Monday, May 12, 2014

Gone to Pasture before You Know It

It’s when the few dazed village 
Old-timers left weave through 
The automobile-overrun streets 
Looking for the nearest 
Iron loop bolted to any building 
They used to tie their asses to. 


  1. this is a good one...... much to my liking, / tone /& temper
    me-thinks that all of these things (in my mind) are too quickly go
    -ing away..... but not from progress

    old donkeys never die
    they just carry tourists
    up to the Lindoz Acropolis

    1. Ed,

      the poem's priceless!!

      I took, though I could've bloody well walked, the donkey up to John's cave on Patmos.

  2. Thanks, Ed. You might be heartened by the fact that donkeys are making a comback over here; she-ass milk is the latest rage, very nutritious and very expensive and is also used in the making of olive-oil soap. So they are being reared for these things and not exclusively for hauling fat-assed tourists up rocky mountains--hee-haw!

  3. 45 years old, I'm already wandering around town in a daze looking for the very same iron loops. And I never even owned a donkey.

  4. The way the luck has been running lately, I'm more than ready to tie my ass to anything that looks like it won't blow away by morning.

    And I mean ANYTHING -- even the marginalia of a collapsing empire of university-funded psychoanalytic readings of 'A Reading'.

    (Vassilis, if it weren't for the pleasant visits to the margin here, one would never become aware of these astounding advances in the comfortable effusion of b.s.)

    No, on second thought, that iron loop might be preferable.

  5. Tom and Jonathan (and anyone else out there looking for something more exciting to do on a Saturday night than stay at home closely reading Ms Dahlen’s tome).

    1. Thanks Vassilis. An interesting, and certainly unexpected diversion.

      It'll make a nice alternative to the Champions League final next weekend.

    2. Dunno, hard choice. Those Spaniards do put on a fair kickabout, but.... think I'll just stop in at the old haunted house as usual, watch a few car crashes out front (there was a dandy today, three vehicles totalled), whistle a bit of Disney through my deviated septum, pour myself a cup of rancid soy milk and then tuck into the psychoanalytic reading of a reading of A Reading of "A Reading" of...

      (Hey, Vassilis, where are Huuklye and Cinquor when we who haunt the shadows of your margins most need 'em?!!)

  6. Scuttlebutt has it Huuk's going to come barging into the outhouse door any minute now looking for any used reading material nailed to a rusty nail on the wall next to the stool.


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