songanddancegirl

🔴 🟡 ⚫️ 🟣 🔵 🟢 🟣 🟠 🖤 ☠️

the dot artist died today  at 97  checked herself into

an asylum 40 yrs. ago   started seeing dots   at 10 🔵⚫️🔴

Yayoi turned psychosis into immersive dot rooms

with names like: Let’s Live Forever!    (no thanks Yay)

Yayoi was sent to spy on her father  who had many

comfort women  stashed in rooms around Tokoyo

this wound of betrayal  the scent of feline on his hands

her mother’s rage  Yay’s hallucinations  dots + a Marian

Glinda  holy-glitter mother  with a magic wand

(every girl needs one)

a year ago today  tiny black dots (very Kusama) exploded

out of left eye  two weeks later out of right  sadly not the

start of this poet’s career as a Pop Art Queen 👑

no bitch! this a vitreous detachment extraordinaire  lights

flashing  still do  thought my 2nd alien abduction  1st at 10 🔴 🔵⚫️

when i also learned about men  feline scented+feral   one quite

cowboy-esque  not unlike husband #3

this did not cause me  dot-psychosis  just a lifetime in the

father-complex tent  where i scratched out tortured poems

(still do)  i was finally rescued by a Tony Curtis lookalike

i had his love-child too

__

…if Frank Stanford can kiss the black neck of  Sonny Liston

this poet can have  Stoney  Tony Curtis’ love-child.. 

__

..i wasn’t going to tell no one.. i kissed Sonny Liston

on his black neck.. (Battlefield Where The Moon Says

I Love You  Frank Stanford  1977)

Fall 2026 ..a put up yer dukes kinda summer..

i can get behind anything

59 the last time  69 this time

The Tragically Hip

Good-Bye Tour

rolled through town

woe this dark decade

of

dismemberment

vivisection

cull

+ novel viruses

constellations dimming

one star at a time

Gord singing

his brains out

gio-blastoff

+pink chemo-glitter

it is difficult

to explain

what these years are

(fleeting) supplicate crevasse 

and what they are not

(pretty) gentle into the night

but don’t get me

wrong

i will take them

now

maudlin

supplicant

on this

the last road

yer foothold tenuous

face it tho

you no longer know

which way

is up 

directions are highly

overrated

+you speak a kind of

mindswamp-gibber

when you are not

taking

a flying fuck

at a rolling

snake

eating its own tail

Welcome to Eternity

__

Late Summer 2026  ..forge alliances..you’re gonna need em..

deadflowerpower

2 white flowers  now adorn their graves

they’ve fallen in love all over again  they

put down their mallets blades crusades   +punishments

the white flowers  anima candida  suckled

my fingertips  as i touched them  now for

a little  resurrection magic!  extraction of

life essence  from their deadbodies  soul-food

for the death-wedding feast  (replacing brisket+flunken)

a table is set for 3  with 3 remaining down here

we eat highly processed foods +pretend we don’t

death by Oreo  soon  so how are we doing?

better than most   he used to say

pushing his long hair away   i’ll piss on his grave

he used to say  handsome charlieface  breaking

into evil grin

now his grave has no marker  dogs racoons +rich boys

visit often  pine-cone phalluses stand at attention  like

Hade’s hard-ons  +narcissus blow in the breeze

__

Summer 2026  ..it took 37 years to grow 2 white flowers..resurrection..it don’t come easy..

Happy 70th Anniversary!!  Frances+Lee ☠️🖤☠️

where now sinister kid? (not a short poem)

(the fershtinkin boy)

my entire life flashed in an instant  unrecognizable

+doppelgänger   spat out at 70  where is the little  (fershtinkin)

house with yellow walls  +a turqoise bedroom?  where

my thirty something husband?  BIG MAN  BIG DREAMS

GIANT GLUTES   hockey lifer

that’s my fave muscle  don’t fuck with it!   

i told his surgeon 40 yrs later

(now an 8″ scar)

spinal-fluid redux

where the children  who visited weekly?  the (fershtinkin) boy

running ahead of his parents  wobbly   still wobbly  a filmie

now in his 30’s  my age when i met him

WHERE DID EVERYONE GO? 

reminiscent of old mother  who said over+over again  Ape where is everyone?

