Brom-iliad Bromance - S. Sandrigon

An Epic Nonsense Doggerel Saga of Companionship Illuminated with photographs by James Quill, Emily Williams & S. Sandrigon

Brom-Iliad Bromance

I. Sing, Pineapple, of your cousin with the spiky red flower, He spent a disproportionate amount of time washing his privates in the shower. Now it's finished, we are done with stage two, fighting like huge male impala, My magical pied piper tune is de Falla's Requiem, but I'm too lame to follow.

Drinking only coffee has burned a hole inside my stomach: Inspired emotion repressed inside of me like an echoless quack. If the archdiocese cracked down on the problem, there'd be no priests left. So I bang my heart on the table, for all the earth like Nikita Khrushchev. How do I describe my companion? He found water in the wilderness, Without him I am empty, obfuscated, in transition like a dead dentist.

Oh, ratio of beauty to brawn, true balance making justice jealous, Drink with white-collar criminals, explain Neoplatonism to the corner fellows. He is the pilot of the planet's energy, he is sand-blasted The checkered frontier, indifferent to the meanings of the seven languages he mastered.

His mother put me on her knee, spoon-fed me kilos of plankton, She saw our fates written on our chests, departing with the sinking sun. The companion, he spoke in poetry, even the way he touched me rhymed, Our last adventure was not our grandest, but the passage back was stymied. Burning orphanages, mountaintop removal, ugly women wanting to cuddle, Your cochineal robes have left stains around your butthole.

Bear the iniquity, his superego eclipsed the Minister of the Environment, Change the cat-litter, tip twenty-five percent to the Lord's servant. Myopic & blindfolded in the presence of the angels' lambency, The world does not know that it did not know it's stoutest sentry.

II. At first I was his retainer. I was too broke to work: The Thane of Parker Street was jealous of me, the withered irksome jerk.

How did he play those guitar riffs on those meaty fingers? The chthonic von Richthofen fades in our memories, but the shrapnel lingers. In May I was promoted to cartographer, but I hated the frontier. There was never wine or salt for our meat. I grew weary of buffalo & deer.

There is a key around my pinkie, rewrapped like an aged tradition: My official ambition was to chart the fractal mountains, singin' "hexagon craw-fishin'". Our underground drill battle framed the campaign, Retold as legends of boyfriends swinging from a tree in the rain. Take the Fremont Line to Carson City and genuflect, What's spoken of the flower shall be heard in the light of the intellect. But there are wild-card secrets: two years into our venture, I contracted typhoid, But you should have seen the other guy, choking on the cyborg eggplants she deployed.

Holy Cars! Long essays about winter, armorbearer stenciling a sword, My health insurance covered the hysterectomy, so long as I redefined the word. No genocide is complete without its hummable tunes. The summation of our endeavors is buried beneath Columbia's ruins. This wisdom of true mates is earthly & sensual & devilish, And whirling, reckoning on relishing strife, malice, & her kill wish.

My love is like a water-gathering leaf structure, Assay the treasure-mound & poke the monster where he is most cocksure. How do I describe my companion in arm-removal & starlight parody? Chant louder above the rhetoric, we implode these tranced flashes of clarity.

III. Happy Holidays, he said to me, slipping me a holiday bonus, Have faith in our future, he preached, & began lighting the evening's votives. A spectacular lake of rum awaits me when I turn eighty: We couldn't see our reflection in the Mirror of the Laity.

By this time, he had amassed a considerable congregation in aboriginal Australia. They were useful in defeating our formidable enemy: Delila Falalia. Thereon, dark clouds would begin to block me from his life, He still considered my memos, but he got most of his new-agey wisdom from his first wife.

I chopped the remains of the Parker Street Thane up in my bathtub, A clever mix of chemicals purchased at WalMart will decompose any fop. Opacity, untraceable text messages, a giant winged seraphic paratrooper, No heavy dose of smelling salts could stir my companion's companion from her stupor.

You lean upon the pillars of romance, evil will infect our alive forevers, The tiniest dose of arsenic in eighteen consecutive dinners. We understand the reasons for Delila's defeat, they have never been clearer: The furor for her party last Friday & the missent invite to her resurrected Fuehrer. I was speechless after my foxpetal gene mutated off its dyspraxial axial. Those two homicides remained mysterious until my memoirs were stolen from my cell at the Dublin jail.

Hear me, cherrybombs afire! If the green fairy can't save our friendship, nothing can! The man who might emancipate our music is a distant descendant of Robert Todd Lincoln. It behooves us to investigate the known facts of the story up to this date... Passion, betrayal, murder, some irrelevant horseshit, well will the sun's planets spin at any rate. Enter, so I thought, his veiled second wife, let the angels fall hard, For the next two years I would receive no more than a Christmas card from their secret meditation retreat at Svalbard.

To Be Continued...!?!!???