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Of Love For Atlanta I will set at the piano and will play a same tune, but that don't mean I ain't still pissed, Honey Chile. You have watermellon'd me in frunta my friends for the last damn' time-- so now I'm gonna play some trash tunes, Hunneh. Notice our fretless hostess in all her dynastic splendour of loose-gowned voluptuity and the breathless y'awls and cuzzins heah. And also it don't mean that I have lost my taste for hoss bean mash (that only been fermentin' two days) like some ole piss-po' drunk aristocrat. Plus I'm fixin' to sang some lullabyes, dee-posed queen, all of which I'm dedicatin' to this mob of bar flies and mis-fires and to my next ex-wife-- Hoo-eee! Yazzum! I got a couple mo' thangs to say; first, ah HATE it that she's gone now, and second, I always wanted a woman like she always dreamed about becoming. |
Additional Notes:
This poem is not supposed to make any sense, but hope it'll be enjoyed solely for the word-play
and the images. I'm afraid of this poem, even tho it has been published (in the Arcanum Cafe),
I think of it as a sort of hallucinatory letting go, of both sound and sense. And non-sense.
I could have gone deeper into the phonetic dialect spellings, but thought it might be too
distracting. Except for a few specimens, just to give it a Southern flavour. Lawd have mussy!
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