Monday, March 4, 2013

For lives they have soured by being devoured (Friday's Sunday's Poem)

LAZY

BONES

JONES



Lazy
Bones
Jones
He moans and he groans
And as he does that he sits on his throne,
moaning
groaning,
plotting
Conniving.

Lazy
Bones
Jones
is scheming and planning.
His pains make him groan as he plans and he moans
And what does he plan, this not-quite-a-man?
He plans
For his hands
To grasp tight round the spans
Of the neck of some woman, some child, some man
He hungers, he does,
for the humans outside here,
For he is alone here.
Alone night after night here
And here isn't quite here
This palace where
Lazy
Bones
Jones
sits alone.

Lazy
Bones
Jones
(whose name, you should know
Was bestowed by his father, a demon
Whose only
Connection to
Lazy
Bones
Jones
Was, alone, only to name him then leave him alone.
Old
Lazy
Bones
Jones'
name is frightfully apt, this
name
that has trapped him
within its confines,
The name and its rhymes
Marking out all the lines of his life and his manner, the way of his times.
Because
Lazy
Bones
Jones'
bones are lazy, it's true
Not quite bones, not at all
For they don't really do
What bones are expected to do when connected, these bones have rejected their usual role.
Instead, these bones sag.
Sag? They lag!
Oh, they drag!
They seem more like rags and because of that lack
Lazy
Bones
Jones
himself has gone slack.
Like a flag on a day with no wind.

Imagine a great greasy bag full of seething
And you'll have a picture, of sorts
Of this being.
His hands, they are droopy, his eyelids all loopy.
The skin on his necks rolls
and tumbles away
From the rest of his body, as though it can't stay.
His legs, how they slither,
A slimy, slow seeping
Made all the more horrid
because they are creeping
Below the most awfulest parts you could see:
His mouth up above
And his stomach beneath.
The mouth is extraordinary,
Oddly fantastic.
It seems to be made of the strongest elastic.
It's miles wide,
Miles
Or looks it on sight,
But it's blackness makes measuring too much a fight.
The mouth leads to the gullet, itself quite a fear
Filled with protrusions and lumps and things queer,
Almost as if there's some fighting inside
Fighting for freedom
By
things still alive
His measureless shapelessness
Can't be defined.
Old
Lazy
Bones
Jones
is just one of a kind.

(And Thank God!)

Have you sinned?
If you have then you'd better begin
To make plans for a visit
From
Lazy
Bones
Jones.
For
Lazy
Bones
Jones
has a role in this life,
His place in the scheme is to get rid of strife.
And how
does he make all that trouble just cease?


He eats you.

As quickly and nice as you please.

For
Lazy
Bones
Jones
has a singular talent,
A horrible, wonderful special endowment.
Those
lazy bones
of his don't just do nothing,
But allow him to roam the earth
Stuffing and stuffing
His face (and his throat and his stomach, it's true)
And he stuffs all those parts of his body

With

You.

Whenever you do something
Hurtful
or
Wrong
Your lies and your cheating, they sound like a song
To
Lazy
Bones
Jones'
ears,
And it
won't be long
Before
Lazy
Bones
Jones
comes slumping along
to your bedroom your boardroom your
vacances maison.

And then, when he finds you
He binds you,
he binds you, As soon as he sees you
Those hands of his seize you
Round your neck they confine you
To sternly remind you
Of
What
You've
Done
Wrong.

Then he opens his mouth up
Wide
Wide
Widewidewider
And leaning down over you
Puts you
Inside 'er.

And there in his belly
Inside of the beast
You'll meet all the others:
the most
and
the least
The sinners, the haters, the leavers and liars
Who are slowly digested --
No cleansing hellfires!
For Hell's just a myth, a legend, a story
The truth is more awful, more scary,
More gory.
Those who cause pain, who rend, rip, and murder
Don't spent all eternity
Burning their fervor
In pits full of brimstone
No
sir.
Sins are atoned
For lives they have soured by being devoured
By
Lazy
Bones
Jones
Who returns to his throne
In his kingdom of pain where he lives all alone
To await the next clarion call ringing out
A gunshot,
A handslap,
A scream or a shout,
Some sound of performing nefarious deeds.
And then when he hears that,
He'll
moan
and
he'll
groan
And he'll cast all about
His eyelids all droopy his mouth in a pout,
'Til he finds what he's looking for, and he'll light out
Will
Lazy
Bones
Jones.

He'll slouch to his next sumptuous feast, his banquet --
And if you aren't mindful,
He might get you yet!





4 comments:

PT Dilloway, Grumpy Bulldog said...

I'm sure I'll get a visit from Lazy Bones Jones soon enough...

Andrew Leon said...

You seem to have a theme going between this and Mr Suitcase.

I like the poem, though, which is saying a lot, because I'm not big on poetry. But it has a good rhythm and is kind of Seussian in a... demented... sort of way.

Briane P said...

PT: You're a sinner?

Andrew:

The idea for this literally came to me when I picked up Mr Bunches yesterday morning. He wanted to go downstairs and asked if I would carry him. I said "Man, you are lazy. You're a regular Lazy Bones Jones."

So I carried him downstairs and went back upstairs and wrote the poem -- but as I did, I decided that Lazy Bones Jones should be part of the group that includes Mr Suitcase.

Glad you liked it.

Andrew Leon said...

Well, that's pretty cool. I like where all of this is going.

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