Tres parodias: Shelley, Thomas, Twain.
Ozymandias – Percy Bysshe Shelley
Manuscript found in Lord Byron’s bookcase
To Percy, light upon his waterbed.
I’m the Scorpion King.
—
Beware
not the Camel King,
nor, albeit my rattling ways,
a snakish one.
—
My reign is a desolate wasteland
which I, myself, have created.
Where dumb-dumb Ozymandiases rust.
Where mythologies go to die
like an, oh so secretive, fart.
Far away enough of people so
they can pass quietly and unheard.
—
My reign is also of venom:
purulent, vicious.
Highly alcoholic melancholy,
not of lethargic rest but instead
breeder of anxious sleep,
of bad poetry during late hours
best served for onanistic endeavors.
—
¡Behold the Scorpion King!
—
¡Behold my drunkenness, ye mighty,
and compare:
the width of your temples
to the size of my ding-dong!
—
Only one of them remains.
Funny looking scorpion tail
amidst ass
and belly-button,
and hair.
—
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas
Rave
To Dylan, the bluffer.
Go drunk into that dark night,
rave,
rave with your self’s shadow,
dance.
—
Dance to electric, acid
drums. Go drunk
into that dark night alight
by fluorescent wristbands.
—
Rave against living, against dawn.
Lay bare, under a dark sky,
what we all
are.
—
Go to the bathroom stalls,
past the raving crowd,
break in line and start
a fist fight.
—
Get drunk
and scarred, animal.
Smile, neon bloodied,
at oblivion.
—
Rave against all
lights unflickering,
against all
unbroken bones,
—
against those who dance
and those who don’t:
be an asshole.
—
And dance, dance
electric seraph,
dance, dance
to acid drums.
—
Concerning Tobacco – Mark Twain
Concerning Tobacco
To young Mark. Always with one hand ocuppied.
Children of twenty-eight
try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn’t.
Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked;
me, who came into the world asking for a light.
—
Me, who since learning to walk
never stumbled.
Me, who never ran after a bus
but always arrived everywhere on time.
—
Me, who when asked by a waitress
about the kind of beer I would prefer—
sweet, sour, toasted, or fruity—always responded:
cold.
—
Me, who began going out
when I was seven.
Me, who has lived four hundred and fifty-six weekends
without throwing up once.
—
Me, who stole my parents’ condoms
right before my last brother was conceived.
Me, who came from the womb dancing
and when the nurses left the room, lit a ciggy.
—
