So sitting here sipping on scotch while Morgan prepares some eggs at near midnight, I decided to try a sort of a Madlib poem with her. I wrote stream of consciousness and yelled questions that she answered and her answers went straight in. I continued writing non-stop. The results:
It’s twelve-o-clock and I’m tired, my feet are sore,
The airport is far away,
My bottle of red has one sip left.
On a scale of one to ten I am a nine,
And God is stupid.
Don’t judge me,
I told the judge I was pregnant,
And they dropped all charges.
I want to go swimming at the pool,
Diving in the shallow end like risk,
But I’d prefer scrabble like my brains,
Not scrambled but hard-boiled,
Accompanied by 3 cats,
Flanking me like battle hardened
Alligators, ready to conquer
The bayou of your souls,
I will make you swivel your pelvis
Like Elvis,
You’ll climb to the top
Of Big Pink buildings,
And purple mountains,
To ask me how the hell
I got here.
What?
How?
This doesn’t make sense?
Zitty Booger Head.
Doesn’t have to.
Prose.
Like Poe,
Sappy like Fabio
On the cover of a book,
You want a second look,
But you’ve been blinded,
By science,
My brain evolved for this.
This is what married people do...
Enjoy.
No comments:
Post a Comment