she the last woman standing  ancient crone  it goes fast  something akin to

shock awe+bewilderment  on her face  the Reap hunched+singing to her nightly

O the memory-haze  the daze of being young+vibrant  lean beauty queen

bewitching father all the way to an early grave  we eventually had to place

security cameras outside her door  the Reap’s incessant ringing of her bell

fodder for psychiatric mind-fuck   oh it’s just tinnitus+death anxiety (!)

said Dr. Von Leiff   (the old bitch)  mother dead  within 6 months of these

nocturnal visits

for whom does the bell toll?  shotgun to head for Ernest  to the heart for

Frank Stanford  Anna K by train  Virginia W by river  Sylvia Plath by oven

ok i’ll stop  strange creatures unto death  while in the bloom of life   the

forever putrifacto   (..beings unto death.. Marty Heidegger 1927)

i sort of remember the details  but all of a sudden  that life  those former worlds

selves  others  all less here  less contiguous  less real  more phantasm vision myth

did it all even happen??  probably not  mum put salt in her shoes so the Reap

wouldn’t scoop her  ditto the blood on doors of Jews  Exodus:12  so the Angel of

Death  would pass on by   +he did

he stopped ringing mum’s doorbell too

she is on a beach in Aruba now

she never writes  she never calls

laissez les bon temps rouler

all of this

is magic against death

all of this ends

with  to be continued

(Frank Stanford  1974)

__

Summer 2026  ..RIP Daddybird.. May 21,1921 – August 16,1989)

a short poem about a certain kind of goat

so did your tribe members rape+pillage?

probably not   i was shocked+devastatio

to learn that some of mine kept slaves  owned

plantations  after fleeing pogroms in Europe   (go know)

but your name remains unscathed  +un-repentant

u pure laine

we dirty

escape-goats

(..an ancient ritual..the placing of sins onto

a live escape-goat who carries the tribe’s guilt

into the desert..) 

built any rez schools lately?

atomic bombs?

crematoria?

crusades anyone?

stonings?

face it

this manimal species

is bloodthirsty

+beastie

__

Summer 2026    O, wee, cowering, bloodthirsty beastie..

(Robert Burns 1785 + AAC 2026) 

__

..he who is without sin

let him cast the first stone..

John 8:7

i just wanna write a simple poem without all the hoopla 2.0

Blood Brothers Brewery Blues

we sat ate laughed drank talked talked

ate sat drank laughed sat+drank did we       (repetition hoopla tiresome  yes?)

there is a mashup similarity to our faces

hers his his hers his hers hers other people’s

too  ur ancestors who may have feared death

+life+being forgotten

or

remembered

as a

horse-thief

lothario

madame

or eunuch

__

..you can now and then whittle the little poem..either way

the short poem is the hardest of all forms, past or present..

(Frank Stanford  1974 ..as he completed his 15,000 word poem)

__

Summer 2026  ..go try writing a short poem..i dare you..😱😱

i just wanna write a simple poem without all the hoopla

people think i have a real love-on  for Death

this is not quite true  what i do have  is an equal

love-on  for Life  even in these Y2K post-apocalyptic

times (think  911  Covid  AI  +orange summer skies)

this section of Summer is hard  it’s the position of

the stars  identical constellations  of her preparatio

circa 2022  but mostly it is Venus  winking+calling

my name  ape-eeeeal ape-eeeeal  her nickname for me at 3

i was her witness  every morn for 29 days  as old mother

lay dying  i woke at 5:30 am +raced to the reservoir of aged

involuntaries   where they shoved a lonnng Q-tip up my  snout

nurses quipped  oh the model   yes! the fucking model

now hurry up!  you’re wasting some of my final minutes

with her  the hawks  the other inmates  clutching my arms

in the shabbas elevator  which stops at  EVERY  fucking floor

Ape  where is everyone?  her dead ancestors hid when i

arrived  (lest i ask what the fuck they did to her way back when)

so why do i have a love-on for Life: (in spite of it all)

brilliant suicided poets (hbd 🎉 Frankie Stanford 1948-1978)

Pink Floyd

chickenballs+pineapple sauce

(post-pescatarian hell..i miss those balls more than life itself)

giant poodles

horses

oreos

my body  so far un-slaughtered

my freedom (only just another word..to the free)

