An Aesopian Fable (as told to me by Dead Philip Whalen)

     THE BOY, THE LION AND THE BEAR AFRAID OF WALLS


Was it to be pleasant, was it for thus we were confined through others' dumb meanings, now cut down? Only among so many shall we ever have meaning applesauce and meaning orgies.

One young Prince died while trying to escape that thing his Father built, a life-sized most ridiculous Leaning Picture they used to dance about.

I wandered toward that which was true, all kinds saw me and said:
"O god look at his inflammation, Let us set in, this looks like a good Lion amusement. And they saw the Prince might provide some pain and fever for the words, if briefly.

So the gay King caused his Son to have sexual exercises with a lion. It's a lion! And, of course the palace was filled with the yelping of their sexual opera.

With his finger it was a velvety fit.

We got tired of the others, the "by" and "about" court people, the pictures they always took out and showed strangers on their lying account.

Am I that into you? Yes. I would stick a son who would be the son to all Being and Animals! You betcha. All day and night, son. But the others? I fell not in with them. Whose am I, anyway, the animals'? Or grief detestable? I am only a thorn-tree, But I am he who was warned of sleep, a girl: I have hands like a lion.

So...


I want to be with Prince and I want you to beat me and suddenly we will have a Painted dream. But then when I surrender my "I" a Great Violent Bear who had been
Afraid of walls will be there standing in those branches. Waiting in the rain. Pitiful with morion eyes like an anemic, manic depressive Dragon who can sing Radiohead beautifully. And though I had a King's martial shitfits, you will be adorned afresh, I will dream this Pierced Fainting Fond Thing which killed me and my palace where I burst you in pleasure.

I will shoot arrows at you as you flee and Pierce you to Him most Fast. Against my deepest Wishes.

You will Melt into the Bear and become his Voice. You will die most Ordinary, gnashing your teeth like Eurydice on a TV Guide magazine. You will ride him like a bored girl in a porn film thinking about drug money.

I will be the Dragon the children sing about in the nasty myth. And I will bedeck your Lyre you left behind with roses which I will calcine white with my song of flames and tears each Night.

I will coil my Serpent self about your Lyre and sleep with your smell each night. That cologne that smells of earthworms and bergamot and your deerlike lips.

The nape of your neck where I slept.



MORAL: A Grabass is Immortal, but only in His Druthers when They are Golden and Draconian.