Eclair Of Ephebism

How about another poetic parfet, on the sandbox! :)

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Ephebism
By: Noah Eaton
4/28/06

We spend so much time in the air,
when the body speaks what lips and lungs cannot,
seeking the provenance of providence,
from the moon shot to the soft spot,
suspending each strong percussion beat of the heart,
leaving my body with an infatuating hunger,
that can only be satiated and satisfied,
by filling each silence with motion of younger wonder.

My dance is a complex dialogue,
with each part of my body speaking different languages,
syncopating emancipation,
from the monkey bridge to each rainbow ridge,
each forbidden heartbeat is a polymeter seamstress,
woven in each blow struck by the belly button,
I strike it like the beating of a suco drum,
incinerating in the flower of the mouth of ephebism.

Release your inhibitions and embrace your youth,
let loose, slither limber like French vermouth,
I’ll cross-pollinate the world with amiability,
we’ll seek belief deep in this synchronicity,
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...

Every rhythm may feel foreign at first,
its immense, intense incense may not make sense,
but I find that the problem’s not the music’s misdirection,
often it’s just the misdirection of listening that overextends,
so I reach and touch the fire in my happy prejudices,
prancing with molasses masses and wasabi wallabies,
and everything the morning star never suspected,
comes alive through promiscuous laughter and polyvocality.

Release your inhibitions and embrace your youth,
let loose, slither limber like French vermouth,
I’ll cross-pollinate the world with amiability,
we’ll seek belief deep in this synchronicity,
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...

And it’s through the deep springs of life,
that there’s flight in flexibility,
conducting with my feet,
universal possibility,
even the untrained eye,
can feel the stamina of the sun,
patterning between my feet,
this love I share with everyone...

Release your inhibitions and embrace your youth,
let loose, slither limber like French vermouth,
I’ll cross-pollinate the world with amiability,
we’ll seek belief deep in this synchronicity,
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...
.
.
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...
.
.
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...
.
.
the purest beauty comes from bodies which believe...
.
.
invite your inner-child to dance with me,
invite your inner-child to dance with me...

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Tropics Of Cancer
By: Noah Eaton
4/17/06

Like driftwood ebbing into a safe harbor,
waxing and waning with largesse,
invisible playmates pussyfoot kaleidoscopic quays,
egressing from teeming reefs where lotuses fluoresce,
chariots line the arteries of your memory,
encarmined with brushfires of amber,
you’re a breath of onycha,
ameliorating earth’s eye,
measuring the depth of her own essence,
gilded with an indigo slather.

Throngs of mermaids fill your oceans,
gossamer mists balm me like calamine lotion,
but nothing ever compares to home,
in fathomless tropics of Cancer...

...in the tropics of Cancer...

Soft degrees enshrine your coterie,
lactated in blankets of asphodel,
nestled in your beehive of stars,
moonwort gardens and apricot bars,
and fecund laughter between each breathing spell,
you're the morning star that precedes the dawn,
you're the trumpeter swan,
virtuously vaunting your aurora scarf,
everything of the deep is your family,
unabashedly otherworldly,
the sandbar is your pop-tart,
your pop-tart...

Throngs of mermaids fill your oceans,
gossamer mists balm me like calamine lotion,
but nothing ever compares to home,
in fathomless tropics of Cancer...

...in the tropics of Cancer...

Balance and constant affection,
and silver-toned circumspection,
glisten like nail polish,
and birthday cards each May Day,
you're the pink gourami,
dolphin-kicking within my briny deep,
mellifluous Maori mouth music,
there's never any need for apology,
for the mythology of your genealogy,
new moon of the lagoon,
typhoon of the blue moon...

Throngs of mermaids fill your oceans,
gossamer mists balm me like calamine lotion,
the samba humming betwixt the littoral drift,
each neap tide's shy nourishment,
because nothing ever compares to home,
in fathomless tropics of Cancer...

...in the tropics of Cancer...

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I Paid 25 Cents For My First Kiss At A Kissing Booth And All I Got Was This Bad Case Of Mono
By: Noah Eaton
3/5/06

I was a hopeless romantic,
untying giraffes from telephone poles in Vermont,
the Saint Johnsbury Caledonian,
knighted me the L’enfant of Croissants,
sugarcoating me with a pinch of nonchalance.
I hosted public baths every Saturday night,
in the pond down in Hubbard Park,
I went to Ben & Jerry’s,
created the flavor Contrary Canary,
served with maraschino cherries and cinnamon bark.

