Saturday, August 9, 2008

     by Robert Lowell's kitteh

               (Fer Elizabith Bishup)

Nawtilis Ilund’s hurmit
airess stil livz thru winteh in her Spartun kottidge;
her sheeps stil grayz abuhv teh sea.
Her suns a bishup.  Her pharmer
iz furst suhlekman in r villidge;
shes in her dotidge.

Thurstin fer
teh hierarkick privasee
uv Kween Victorias sencheree,
she bize up all
teh aisores fasing her shor,
and letz dem fal.

Teh seezons ill—
weev lost r summeh milyunair,
hoo seemd to leep frum a L. L. Been
katalog.  Hiz nine-naht yawl
wuz okshunned off to lobztermens.
A red foks stane kuvers Blu Hil.

And now r fairee
dekerater britenz his shopp fer fal;
his fishnetz filld wit ornj kork,
ornj, hiz koblers bensh and awl;
dere iz no monees in hiz werk,
hed rather maree.

Wun dark nite,
my Tooder Ford klimed teh hills scull;
Ai watchd fer luv-kars.  Lites turnd down,
dey lay tugether, hul to hul,
wair teh grayvyard shelvz on teh town. . . .
My mindz not rite.

A kar radeo bleetz,
“Luv, O kareliss Luv. . . .”  Ai heer
my ill-speerit saab in eetch blud sel,
az if my hand wer at itz throte. . . .
Ai myselv am hel;
nobudees heer—

onlee skunkz, dat sertch
in teh moonlite fer a bite to eet.
Dey martsh on there solz up Mayn Street:
wite stripez, moonstruk eyez red fyre
under teh chok-dry and spar spyre
uv teh Trinitaireean Chertsh.

Ai stand on tawp
uv r bak stepz and breethe teh ritch air—
a mutheh skunk wit her kollum uv kittehs swillz teh garbidge payl
She jabz her wej-hed in a kup
uv sowr kreem, dropz her ostridge tayl,
and wil not skair.

1 comment:

  1. Man, the title only cracked me up! Really, I was laughing out loud by my self. Like a psychotic! You should do a whole chapbook - talk about conceptual.