To Hell with Prosody!

So i figured i'd post some poetry... rather befitting a doctor of bloated-alien baby verse tee-hee.
This piece first appeared in an untitled tome of poems (the green book) i put out in the summer of 06.

Donald Lev, the bearded archon of New York coffeeshop epigrams was kind enough to publish this ditty
(minus the music in this and all contexts in the name of all things holy) in his quarterly publication
"Home Planet News."

Enjoy my delicate snow flakes.

Exiles Human Sushi

Amid the flowing rapture, full bodied caramel.
Sky is hell red, dreamy eyes stranded.

We’ve got to bury this hatchet, It’s getting old.
We’ve got to bury this red-light before it seesaws you raw.
We’ve got to get back our fingertips,
and bury these sooty meat cuts in the patio section.

Thinking of things that can top each others miserable company;
Like no-doze ronin demanding sweet rice, refuge and beer.

Something soft and somehow slightly wet caressed the inline of your temple.
The serum of your injury ran down your rundown torso.
And you said “mankind suffers the little children, sucking joyfully.”
And your words became you.

A snow white leper riving watermelon steaks,
Setting up and sending out wakame sake and love bites for the lady boy geishas.

And you said
“I like to play with my food before I swallow” and so you did.
Carrying your broken English like a handbag.
I see so much of myself in you.


Your dotty to call that the “breakfast of wastrels“,
It’s obviously a “broadband brunch” with violent comedy options.
Your clothes are all ripped up, your moneys in the streets. Your in the end inessential, but it’ll be just fine by me.
Accommodating a bunch of sportsters with their punch-perms and swords, sifting through the refuse for their disconnected pinkies.
And through all of this human sushi, not a single female body.

A thousand years of cold handshakes, just within reach.
I like to sneak in at night and lay down on the table saw...
They fine-tuned insomnia for the yakuza!

Honeyed integument---sweetmeat gaudy redskins had taken them,
nailing them naked to colored.

A small rustle of wings in sacred woods, In singing phosphorus,
muzzles low hanging speckled emerald.

And all these worlds lead back to her rosy navel and rows of deep ocean.


© Justin F. Parrinello (August 2006)
*- Exiles Human Sushi appeared in Home Planet News issue #63