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Breaking the Thorazine habit
Jan. 27th, 2005 04:19 pmWith me ringa dinga dong, a ringy dingy daddy-o.
Who has avenged Jacques de Molay? The king's postmortem words ring in my ears every morning as I wake screaming. They have severed the head from France, and now she gropes, blindly, thuggishly about, smashing the dinnerware and knocking the candleabras into the rather flammable linen. Europa burns quickly, until that last minute fire extinguisher, the Absolute Zero of political passion, Mother Russia, smothers it in her arms, her inbred, too-close eyes crossing with the effort. When she opens her arms, a thousand cold embers escape to Germany, where, in the end, their Kaiser Rolls no dice.
I reach for a glass of water, my head a-throb, heart-throb, hearth-rob, and back to the cold of Mother Russia. My shivers are naught compared to the birth panes of Europa producing Poland, land of the Poles, those who live in the empty spaces, a nation defined by negative space (I can't define nationhood, but I know it when I don't see it). A slice of the pie, France? But the king replies, my kingdom for my head.
He has it backwards.
With me ringa dinga dong, whack fol the daddy-o.
There's whiskey in the jar.
Who has avenged Jacques de Molay? The king's postmortem words ring in my ears every morning as I wake screaming. They have severed the head from France, and now she gropes, blindly, thuggishly about, smashing the dinnerware and knocking the candleabras into the rather flammable linen. Europa burns quickly, until that last minute fire extinguisher, the Absolute Zero of political passion, Mother Russia, smothers it in her arms, her inbred, too-close eyes crossing with the effort. When she opens her arms, a thousand cold embers escape to Germany, where, in the end, their Kaiser Rolls no dice.
I reach for a glass of water, my head a-throb, heart-throb, hearth-rob, and back to the cold of Mother Russia. My shivers are naught compared to the birth panes of Europa producing Poland, land of the Poles, those who live in the empty spaces, a nation defined by negative space (I can't define nationhood, but I know it when I don't see it). A slice of the pie, France? But the king replies, my kingdom for my head.
He has it backwards.
With me ringa dinga dong, whack fol the daddy-o.
There's whiskey in the jar.
