Robert Liston. Photo by Hill & Adams, c. 1845
ROBERT LISTON’S SNICKETY SNACK, my first micro-epic poem, was debuted at Living Room Vauntgardia’s Vaunted House on October 21, 2016.
ROBERT LISTON’S SNICKETY SNACK
Rob Liston, my specialty’s amputation.
I’ve acquired a grandiose reputation.
You lie down on your back,
And with snickety snack,
You discover your leg’s on vacation.
Each pound of flesh, a nest,
A home to a’ planet’s worth
Of tiny, vicious, hungry… things;
Invading aliens, in your flesh,
They bite, and eat, and swallow,
And out they shit your pound of flesh.
Infection was the Devil of my Time,
And Time our great adversary.
My smock, my frock, my trousers, locks,
All spatter-gored, a sign of my success.
I, a’ demon of speed, red, blooded, proved
Upon the field of vicious, hungry bites.
We manly men, we gloried in our gore,
We boasted of incaridined coats.
By butchery saved we dozens, though often still
E’en our admired appetites, our flash
Could not redeem from He our Savior that
Last ten percent: the tithe He took from Me:
Rob Liston, my prayer is Amputation,
God gave me a marvelous grand Vocation,
You lie down on your back,
And with snickety snack,
You pray that I’ve said my Novations.
I smiled as they held him down, frothing.
Time Me, Gentlemen, Time Me,
I cried with a West End wink,
And dove in to dine.
Fast, Faster, fair enough to think
That I’d outdo myself, insatiable for slices.
Time Me, Gentlemen, Time Me,
A flurry of ferrum, but then I seized
That green and fateful saw
That sharp-toothed maw.
He screamed, he writhed, I grinned
A barb’rous grin: Scratch, Bite, Rip,
My jaws of life bit into him,
To break him, to save him,
Perhaps… to kill him.
Rob Liston, my drug, she is Amputation.
Addicted? I’ll make no Protestations.
You’re held down on your back,
And with snickety snack,
You may die from my Ingestation.
Oh, he is fighting, Oh he is roaring,
And so roars God,
And so roars Death,
But so roar I,
My metal jaws are stronger than them all.
I Scratch, Bite, Rip,
They hold him down,
I Bite, I Rip,
They hold him down,
I Bite, Bite, Bite,
They hold, hold, hold,
I Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip!!!!!
Gouts! Of red Victory explode!
Dangling Failure tumbles to a barrel
And Plop. Plup. Plip.
—-
Poor Richard’s fingers fall upon the floor.
Old Doctor Desmond’s fallen on the floor.
I bit his coat, not him, but tell his old Heart that.
Old coat, poor hand, sick leg;
I bit them all.
A pound of flesh, a nest,
Each home to a’ planet’s worth
Of tiny, vicious, hungry… things;
Invading angels that hate we mortal men.
Their holy light turns the stump to shit,
Their holy love the hand to shit,
Their holy song the heart to shit,
And my tithe’s three-hundred percent.
Rob Liston… Slice.
Living Room Vauntguardia, Oct 2016