Bitch, move

Man, oh man, it's cold.


Here's a weird new poem! Read it with a heavy coat on, so that you'll come to associate it with some kind of warmth. Maybe? Might that work? In a Pavlovian sort of way?

Bitch-Move-Out-The-Way

Moon of face, droop of mouth why

so sour you slick

dude? Is it the hair 

swirling rings round your forehead, soft

constellations of down, skin thick

as moss? Hold that handrail—your claws

are slipping. Hey,

monkey-head,

we don't blame you—the N train

hum-hum bumpy, bright slutty

light slanting to make black-eyes

blacker and men with limps pray

harder the train might thrust them

flying atop prettylady's empty

lap and wouldn't her fat lips

feel just right, just

right all your ears tingling

sex sex sex all those x's and what they

mean lit up red. Oh

Big Lady Silver we don't blame you

your improbable features, scrawled

in deep dark mother-cave, nutrients

delivered free, sleep and growing

eyelids the major tasks of the day—harder

when your bearer is bourboned. But

forgive her, your mother.

Grown-up is no Sadie Hawkin's

dance, Darlin', no my-call-

let's-groove-this-one-loose-

while-the-lights-are-softish,

sorry, nope. Grown is a slow

Charleston danced by accident

with some bitch-
won't-move-out-the-way

down a crowded street. Grown

is unscrewing all the lightbulbs

one night and opening the refrigerator

instead, hand-jiving on the cold

floor until you get hungry enough

and eat all the pickles, waking up

next day, doing it all again.

Doppledangerous

A close friend, who once stole a pair of flowery pants from our closet while we were out of town, warned us over here at Dick Fancy not to google "dick fancy," which we then promptly did.

Though we, of Dick Fancy, have figured out by now that the notion that there remains anything truly "original" or "still uncultivated" in this world is mostly an incorrect, unhelpful one, and though we didn't think we were the only Dick Fancy tooling around here in the internet time-space continuum, we guess part of us (and if you're wondering at this point who this multiple "us" and "we" is (are?), well, as you've probably already suspected, we are a group of small, bearded men who live together in the basement of an old meat-packing plant in South Dakota, much like Snow White's seven dwarves, except there are only six of us) still hoped that Dick Fancy, as the name of a blog, might somehow remain our unique, original, still-uncultivated property.

With deep regret, we ask that you cast your eye upon: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0266697/

Richard Fancy. Dick Fancy. A real god's honest human, if we're still of a mind to consider actors real god's honest humans. We're on the fence, ourselves. But, seriously: Richard Fancy! What a great name! We can forgive him his encroachment just for having been himself for so long, and for smiling (so menacingly!) like the creep he surely must be.

Next: https://twitter.com/leanderTrey
What? "leanderTrey? Far as we can tell, nowhere on this gentleman's "twitter" account does he even grace his audience with the unique privilege of Dick Fancy-ness. "The epitome of hyperbole," so says his tagline. Indeed. We'd say the epitome of leading-astray, of the abuse-of-title! Shame on you!

And then, there's this: http://dickfancy.tumblr.com/. We'll speak not even to the content here, but to the fact of how easily our two very different attempts at "Dick Fancy" might be misconstrued, confused for one another, or any number of mishaps. It's just, there are too many variables, too much that might go wrong when navigating these choppy waters of .blogspot, and .tumblr, and god knows what else. There's much in this world capable of stirring terror in our hearts.

We have little else to say about it. Truly, we've gone back and forth about whether or not this is even fertile enough subject matter to include at all, or if it's just boring and tedious. Surely, fertile is the wrong work to describe it. There's just nothing "fertile" going on here. We are six bearded men. We live alone. We have stacks of porno in the bathroom, but, truly, we don't even look at it. We sometimes gaze at the covers, scratch thoughtfully at our furry chins, but ultimately decide that to look within would require more of a time commitment than we're willing to make.

We swear the man sitting beside us (all six of us) at the long table at this cafe saw the subject of our google search, cast upon us a disapproving stare, and then found it necessary to remove himself from this place and make his way back onto the cold streets. The bitingly cold streets seemed in that moment more hospitable than remaining beside the row of us and our long beards at this long wooden table, suffering the look of horror on our faces when we saw the pages and pages of search results that Dick Fancy produced.


Enough of this. Now, a poem:
 

Promise Me Your Teeth

How a bird shoulders seed

too large for its mouth,

bulge of ambition

protruding unnatural

round, like a thimble

in its throat. I look

squirrels dead in the eye

like to challenge: tell me

you will not lunge all rabid

at my throat, promise me

your teeth will not spark some unloved

wildness in my blood, to be skimmed off the surface

with a sugar spoon, oh

tell me I have not loved

too much to quicken another's throat

closed in thought of me, in regret. Speak me

the place satisfaction is held. Is it laid

neat in the belly of steel-tipped trunks—those

who possess it—folded in with old

broke sconces, wedding rings

and baby shoes, pressed linen napkins. Squirrel?

