Sunday, September 09, 2007

A Coo-Gee Autobiography

In the street where I was born,
on a hill overlooking the sea;
the story begins, small at first,
wound up like a garden hose;
wet as a snail, raw as a chop,
it then rolls out, and down the hill,
towards the sea, and through the waves,
a first page curls, an then one more,
and then another
chapter after salty chapter,
wraps into an old newspaper,
oil and vinegar, mayonnaise and mustard,
French and German, steamed and battered.
Column after salacious column,
revealing secrets, implying fear,
swaying opinion. Above the sea,
on the hill, a lonely voice,
in the street where I was born,
sings a song, dumb as hell,
it fills our ears with soft ice-cream,
and builds a house with chocolate chips.
It crumbles when the story ends
and shines like snot along our sleeves.

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