Monday, September 14, 2009
When I Say I'm But a Poor Servant on Holiday at the Hacienda's Backyard Shack, You Say B.S.
"Coffee and dominatrix toffee, quick!" To bully . . .
or not to be, bully that they are, is the answer by
itself, by cycles that glide downhill beyond
burros from Chile (not here), behind bisons
from America (are past and not welcome, 'bye).
Believe me when I tell you. Burritos is bad
only when you're full, is fine when the banduria
begins hungry trills, a ballad my abused maid sings
in Bisaya, sounding something bee-like, business
in theatrical gaps, screaming, yaya!---broad
breath in the orgasmic moment, bouillabaisse
for my tendrils, diaphanous to my creaturely bent
that matters most when our masters do not bell
a ring-like tone to deafened ears: wham, bang, your bed
is red. And they're blue with envy, wallowing in their bullshit.