THE WINDSOCK AND THE BLING THING/DtheD

touchdown jesus. 11

The Windsock and the Bling Thing
Whirl, whirl, whirl, whirl around
In this suburban backyard without touching the ground
Bought brand new from a kitestore
in downtown Charleston SC
From a hairy-chested Georgeboy
with an eye for esprit

The Windsock has the true Gay Colors;
A Technicolored array
Whirling slowly in the July wind
More circular than gay
Lifting his red foot
Then his blue foot
Then his green foot, like a stork
Wishing he was the big-dicked boy
Who was everybody's joy
Back in the 70s in New York.

The Bling Thing whirls like the gayest of girls;
Like a rotating sphere at a disco
Showering silvery sparkies on all the local darkies
with memories of j-lube and Crisco

Permeating, reminiscent, into the dour present
Throwing off the most artificial of heat
His whirling contention is beyond social redemption;
He may be vulgar
But his vulgarity is neat.

The Windsock and the Bling Thing occupy singular spaces
Ten feet apart Ten feet above in one unwatered backyard
Whirling, flirting, as they did in Carolina as a kid
While shopowners cooked softshell crab, without lard.

Cooked softshellers, to please our manly metaphors,
Resting over four scintillating days in the swamp
Six more tickets to ride the rails of Amtrak -- and au secours,
God knows how many more tickets to ride -- without a comp.

So the Windsock and his best Bling Thing rode away to the West
Marvelling at the poverty and vast expanses
Trying to supress amusement (and boners) at travails of Arizoners
as they tried out their Wrigley Field stances.

Now the Sock (and his Blinger) give the royal smutty finger
To a world where ringer-dinger vampires rule the boxoffice
So they scarf down their blinis and remember Fellinis
And an atmosphere
Where even gay men could be scoffers.

This pie in the Santa Barbarian sky
Is inhibited by Hamid Karzai
And the generals with whom he's made his wet bed;
Obama, in full metal, puts more heat under the kettle
And always remembers to say what Petraeus said.

So the Windsock and his Thingumabob
Keep on blowing this job
In this outback where no Spring seeds are sown
And when the blowing gets rough there are hearty souls
(not quite as tough)
Who crash through the weeds
Keep on sowing more seeds
Each bestowing his own tasty man wick
For neither Sock is ashamed
To live in the town that is named
for their patron saint -- Barbara Stanwyck.