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Poems by Beedoo!

Shit-Brown Volkswagen (ver 2)

I. Y'know, kid, I dreamt of a
mattress, paralleled like
the gorgeous proud daughter of
the Bug's backseat

Kid, you remember my car:
I knew and you knew
it was homicidal
of people
in the wreckage.
Ok, that's a lie.
But you knew the Milk-Dud,
and its plutonic brown
ninewest celebrity skin
and hieroglyphic veedub emblem
worse than hershey,
more like

a good-hearted creature
who only wants affection
But that's a lie too.

II. Kid, ya know,
men may attempt
to tell our story,
--'The Aria from "Rigor Mortis," ' alarmed and despondent,
but not as much as us
with brakes going out
on downhill slopes
when all we wanted was DQ treats
that matched the paint
or bad-movie style stalling
on the tracks
white man's conquest
with train
and all.

III. But you know and I know
how we nearly lost
"Little Lauren"
("the kid")
("the Geemur")
when the door opened up
to pitch you out
and a strangling seatbelt

wanted to keep you itself

death by rescue at
the corner by Sears
lucky you didn't
get firmer skin
on small basalt granules
that made a cartwheel slide
a snapshot heist
(It wasn't the cinders,
it did that on purpose)

IV. Like kissing
strange women
on counterpanes
Kiss the glass, kid,
like Dolce' and Gabbana
as I skim a corner
Jackpot, baby!
Watch out!
for men at work
and stressing,
dead letter office rocks
my Doom Beetle wants to
throw you into...

V. 'Cause men ain't that gentle
like this shit-brown veedub--
women of my generation would
never consider
your keyhole
of "Absolute Dating"
--but kid,
that Postpile hot summer

where we made a comedy of
barefootin' our way
down the
brassy and buckled
with some special effects
thanks to
unabashed Pandemonium
mistaken by the citizenry
as "trouble."

VI. That's good times
--shape your affairs accordingly, kid,
'cause that sweet brown
candy killer
got sold to a small-town boy
a gung-ho survivalist
in need of cash and a career change
--a shock metamorphism,
don't I know it, Kid,

but now
I've got a Jetta.

B!'s Poetry---Main