up,
Knowing nothing of the beautiful
Seeds that took roots in the hearts

On that day,
When Richard Flatus blew his horn
And I discovered
The spontaneity of
Love.


  July 30, 2007
--Alexander Shaumyan