The all mighty curator of the universe & tinkerer of Charlie’s Broca’s Area, zaps our hapless hero with memories of his own, from when he took human form during the Influenza of 1918, when a 100 million or so died & Godly God, despite the chaos & tragedy, danced with a dying Spanish woman in Seville.
Charlie gets Godly God’s memories
“O bugger, decibels be off with ya!
clinging my skin with achinesses long;
I’m face is wrinkled like waves of sound that belt the sure & only 28!”
—those sirens blurting pitches under Charlie’s tenement,
unnatural in their screech & squark, stir them memory-me-jigs
of the great curator of the universe & his shenanigans
—“who is them memories of? Not mine, i not got none
them gone off elseplace without my say so. Appear in bits & bobs…”
: I tap danced with the plumpest gal, a tapas bar
in Seville while the influenza tore
the world apart, nowt I could do, free will
n’ all y’see… That girl reminded me
of silky moons that warp & pull the tides;
dark craters in her cheeks, blue countenance
—soon short of breath. I was reminded of
the 1st goddesses that I made from soil
& saw dust, glued with phlegm & lust— they looked
like podgy figurines that hunters kept
for company, for shufties in the dark,
blushed cheeks, the monkey-smacking urge compelled
& calmed— (pale ribbons tied around her wrists.)
An episode on National Geographic
made Oojoo cry— (that bird sure belt her hips);
I don’t know how she did it with that flu.
So sayeth Godly God pentametering in Charlie’s brain
with ungodly idiom— putting the Id back into idiom.
Charlie could see Godly God, similar,
but dressed in clean clothes, “like in them Hitchcock films
i watch in the window of the tele shop…”
: seeing the world through men’s eye,
arse’ol’d, on his strong of manipulation
— nostalgic & a smidgen with forlorn.
i bet forever makes you scared of death…