from My Angie Dickinson
I’ll never sit on pleather again!
Miguel would never — — have dared pretend
It took a Real Cowboy to pull it — —
My innermost feelings — — Can Be — — like Mike — —
But if the Future is Matrix — — like — —
I can’t wait to do some “bullet”!
Steamy shower staple nuzzle
Creeps the Moans of CHIMP
“Couple” — — of soaker hoses — —
& a little submersible pump — —
LANCELOT LINK SECRET
“the penis to increase” — —
You be the — — “Best Of” — — critic
‘cuz they DON’T drain the grease!
Faith is a prison dentist,
The most legitimate cop,
Studying a riding crop.
“Try it more pissed” — —
Goons taping a gurney
Roots from the Attorney.
What burden, Italian-Armenian — —
The vista of Holy Smokes
The Powers that be
At ABC — —
What’s a democracy?
Some tepid Hind in the ebbs,
Licking heavenly true celebs,
As totally as a star — —
Ritalin for you kids,
And Zoloft for you are — —
Fascist Fairytales #6
The stove in an exquisite tarragon, rose in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas ...
THE SPHINX: You tell me, Margaret Thatcher.
THATCHER: You get a popsicle stick and duct ...
Seeing that gas had spilled on the floor, the wife obtained some paper towels, blotted up the ...
THE SPHINX: Stop screaming, grab the mask, and pull it over your face!
THATCHER: You have asked your SO to get you a popsicle while the people would rather eat with Margaret Thatcher.
[n. 1. A ski mask. ... 2. Popsicle. ... n. 1. The place where the gas or electricity may be]
THATCHER (working with the script instead of popsicle): The Tory party’s coal, by-product of the Russian Army.
THE SPHINX: Out to see if I turn into a popsicle the government is subsidising?
Breathing problems from the acrid gas ... the women, wearing black lingerie.
THATCHER: If love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?
THE SPHINX: If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest have to drown too?
THATCHER: You think sexy lingerie is tube socks and a flannel nightie. ... and we were quite justified in dropping 50 tons of nerve gas on it!
THE SPHINX: Brevity is the soul of lingerie.
THATCHER: First of all, we’re not wearing these. (She holds up some skimpy, lingerie-type flight outfits.) ... It’s been a gas. ... (closer) (Even closer.) Give me optic nerve.
THE SPHINX: America was created by philosophy.
THATCHER: I will leave the lingerie drawer open so ...
A great percentage of prostitutes boast entire lingerie wardrobes in pink, act of rebellion. The pituitary glands of dead Meat and Livestock may be kept secret.
THATCHER: Bottoms Up, Threshers and Victoria!
THE SPHINX (fit of Victorian prudery): Staircase has a secret...THE SECRET OF THE ... Roth Committeewoman.
THATCHER: A great influence.
Farrah Fawcett Majors as Victoria preys on their livestock ... the laser weapon’s secret...the first nurse, calls from her “dead Apes.”
THATCHER: ...with several socialist secret house, and leaving for dead that livestock in the 1980s, male homosexuality ... A pamphlet from the Irish.
THE SPHINX: By radio in secret. Everyone was simply dead.
THATCHER: Burning can help in that the plant is already dead. This is a group of 22 students from St. Augustine school in the constituency of Regina Victoria. They’re accompanied to bring a touch of family during the war, when that torpedo had to hold their pants ...
THE SPHINX (to describe the intended point of the pants): America that we can torpedo Moscow with no trousers or pants.
THATCHER: Torpedo Girl / KISS the Scare-Your-Pants.
VOICE (to which Thatcher and The Sphinx improvise a waltz): When I left Margaret Thatcher ... messed up in a trusted wreck, wife that he married in a pure wedding gown, one-woman man, Tom his little black grandsons; three sisters, Sara Thatcher and husband Bud of Liscomb, a blond hair in the gown’s final pages in dramatic black traumatized by the death after her hideous death market crash...
THATCHER: Perfect competition is like virginity: it triggered a further doubling of crude oil.
THE SPHINX: Mass deportation of black workers and carried out virginity brought the Tories to office.
THATCHER: Sovereignty is not like virginity. A woman who poured soothing oil is rather bypassed in the idea of perpetual virginity, what it is to be a woman.
THE SPHINX: How do they get baby oil?
THATCHER: From rare and deadly diseases, poor scores on final exams, extreme virginity, immigration (eg the famous virginity tests).
The decapitated white marble statue of Lady Thatcher oils people’s money. Only a matchstick-sized opening is left, ensuring her virginity ...
THATCHER: Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity! Stand in the corner.
She quickly rubs baby oil on the economic reforms of Ronald Reagan.
THE SPHINX: The minute you lose your virginity ... you finally redistribute his project to drill for oil
THATCHER: The nun agrees but asks for anal sex so she might keep her virginity ...
Fearing a nuclear holocaust Margaret Thatcher integrates them into an enjoyable romance.
THE SPHINX: A strategic weapon, a poor man’s smart bomb.
THATCHER: This book is funny, street-smart ... the Miners’ Strike, the Brighton Bomb.
Flirtation was evolving into a summer romance.
THE SPHINX: But I am smart enough to wait ... comparing the inconveniences of terrorist bombs by following bomb drops with food.
THATCHER (Verbally assaulting the solid, dexterous flow): You try to light that petrol bomb!
THE SPHINX (he tries to rekindle the romance): Queen pays respects to Princess Margaret ... Saddam must go!
THATCHER: Don’t Go Wobbly.
THE SPHINX: The bomb serves many functions. ... Proud to be British!
THATCHER: This atomic bomb is the cross, serendipitously on the night of a bomb.
THE SPHINX: The humiliating 1996 bomb Second Coming in Wrath ... I wasn’t trying to be a smart arse.
White-bread bomb shakedowns suddenly bio-blitzkrieg on a dirty bomb.
THE SPHINX: The world economy sinking fast, smart.
THATCHER: ATTACKS ? I Am A Dalek/ Neutron Bomb ... Dining Out.
THE SPHINX (to his beautiful wife, Margaret): Have you noticed how, under their smart suits they gave the orders to bomb ... I’ll never forget.
THATCHER: Deserves a nod.
THE SPHINX: I’m Josh, and you are hecka smart.
THATCHER (with a smile she stroked): BOMB TURKS, I’M IN LOVE!
Michael Magee is the author of a critical study, Emancipating
Pragmatism: Emerson, Jazz and Experimental Writing, as well as four books of poems: Morning Constitutional (Handwritten Press 2001), MS (Spuyten Duyvil, 2003), Mainstream (forthcoming, BlazeVox, 2006) and My Angie Dickinson (forthcoming, Zasterle, 2006). He directs the Institute for Poetic Arts and Critical Theory at Rhode Island School of Design as well as the non-profit literary organization Combo Arts.
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