Yet something was missing,
something was missing from my life,
my lips were as dry as the Atacama,
chapped with a dust bowl’s strife,
and so I thought over this dilemma,
and then I knew just what to do,
I bought the local lemonade stand drive-through,
and turned it into a drive-through kissing booth.

And so I balmed my lips with vaseline,
olive oil, beeswax and peppermint,
I was prepared to break my kiss-less streak,
I was not about to squint,
a Buddhist monk came to visit,
he offered me peach blossoms for good luck,
I was shaking like a freshman in culinary school,
but I had as much pluck as a pastry truck.

Then suddenly I see cruising down Berlin Street,
in a green Stiletto built from a 1960’s Corvair,
some eager customer making a sharp turn toward me,
I swear I was in a castle in the air,
she said her name was Regina Toscanini,
a Latvian foreign exchange student,
a runner-up World Parcheesi champion,
with a face I could read as animated yet prudent.

So I paid her a quarter and then she leaned forward,
and I felt her lips make the sweet stinging caress,
and then by the time I opened my eyes,
she was gone before I could have the feeling assessed,
oh yeah, I was sure flying high that afternoon,
leaping as high as a kangaroo on Boxing Day,
I felt as though I was skipping down the Appian Way,
Or making the step of the cat in the corps de ballet.

But a month and a half later, I began feeling strange,
I could have sworn I caught the flu,
yet no one at work was under the weather,
and it was the last day of June,
but, oh, how my head was aching,
and my temperature peaked up to 103,
and my throat was all tied up in a knot,
Oh, dear Lord, have mercy on me!

Then I felt, “Malarkey, this is just one of those common colds,
I’m gonna chase it right down to Chinatown,
just a lil’ pomegranate juice and Echinacea milkshake,
will drop that hammer down,
then I headed to Cheung Wai Tak’s acupuncture clinic,
unleashing the qi through all twenty pathways of my body,
wore fourteen wreaths of nutmeg around my neck,
and summoned a witch doctor,
to chant the 109th and 119th psalms incessantly.

Yeah, I felt as though I was winning this cage match,
I felt I got that sickness tangled in a dusty finish,
but suddenly I swear the referee came in with a folding chair,
and threw quite an epidemic gimmick,
like Dracula, I became oversensitive to light,
and my spleen and liver became enlarged,
my tonsils were French-kissing each other in my mouth,
that’s when I knew that first match was merely a midcard.

So I began getting very desperate,
I bore three holes in the middle of a selected tree,
and walked three times around it,
shouting “Flee, you germy hooligan, flee!”
Then I consulted my witch doctor,
asked him if he had a personal rival,
he said, “Ooh eee ooh ah ah,
tic-tac-toe walla-walla no-no!”

I had never felt more tired in all my life,
giraffes and croissants had missed me for weeks,
I was bedridden, stuck playing electronic hand-held Yahtzee,
and marathons of The Lance Krall Show on Spike TV.
Jebediah Joplin’s litter of cats broke through my screen door hole,
strutting around like I conceded defeat and they owned the place,
I felt as though I’ve come to the end of the road,
when Paw-leeze kicked the catnip in my face.

I became death-defiant for resolve,
so I sprung out of my sheets like a coil spring,
hopped right into my low-rider school bus,
making like the cat and the canary down to Doctor Lowenstein,
he gave me a thorough examination,
stuck a butterfly needle in me to check my diagnosis,
and then wasting no time he proclaimed,
“You have what we call a bad case of mononucleosis!”

So he ordered me a prescription of Motrin,
and offered me a shot of Dexatrin,
he urged me to drink plenty of fluids,
and suck on plenty of Mighty Magic Minis and Swirlwinds,
he told me to get plenty of rest,
because exercise could rupture my spleen,
and told me not to take any aspirin,
and warned me, most of all, “No kissing for a few weeks!”

So eventually I healed completely,
and slowly I regained my focus and testosterone,
a hippie chimp covered me of my duties,
and I had my annual lost sock memorial pilgrimage postponed,
I ran down the full length of Theodore Roosevelt Highway,
in my Aunt Agnus’ burgundy angora sweater,
crying “Hallelujah, I can breathe again,
Lord, thank you for freeing me from these parasitic fetters!”

So learn this lesson and learn it well,
if you’re desperate to have your first kiss,
at all costs don’t rush it on some stranger,
especially if it’s a Latvian foreign exchange student...

...wow,
is it National Candied Orange Peel Day or what?

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XOXO,
Noah Eaton
(Mistletoe Angel)
(Emmanuel Endorphin)