Ancient Evenings

You were naked, wet, primeval, beautiful by jungle pool
And I offered what I’d made with crudely fashioned tools
Strange nights by that strange new fire
As the crescent moon rose higher

Golden were your oiled shoulders under the Egyptian sun
I served you hauling boulders and was crushed when bearing one
Peaceful in in the sand infernal
For your glory was eternal

Once, in silks, you waved farewell as I rode to the crusades
And I screamed your name and charged on unbeliever’s blades
I was true to you, by hell:
I’m not that kind of infidel

I recall you were resplendent when they tried you as a witch
And I loved you, independent of your philters in my dish
I could not break the stockade’s bond
To save you from the ducking pond

I remember at Versailles, in that bergère chair
Your powdered wigs & perfumes, and all that underwear
The worst thing was we never wed
We simply went and lost our heads

On ancient evenings, in ancient times
I would have wooed you with silvered rhymes
I would have sung you this ancient song
Our days are precious, the night is long

 

 

 

Haiku Again

The walls and ceilings
Are constructs, they don’t exist
But the floor is real

Drawings I Can’t Fully Explain fig. 2,732

FrankenZombie&Kukla

Kukla, Frankenstein and Olives? The olives aren’t obvious, but that might have been where my subconscious was going.

Today’s Pulp Purchase: The Life and Times of the Shmoo

ShmoobookShmooGuard

This book was pressed repeatedly into service (This edition is like the seventh printing within 2 years) when the Great Shmoo Craze of the late 1940’s was at its apex, and before my friend Laurel’s Grandfather was left with hundreds of unsaleable plaster Shmoos, which he abandoned in an attic in Royal Oak, MI. I like to think they’re still standing there…

Al Capp was the evil genius behind the Shmoo, who live to serve mankind, to serve mankind joyfully of their own delicious little bodies,  which when flambéed taste like fugu and when spatchcocked taste like heritage ptarmigan.

This specific book is a cynical,  horrible pastiche of excerpted drawings ripped from the strip, thinly linked with a halfassed written narrative. featuring distracting construction-paper colored margins and backgrounds. Frank Frazetta was Al Capp’s ghost artist, so there’s that, sometimes. And the cover itself is delightful.

How to Drive in Detroit

1. Not “I-75.” It’s the CHRYSLER FREEWAY if you’re motorvatin’ between Downtown Detroit and Pontiac, or the FISHER FWY from Downtown Detroit on Downriver

2. Ain’t “I-94″ that goes East to Port Huron and West to Chicago. It’s the EDSEL FORD FWY

3. It’s not “I-96 ” that comes out of Downtown and heads for Brighton, Lansing and points West, It’s the JEFFRIES (alternately known as the ROSA PARKS for the 3 miles between Ford Rd. and the Fisher Freeway, more recently)

4. It’s not “I-696″ running parallel to 11 Mile Road between I-275 and the Edsel Ford, It’s the WALTER P. REUTHER FWY.

5. It’s not “M-10.” It’s the JOHN C. LODGE

6. It’s not “M-8.” It’s the DAVISON

7. It’s not “M-39.” It’s the SOUTHFIELD FWY

…if you refer to TELEGRAPH as US-24, Le Nain Rouge will bite off your kneecaps

Today’s Pulp Purchase: The Case of the Sun Bather’s Diary

sunbather'sdiary

Pretty dark for sunbathing, isn’t it? Lost in the 1950’s collage-style forest, nude but for a red book (Jungian reference). Great Cardinal logo, too.

I wish they hadn’t kneecapped her with the byline.

Today’s Pulp Purchase: Slab Happy

Slab Happy.jpg

Sample simile: “He had a size 20 neck, fists like large beef roasts, and arms like legs.” 

Shell Scott, L.A. P.I., sure gets beat up a lot, acts like an haplessly oversexed Bichon Frise around beautiful Hollywood Starlets and engages in some Spillane-Level messy violence, but he’s a delightful cut-up:

Doctor Clark said, smiling, “Oh, you’re a doctor?”
“Not exactly.” I grinned. “Sometimes I patch up problems. But my operations are usually, well, sort of unusual. You might call me one of the unorthodocs.” 

HA!

I haven’t yet come to the scene where the 70’s girl in the bikini perches on the coffin with a machine gun, but I am looking forward to it. That kind of iconic scene is what sells 40 million books

 

 

 

 

Today’s Pulp Purchase: Stranger in Town

StrangerinTown

Not a TERRIBLE Mike Shayne Mystery, although, spoiler, evil abortionists.

Mike Shayne, Miami P.I., has red hair and is therefore short-tempered, and he drinks cognac, which gives you differentiation in the bar scene. The broad depicted on the cover is described inside as having blonde ringlets, so it’s not a PERFECT representation for this book, but a pretty perfect cover for something.

Sample simile: “Hands the size of picnic hams” -bothers me because of ham/hand is slant-homonymous, but I appreciate how it doesn’t overshoot to Dinner-Ham-Sized Hands, which would be ridiculous.

 

Today’s Pulp Purchase: The Case of the Daring Decoy

DaringDecoy

Two highball glasses? This is what happens when you fall down the 12 steps.

Do What You Love & Follow Your Dreams

“Follow your dreams & do what you love!”
Cried Melva Wisconsin, unheard above,
Folding an exquisite newspaper boat,
Treading wellwater and barely afloat.

“Do what you love & follow your dreams!”
Wept Charles Golightly, stitching the seams
of a velveteen brocaded satin-lined vest
In which his pet oyster refused to be dressed.

“Follow your dreams & do what you love!”
Intoned Suzie Nackvirst, pulling on gloves
and building a castle of catpoop and spittle,
and nobody liked it, not even a little.

“Do what you love & follow your dreams!”
Sighed Pierre Fiero, who sculpted, in steam,
For a moment, a seascape with narwhals and ships,
That drifted away as he died of the grippe.

 

4/2017
 

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