Thursday, November 02, 2006

I am a Leech Field

I am a Leech Field

A poem by Inkki Garibaldi delivered at the opening of the brand new Tater Holler Township Squash and Turnip Monument in front of a crowd of mainly four to five year olds. Inkki was later asked to apologize which she refused to do, saying that her art speaks for itself.

I am a Leech Field

I am a Leech Field
Rising up through me is all sorts of (expletive)
Across my soggy mud
The dogs chase cats and cats chase mice
I am a compost heap where the possums root
And worms and rolly pollys dig out
citizens together in the warm smelly earth
Showing the dry grassy wheat
what it means to be moist
I kept the ground warm through the winter.

I am an old rusty bucket
With holes so big
You can see right through
And tetanus growing on each metal tooth
Rutted turf
Discarded melon rinds
Cinder blocks
And a broken shovel

I am a dead bird
An old baseball
Dog vomit grass
A worm infested tomato

I am a roughly rectangular area of approximately 1/6 of an acre
I am a couple of broken plastic spoons
I am a half-buried tire
Half-filled with water
Birthplace to ten thousand mosquitos
Bringing rhthym to the garden each time it rains

I have watched the birds fly South in the winter
And fly north again in the summer
Crapping all over me both ways.

I am not a son of a (expletive) like the front yard
Mowed and aerated like a (expletive) prissy (expletive)
I will not use the color of my grass to cover the (expletive) underneath
I am not a (expletive) garden whore letting little garden gnomes (expletive) me in the (expletive)

I am a Mulch pile
Mouldering in peace


Standifer Evasto Visum said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Standifer Evasto Visum said...

And what a lovely lass of the leech I'd bet she is...

Reminds me of a former girlfriend I once "knew" - Purdie Sands; what a filthy hippie she was, despite the lovely monicker.

I still suffer from a bizarre form of hypochondriasis to this day - constantly getting tested for fear of some delayed-reaction disease that her funk might have implanted on some obscure organ buried deep within my body (God knows what she's done to my soul).

Man, she was filthy. Her thoughts were even filthy, and it was like, they were so filthy they'd taken on physical form. Like some filthy beast that would appear over the bed when she had her evil thoughts.

I bet her soap was even dirty.

She probably never had a clean thought, ever.

You know, I've spent thousands in blood work.

Well, lesson learned, and learned well.

Now, if only there were an innoculation to wash her memory from my mind...oh, what vast fortunes I would spend!

Nice poem, by the way!

Danged nasty ol' memory.


Xavier Martel said...

Excellent! Verbosity in shining luminescence! This rendition is only tainted by the execrable censorship of the author's daring expletives.