Et Patati Et Patata
'I was born postimpressed,
a stillborn aesthetic.
Life has been l/ watching Death
warmedup undressing,'
bitterly bragged Petey Peters' guest,
monologuing w/ nihilistic pride.
His nabokovonymical host otherwise engrossed,
streaming Kunt & the Chipmunks,
bluescreen comatose.' 93, his last GCSE
- Petey Peters had skinnedup &
sauntered out, local-legendarily.
His flat might be the Hamptons
if you're a Harold Ramp, it legendferally
foregrounds how Petey's really not been
living the dream since '93.
Well, to all but his autodeipnosophist guest.
'Such had-I-wist have I for pollyannaish
mannish boy I wasn't! Had I been a lad
sans wearish nebbish deathwish,
such fine gibberel in faint pencil
I might have blogged, not atramental
doggerish
that maudit-mogs my moving upwards, onwards!'
wallowed outloud the visitor. Existential vigorish
of a steeper extraction, a lifetime's Dutch feast,
had reduced the host to dregs already, his home
for such loud loners
a revolvingdoor; his revolting louge they often left
w/ crapulent heads revolving. Poor Petey Peters
was a sellospectacled Radio Rental rubicund ranga,
overmedicated overselfmedicated 1/2-dead deadringer
for a Chucky from Rugrats maxi-me
mostly babysat by wolves on meth. Meanwhile, the
writhe writer
of ramblin' that no new generation snaked,
he parsed his own me-ridden me-rooned me-garding
me-quations, egomaniac w/ no selfesteem
pootling & pranging & pillartoposting
negative value drivers.
There was no end to his partypooping
trip, l/ a clay coupé in Droste Close, a recurs-
ive culdesac. No empathy or instressing
undents a depressed jebends's deadend selfabsorption.
Rather he nudges terps down thought throat of Petey P.
the grave drivel way, blahblahbludgeoning out of Pete
any last thought throat clearing. Echt entelechy,
nosce te ipsum nudges, seem a faraway cage
where all gravel driveways lead. Aches & urges of actuality
long ago smazed over by dustytrail mustygale
druggy grails, the dank decades post-'93
(& I don't mean 'dank' post-'13). Mercifully faraway,
the didactic drillbits, boring corneas
of the boring melanoiac, melanoiacally garrulous
Glumm-ra the everliving para-
suicide, who's blithely ringside now to Pete's real
whitelight highlightreel. 'I know, I know, having a
Jabberwocky Complex myself, grybraking &
crocaby slobe it is too,' abliviously absurved
the windy imaginationbag, full of a life deadtotheworld.
He's haecceity's bleeder, last rites leadtime leecher,
whose inattention didn't even breach the
perimeter
of danaparamita, didn't even heed the
salt-&-ginger dimples when last chugpot wheeze, a
reptile's baked Quranic sigh, won long breather
for swisscheesed bellows belonging to RIPeter.
Petey's a listener stricken by a strickling speaker
talking him to death, fatalism's forcefeeder.