Nina

the Fridas

the Chucks

and a cafe named Envie  down in New Orleans  where the spirit

of Frank Stanford  Delta Poet Extraordinaire  mingled so deeply

with my juices  a returning brother  gone to buy music at LMF(AO)

did not realize i was now  +would forever be  Apenfrank  

my voice deepens  ditto my southern twang  a nubbin grows  i am

the sister with hair of a cajun whore  now i glide down the Mississippi

in  The Great Preparatio  for over yonder

__

Summer 2026  ..l’chaim

RIP Frank Stanford  Subiaco Cemetery

August 1/1948- June 3/1978

To The Manor Born 👑👑

i am a beauty-junkie who grew up in an ugly

subpar-suburb  where the only beauty for miles

was to be found:

in the ravine  verdigris + crevace

at Bonnie Freedman’s house

oh   +in my mother’s face

yet despite the Jag XK-E   +263 dolls from her parent’s

world travels  there was always sadness about Bonnie’s face

a Peanut’s slash  for a mouth  later thru a windshield  still a

fine-boned beauty  slash that much deeper

i proudly wore her go go boots  on a family pilgrimage  to

father’s office  at Woodbine Racetrack  this nouveaux riche

burb  a place of  social climbers  +backstabbers  of ungainly

women  in mou-mous +kitten heels

sending their daughters out into the world  catty+petty

bourgeoisie  while i toiled 5yrs in the library  U of T

ditto Bonnie  Sorbonne  (17th century furniture)

these days  Jewish geography is played by 70 yr olds

recounting my mis-deeds +high school haughty  while

i remember a few names  + rare acts of valour:

father’s jump

out of a moving car

to walk a blind man

across the street

this amidst the onslaught-er  of envy  that special sauce  of

ungainly daughters everywhere  especially the local b.j. queen

now a commercial lawyer married to an ex  who must still have

the shriven penis of the syphlitic damned

hey sister

antibiotics

are your friend!

Summer 2026  ..catty shmatty..the pen is more powerful than the sword..

The Übermother💥

her first sunrise at 93  and  final sunrise at 98   in the same bed

the latter  as she lay dead  amidst the great separatio of  body+spirit

the first a miracle  of shock+awe  Apes i thought it was a spaceship!

Übermother now flying high over  Old Montreal 

urban gutters

pervs of St.Urbain

backroom selling of prettygirls

i would have done anything to get out of there

she so beautiful  they would point on the bus  her mother

kept her in a wheelchair  though she could walk +dance +strut

crippled her up   but good

what could a poor girl be in 1943?

secretary

shopgirl

clerk

maid

model

dancehaller

starlet

prostitute

wife

mother

her crutches fell away  at 98

Queen of the Overworld

flying solo  +bodyjettison

my heavenly doppelgänger

but let us step back 50 yrs   as i lay in my de-flowered virgin’s bed

marriage upon me  the next day  in diaphanous ecru silk  from Milli’s

i have never been married in white  marriage #3  in aubergine  14 yrs later

avec  Thierry Mugler  glass slippers

1976  a young Übermother enters my room   i hate him  says she

(referring to father)   +turns on her heel    girl-weeping ensues

teen marriage lasts a mere 24 months  though we linger 4yrs longer

the carcass of Huck  bobbing in the creek nearby

where at 10  just 9 yrs prior  there resided  frogs   a seppukued gopher

ducks  boy criminals  the ghost of a long dead grandfather  along with

Claude  the runt of a poodle litter  buried in tinfoil  on a freezing morning

the marriage/mirage   not at all what i expected

__

Summer 2026  ..who u calling a confessional poet?

..these poems are not about me..

they are about you..

the girls of trinity bellwoods park & their summer boobs

fuck dese girls in my park  who stroll over  within inches

of me  they stretch like pretzels illogic  legs akimbobimbo

elastic+pliable  a decade or 3 from  piriformis rot

(weaver’s butt eh  it’s a syndrome fer chrissakes)

don’t be such a bitter-little-pill  poet  you can still touch

your toes  ass riding high in April  shot down in May  but

seriously  there are numerous stances  you can no longer take

you can no longer  fake it til you make it   you’ve made it  and

it tastes like: the road  freedom  decay  brownspotted +decimate

no it does not!  

it tastes like warm milk

lapped off of your mother

in 9 months you will receive your  CPP BIGBUCKS  the ones

husband #3 forced you to wait for  until 70   so he could cavort

with his cheese-y girlfriend  on your nickel   Bitondogirl   who

lives above a pizzeria   seriously

(you cannot make shit like this up)

now back to the leafy park gentle reader

where yogagirl is writhing   and

charliehorsing her way  to hell

oh the divine retribution

of old haggis mcbaggises

everywhere

__

Summer 2026   ..piriformis syndrome can kiss my skinny white ass..