Entropy Without Harlots
Interlinear is the best
Little whorehouse in the West
I go there for a long hard snort
At weekends when I'm o'er-raught
The girls there are a sassy kind
Who do not care what's on your mind
But only what lies in the wallet
And inside the what-y'may-call-it
Such periphrasis is not their style
They favour gin, not camomile
They wear their skirts around their hips
Amd spend the night in rubbish-skips
With pillows made from blown-up condoms
Abandonnés par les grands-hommes
Who only speak of French a little
When their mouths are choked with spittle
Interlinear stole my heart
Then upset mine applecart
When from its hostelry I fled
And left my liver in the bed
Than from me they got more sense
With every epigram immense
By flattening it a thousandfold
With massive myths so long untold
But I was hustler number one
Who purchased candles by the ton
(Preferring not the metric kind)
And hooch by diverse tricks refined
(By fire made mortal, then reviled)
To effervesce within each child
As a glowing hard-boiled egg
To swell the bosom, stretch the leg,
Just as in those novels by Camus
(What a Gallic ignoramus!)
Where Rieux chased the giant fox,
And Jean Tarrou foreswore the pox
(Such men as they can Time forget?
Their silence, or their silhouette?)
In dreams like these I spent long hours
Until I lost all earthly powers
Interlinear - the Surrealists' way
We have no option but obey !
Magritte! (Breton?) Masters all!
We have no choice but heed their call !
Thus, in dreams' resouceful pot,
Interlinear hits the spot
Interlinear: need I commend
The sailor to the sailor's friend
The hammock to the length of rope
The barmaid to the bar of soap?
| Contributors: | Apsley, Surlaw, Esrom. |
| Poem finished: | 15th November 2001. |