The Taffeta Tongue of Taffy Galumphkey
These threadbare verses,
some slick slivers of soap,
compel of congested chests
but awkward coughs—
a frayed and clumsily greaving lyric
lost among mangled flavors,
middling odors pinned beneath
flimsy shells a neglected stock pot
stipples in chilblained char
chewn licorice rank and red
as the sun-sucked grass
that a shiftless shaper
of shadowy fields is
stuffed and smudged with,
shrill as a show tune Bolger’d spit
from his hoarsened throat and this rickety garret—
(eclogues chaste and grave, methinks,
no profounder stain on my kitchen’s sink)
Where went Walt Whitman’s warbling lists
that I’d chewed upon some shrill seconds prior,
sopping with succulent spoondrift shucked
from illustrious hummocks,
from ancient American mountains
stole from a Salishan chieftain’s
blissfully lyricless vision plucked and,
sweet as a peach pit
clung along titian tendrils
teased to a saccharine tang,
suckled and spit amid posthumous bitterness
piled in creased and crooked splinters,
wove in pellucidly plastic rings;
what ambered waves waxed winter’s white,
unabashedly doused in delousing powder
or another drug dreadfully redder and rounder—
take what you want and do nothing with it.)
‘Twas music malingering, more than verse,
deceived and grieving its dutiful lyrics,
Waits’ words or the early works Eno had
studded in strange and rhythmic terms,
like slippery shadows of starlight sieved
from a dog-legged rift of alacritous backwash;
know, I’m about as much a poet as Shaw,
who peppered his plays in shy and sanguine symbols,
some leaden polemics’ industrious puppets
left stripping and picking at sinewy issues—
(bastard trash and a prom queen’s sash,
these slipslopped taps of a poetaster’s
gauntly jostled verses vexed)
I’ve read of old Williams’ missive stamped,
those pounded tomes of Pound perfected,
his hortatory whisper slipped
‘twixt Little Girl Lost and Burroughs’ shit
that teased that greenhorned Ginsberg straight—
and here’s how I relate
Goldie On the sight of things reflecting on influences that make up a thought of what is what….but In my eyes happy to see to hear the Golden poet’s riddles of words. Been a long time last I read a Golden Poem, a Golden Page, a Goldie Story.
Galumphkey, a key to the past of Annie Delumphkey. Sounds write but written out maybe it’s my memory faded trying to fit words together.
What a wonderful world you twist with your words it changes how one sees anything really. What wonderful words to spin in my mind while I drink my coffee.
How lucky am I and all the others especially the ones who like to read the lexpomo’s poems OUT LOUD.
It is Goldie on his subtle axe standing easy, take it and do nothing with it.
“This means nothing to me,” from Travis.
In reality, “This means everything to me.”
Three Cheers while I backpedal to read more from Goldie the mysterious elusive poet. Happy Day Illustrious One.
Happy day to you, too, and thank you again for the years, the over-a-decade’s worth of support. Hope you saw the double-on rainbow.