Man R. from Mars vs. Bertha Venus

Well, faithful readers, what may seem like a bit of diarrhea after a prolonged constipation is actually a fairly long-tinkered-with little piece, summing up much of what's been on the mind recently (as far as artistic musings are concerned). By no means is this a final word on any of the involved subjects, some of which I've discussed pretty lengthily on the blog. While I've bestowed what is likely my most obnoxious title to date on this creation (apologies to Mr. Boticelli), be sure that underneath the handful of puns is some meat to chew, which you'll have to do mostly unaided, at least for starters.

One quick note I'll share, is on the phrase "three on a match", found below, which is old-fashioned enough to likely be foreign to most modern readers. It's a superstition that says it's bad luck to light three cigarettes with one match, and though there are numerous rumors as to its origin, most place it around World War I. Supposedly the enemy could spot your location by the lighting of the first, aim the rifle by the second, and shoot the person lighting the third. Some rumors claim the whole saying was invented by a match manufacturer so he could sell more of his product. So we have a superstition that arose from either war or capitalism. As we move on to more ethereal matters, be warned that these two forces may poke their heads out at some point, as they always do, world without end.

UPDATED NOTE: It was only after rereading this a few times that I noticed that within this abstract battle of the sexes there appear to be some references to warfare, and economic matters. Of course, true to my nature, there's a bit of a slacker/defeatist quip at the end. I assure you that all of this was unconscious, and purely a manifestation of how all these seemingly unrelated matters are connected in the laissez-faire market of the mind.

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MAN R. MARS vs. BERTHA VENUS

parade of motley bands around the blonde,
wrapped in streamers like a lace-stitched shoe;
pell-mell partials swarm this swan,
pearl harborin’ somethin’ secret--
a wad o’ wisdom ‘tween the teeth;
tempest in a d-cup,
busom and then some;
mind your pleas and cues,
three on a match made overused,
once entrenched with a
monkey’d ‘round wrench,
now back on the boneheap
while skins and cynics
reticent to give a red cent
cough up a long
and dwindling lode,
larceny in dey hearts
and bedlam on de brain
roll out a rare refrain:
If I Had A Hammock,
I’d Hang.


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