Sweet Corn

Seeder my foot! Your crop? Since when? You too a seed the Great Planter cast. You fell in rich soil and after a gestation of 9 months out you shot from the earth straighter than bullets but oh my! So arrogant, so self-righteous I almost wish you’d been thrown to the side so you’d know how it feels to be different but still part of the crowd. As for me, Sweet Corn, I fell on bare butt-naked rock and it crippled my gait—don’t laugh—we’re all good seed the Great Planter cast. I grew queer but gay and I laughed and I cried oblivious to the evil eye following me around. Bite me if what I say is making you sound paranoid in retrospect.

Planter my butt, you squeezed it last night was you when the lights were out. Mistaken identity was the excuse you gave the morning after when you woke up in my bed. My bed, my silks, my scent is masculinity doused in feminine whiffs; blind beggars would say it is a he-she begrudgingly sharing limited body space. But even they would know it’s I and not some cheap whore masquerading for a cheap kiss-kiss bang-bang. Planter you say, standing firm against moral decay, yet you share my bed and softly moan as I give you head twice weekly. Matter of fact today’s the day you pay me a discreet visit because your wife is away. Eagerly you stray without a moment’s delay then roundabout and say we’re monsters at bay. Mschewwww! Your wife’s not a fool. She smells me on you but what can she do. She’s so confused by the erratic things you do. You love her? You don’t? Please make up your mind. One moment you’re hot and you ravish her with everything you’ve got. Then all of a sudden you’re a frozen icicle stabbing her privates in heaves and ho’s. Kill her already! For me I am ready. I will welcome you with open arms. Such is the plant you’ve grown into, always ready to supplant the Great Planter if opportunity knocks.

By day you campaign ‘To Hell with the Gays! We Lynch Them I Say!’ You publish their faces in tabloids inciting mobs to hunt them like dogs. You drive them to morgues in body bags on your way to Nakumatt to pick up grocery bags. So ironic that in the dead of the night your wife she sneaks up on you test-driving her lingerie. With make-up in place you cartwheel and purr and catwalk with grace in your abandoned garage.

I harvest bitter fruit from your ceaseless foray. Why me? We were both good seed the Great Planter cast. Sodom and Gomorrah is burning to the ground and I am trapped in its walls. I am suffocating in this hell-hole, please could you lend me a hand? Please could we just talk? I am not one for brawls. I am not in the mood for trifling discourse. My granary is aflame, my job is bust, my family is gone, seduced by your silent evil. At least leave me a rope so I can…

STRANGLE YOU!

STRANGLE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU!

STRANGLE YOU WHEN I SEE YOU WITH YOUR WIFE AND CHILDREN

Strangle you when I see you with your wife and children laughing, laughing, after laying waste to my happiness, my home, my family. I WILL MAKE YOU PAY!

NO! NO! THAT WOULDN’T BE ME.  I am Sweet Corn with a melting of butter on top. Sweet Corn, a pleasure not a bother for all parties concerned. Please keep that in mind.

Just for the record, I will not eat your children or drive them astray. I will not rape your children, I am not that insane. I will not erode your morals, you beat me to that. Only God can judge and His love is this large!

The Lizard and the Stone

Once upon a few minutes ago, there lives a Lizard afore-named Stitch. He lives not a stone’s throw away, but you wouldn’t know that. He minds his business as do the rest of us. A swell guy if you ask me.

Stitch is special, you see.  Albino lizard.  You might be well acquainted with his extended family that rather enjoys the view from up your ceiling. The food is aplenty, so they say. His relatives love the view so much. And so they stay.

Not so for Stitch. You see he suffers from an acute case of vertigo, if his doctor’s diagnosis is anything to go by. Let us be polite as polite can be. Let us go by what the good old doctor says.

Stitch lounges outdoors in a special place where the sun has been muted and the rain has been defeated. Only a little moisture and we all get along swimmingly. A little too much I might add.

His relatives in high places warned him against it, and his mom who knew about it all before it spread whipped Stitch a few. All in vain.

Stitch swore a thousand nothings to her ear, whatever that may be. Whatever she wanted, he’d be the man for the job. He promised to take her where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. A far-fetched dream, I would say, just that one night it wasn’t far-fetched anymore.

Loud mouthed and braggarts as is expected of them, Stitch’s esteemed relatives, you know those that love the climb; well they sleuthed a Garden of Eden not far off. They told such tales of such a place where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. The flies flew low and were fat as fat. 

Just the place Stitch had in mind. A honeymoon spot and if he played his cards right, a new home for Stitch and his…Aah…She-Who-Can’t-Be-Named (She might sue)

As the dew settled on the petals and the crickets serenaded their spouses, Stitch got it in his head to whisper in her ears, wherever they might be. A while later, off he went to the place where the sun was mellow and the stream was shallow. He made it a place where she too would like. The flies flew low and were fat as fat and as Stitch waited for her to come, he ate so much, he was sooner fatter than a fly.

She did not come. Maybe she did, but the sun beat her to it. You see, maybe she did, but when she did, Stitch lay in the garden of Eden, black as soot and distended as I-don’t-know-what. Maybe dead, but I wouldn’t know that. It’s a fable and as far as fables go, no one perchance lives long enough to verify with a seal. So I was named Stitch by my mom because I didn’t like high places.