McCluhan

Mcluhan

He was amazed and bewildered by the thought that he had invaded his own privacy,
reversing the flow of dissonance against which he had counted on those who, 
in awe of his euphonic cadence had soaked their perplexed lesser minds
in the stream of his bouffe bravura, psychedelicatholic playbook,
sculpting with messianic obsequiousness, a golden calf out of viscous and efflorescent hot air.

Although it had given him pause, he was soon able to, once again, 
annotate his imagination through the use of subtle and faddish analogies.
Though more interested in the sound of his own voice than in the content of character 
his message augured, he continued relentlessly attempting to ignite the moment,
a surrealist poet in the mask of a college professor.

What is the age of the soul of man?
Who put the bom in da bam a lama dam bam?
Who put the eyes in the back your head?
Who turns the light off when you’re in bed,
yo mama soul.”

Enucleated by the modern, his teachers’ mind conjured in his brain, 
endorphynated escalations of transitive, oraculating bonifieds,
the craft of which he used to ruck his confiscatory imagination 
by encircling, mesmerizing, and confounding all who endulged him, 
so that even variegated, conceptual entities vying for his soul 
calculated and opined that what was spoken was mostly true,
even if bafflingly opaque. 

Came the dawning of the age of aquariums: floating, suspended 
florescent hues of copulatory ejaculate.  Fluttering seminal strings 
of hallucinogenic probabilities probing the public orafice with what 
had previously been: a muffled squeal behind closed doors,
a signatory to a new rendition, a prime candidate to squander success -
didn’t that happen at Euridice’s coming out party, didn’t we 
lose the common touch then - in the shadows of our own backward glancing?

What is the age of the soul of man?
Who put the bomb in the bam-a-lama-dam-bam?
Who put the eyes in the back your head?
Who turns the light off when you’re in bed?
Yo mama soul!

Some of us lost our heads to heartbreak.
Some of us made a lifestyle of voodoo drugs,
bad religion, television, suburban labyrinth, 
sometimes all the above. 
Some made their lives into a paycheck,
no role to play, just another circling cog.

“Never again!” that’s what I said.
This can never happen again.
It’ll never ever be like this again.
Oops, what’s happening now....

“Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and wombfruit.”*
 

*(Joyce: Ulysses)

Copyright © 2007, 2014 by David Larstein, all rights reserved.  

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