Monday, 10 January 2011

Still Time For A Taco

Although his blog poetry met with little success,
His serial killing career really took off..

Detective Panata shook his head,
Hissed sizzled air through his teeth,
And pulled out the gruesome murder-scene photographs,
Placing them -
One by one -
On the mock-Formica.

The poet's eyes:
Lights on but burglars at home -
Blank paged his inner-space haiku's:
Warping mirrors rhymed black holes backatcha.

Detective Panata tap-tap-tapped the photos,
And swilled another slurp of stream-driven caffeine;
Cobra curlicue vapour whirl-dervished hypnotic snake-charm weave out the Styrofoam,
Like a snoozing Icelandic deep-dreaming geyser,
Yadda yadda.

The detective leaned,
Lolling over blog-poet-maniac,
Like a polyester mack'd bat-gargoyle with vertigo,
"So just explain to me one thing okay?

The killer-poet fish-eyed some mysterious event horizon,
"Well, why does anyone write poetry,

Hoh: You think this is funny?
You think you're some kinda funny guy?
Is that it?"

"No detective, none of my stuff is funny:
That's the problem,

"Oh I get it. I get it!"

Then you're the only one detective Pan..watchaface.."

Detective Panwatchaface shook his head:
Sheesh, wait till the wife hears this one..

That thought graveyardshiftdrifted gears through Panata's wandering night,
Well, towards a more domestic mystery:
Why the hell is she still with me..?
When I open the front door I half expect
I need a Viagra just to take a leak..
But, she ain't gone sh
she.. she ain't gone..
She ain't gone..

Panata's head spinning like hamsters running on blancmange wheels,
Looked up, away,
Turning nowhere-to-nowhere,
And gumshoed out the interview room,
Nodding sagely to the uniformed sentry tilting at a droning air fan,
Outside the door.

And down the corridor he went..

I need some air.
I also need some hair!
He smiled to himself:
Now that rhymes -
And it's funny!

The paperwork:
Can be done tomorrow..

..I need some hair..
Detective Panata chuckled slyly..
Oh boy..

Panata strolled across the wet, soda lamp-lit car park:
Must've been raining earlier..
A sultry night sirocco breeze wafted and comingled
with the rattlesnakes' spelling bee.
A distant coyote howled, inevitably..

That's funny though:
A coyote?
Sirocco breeze?
Spelling bee?
What? In London?
Maybe. Just maybe,
This whole global warming shit,
Really is for real after all..

Panata tut-tutted as he heaved himself into his sedan,
Clicked "drive",
And swept out the station house,
Driving down the wrong side of the damned highway again.

As his crushed radiator spluttered and spat,
Panata's eyes pnarpnaring -
Twinkled brightly behind his safety aviators:
I need some air,
And I need some new hair,
Aaand, aaand:
I need a car repair.
I'm gettin' really good at this shit!
Wait till I tell Wilma:
I'm a freakin' poet!

A crowd of regulation assholes began to gather round the turnpike.
"Okay, show's over.
Move on 'kay?
Move on nahh.."

The hustlers, pimps, showgirls, gamblers, drifters and off-duty strippers,
Shuffled back with their shopping baskets,
Into Tesco's..

Panata lit a cigaret,
And wiped away a small trickle of blood he noticed -
A red tear really -
Dripping a forlorn ruby down his zig-zag forehead..

He surveyed his car-wreck:
I'll have to file:
It's totalled..
They'll have my ass for this..

He stared down Main:
A couple of sirens from the uptown precinct were headed his way:
Oh jeez;
That's all I need:
The freakin' cavalry..

Panata allowed himself a smile.
Still time for a taco..