Your hind legs make me giddy; I'd borrow

those fur-pants, if only

they would fit.

evolution

A quick post to say that we at dick fancy have updated our address, mainstreaming it to the significantly less esoteric "dickfancy.blogspot.com." See, there are other-work issues at hand which demand my actual name be slightly less en-titled in such a way. So, hereafter, call my name out in the streets and in the supermarkets! Make it synonymous with dick fancy! Make them mean the same thing.  (No, I mean, don't really do this. That would be jarring, at best. Not that I really thought you would or anything. I'd have to be some kind of narcissist to believe this even the thinnest of possibilities.)
Anyway, onward, into the future, where we must hide ourselves behind our most obvious disguises.

Yours, always,

D. Fancy

Morlocks, deep bathtubs, big faces, black holes.

(INTERVIEWER

Is there a particular picture of the world which you wish to develop? The past is very present for you, even in a novel of the “future,” such as Bend Sinister. Are you a “nostalgist”? In what time would you prefer to live?

NABOKOV

In the coming days of silent planes and graceful aircycles, and cloudless silvery skies, and a universal system of padded underground roads to which trucks shall be relegated like Morlocks. As to the past, I would not mind retrieving from various corners of space-time certain lost comforts, such as baggy trousers and long, deep bathtubs.)



In case you haven't read H.G. Wells' The Time Machine, as I, unfortunately, have not:
Morlocks are a fictional species created by H. G. Wells for his 1895 novel, The Time Machine. They dwell underground in the English countryside of 802,701 CE in a troglodyte civilization, maintaining ancient machines that they may or may not remember how to build. Their only access to the surface world is through a series of well structures that dot the countryside of future England.
Morlocks are humanoid creatures, said to have descended from humans, but by the 8,028th century have evolved into a completely different species, said to be better suited to their subterranean habitat. They are described as "ape-like", with no clothing, large eyes and gray fur covering their bodies. As a result of living underground, they have little or no melanin to protect their skin, and so have become extremely sensitive to light.
The Morlocks' main source of food is the Eloi, another race descended from humans that lives above ground. The Morlocks treat the Eloi as cattle, and the Eloi do not resist being captured.
Since their creation by Wells, the Morlocks have appeared in many other works such as sequels, movies, television shows, and works by other authors, many of which have deviated from the original description. (courtesy of The Free Dictionary)

Hmm. Ancient machines they may or may not remember how to build? I'm already distrustful of these melanin-starved Morlocks. Yes; keep them below ground, I say!

And, onto other matters, in case you've never chanced to experience the pleasures of a long, deep bathtub:

"Long(?), deep bathtub"

Hard to say whether or not Nabakov would have approved; I worry not necessarily for the style, but perhaps for the length.

"Dick, Fancy"

Would this man have enjoyed that tub? His face makes him seem short. I'm not saying short men are incapable of enjoying bathtubs. I'm thinking: if he's short enough, there'd be no reason for him not to enjoy this bathtub. Then again, I've no true notion of the dimensions of this tub. It could be huge. It could be twenty feet long. It could be full of gold, or tiny, pecking hens, or fresh-picked dill. It could be full with all the sweaty t-shirts that you've never gotten around to washing and so now they're stiff and stale and smell of mildew and rot. It could be full with Morlocks.

Back to the question at hand, though: would you agree? Tiny man, big face? Though, it's perhaps unfair to describe his face as "big." Yes, it fills up most of the borders of the photograph, but, then again, that's typically the point of portraiture. Or, not the point, per say, but an aim: to occlude other potential distraction in favor of one's giant head.

That's what the head-shot, taken my final brutish year of theatre conservatory, seems to be. My own face in this photograph has been described as "looking like it's poking through a black hole," by a woman who once, in the company of another friend, brought me to such a muscle-weakening fit of giggling--while climbing up the sets of stairs leading to her Chicago apartment (outfitted with Turkish rugs, cans of spent peanuts, and a ceiling that had half-crumbled to the floor in giant white flakes of drywall)--that the two were able to hold me down, strip me entirely of my clothing, rush inside the apartment and lock me out, naked, to roam the hallways until they got tired enough to relinquish hold of the doorknob.

"Perpetrator # 2"

"Perpetrator # 1"

I wonder why Nabakov spoke of baggy trousers as a part of the nostalgic past. I don't wonder why he wished to relegate trucks to the subterranean. I do wonder if maybe I'm wrong for questioning the whole "baggy-trousers-as-thing-of-the-past" situation. Maybe I'm the bonehead here for assuming they aren't a thing of the past. Who wears baggy trousers anymore, anyway? (Aside from maybe all of the people I've met in Colorado, who wear them regularly, because they are always about to go skiing, or at least it looks that way to me.)

Back soon with: more questions, more interpretations of nostalgia on which I have no claim, less words, more fun, fewer pictures, more revelations, greater effort, less weakness, reduction of pettiness, enlargement of purpose, thinning out of blame, thickening of spirit, better snow shoes, increased tolerance for cats who refuse to let me cradle them like newborns, less money, fewer syntactical difficulties, cleaner hair.

"Poking through black hole; still enjoys bathtubbing"

Passionately, primitively,

DF