Bill Murray is the owner of a lonely heart
Bill Murray is the owner of a lonely heart,
Venkman, American. I could spend all day
watching a gorgeous Ivorian in a shiny
metallic suit ride bullet trains to coffee shops,
but Murray’ll still bite it in the end. Piano wire.
Hello whistle-pig. Such serious land beaver
problems in this orchard, jumpsuited and organizing
for PTO and a CBA. The red cap songbirds
sing “Moonage Daydream,” I pack them in packing peanuts
and a tiger shark for luck. Luck. The luckiest
stand broke-heart in elbow-patches in a devil room
or a ghost palace while the camera
revolves around once, twice, thrice, goopy
Paltrow in a bathtub, sing it with me now, slice.
Imagine Bill Murray on an ice rink, Starman’d.
Go on, do it. The steam is rising off the ice
and he’s waiting for you. He will excite and delight
you and the whistle-pig. Parted lips. Murray lips.
Luscious Venkman lips. He’s wearing a bronze
medal and shoulderpads, and that’s it. Use that
famed imagination of yours. Feed him
the strawberry and cheese Danish, get the jelly
dribbly on his purse-lines. You should probably
watch his lips slide over fruit lube until you press.
Girl stiffy. Boy wet. Tiger shark backwards until the cold
air on your butthole makes you feel like you’ll pop. Give
your best Karen – your best Scarlet – your best Andie –
while you rub out a fat land beaver on the ice.
The axe, the map, the burning tower. The handgun in my bible. The sweet
prince of our hearts. The quarter for our scratchy lotteries. Swing high,
sweet crude pendulum, pull my oil Old Scratch. Blake Griffin dunk
on every Bugs and Bugs-named entity, jam. The wheel of fate, you me
and Idris Elba naked on a beach, call it the Knight of Swords. The Tao
rainbows of your jaw encircle the whole of speech, your yanging belly
yings every yell. Twist my syrup drops on your fork. Your guns: Justice
and Jell-O. 3d20+3, your defense check. What that means: the axe, the map,
the burning tower. The handgun in my Bible. Old Scratch, with your belly
scraping the curve of the earth, with your cuticles sprouting potato eyes,
your nostrils enveloped in earth. You gingham. Tilda Swinton ginghams.
The devil ginger in your whistle, the prick of your thistle. The taut.
The paunch. The rivers of your skin. The throne, the wheel, the turning
of the loading cursor. Each pixel crowds close. Your secrets fall slowly, brightly.
Say yes, Bill Murray. Yes to life, yes to tea. Bill Murray is the yes
that is the yes of Bill Murray. Say no, Bill Murray. Put that cigarette
out, my sweet mush-faced candelabra, put tacks upright on your threshold
to catch whistle-pigs. Tip coffee first on your white apron, dark wet hot
secretive, like your own private woodchuck. Say yes Bill Murray, yes
we will submit this for publication with the red licorice dicks and the scorpion
stingers intact. Spider wrench! Brick! The last volta never falls on your crown.
Waist-coated whistle-pigs, no, Clive Badger yes, kind dirt-beard.
The Genius only wants you to clean out. The RZA only wants you
to live fuller. A paper-hat and a dream. Is it so hard|
to say yes Bill Murray? The way I see it, that’s the only word
you ever get. Your own decisions, they confuse you so. Are you
the only owner of a lonely heart? Will you take the last lonely heart
to the lonely grave? Lonely, but not alone, sweet pussy-cat, never ever alone.
Jonathan Papas is a poet who lives in Boston. His work can be found in Willow Springs, PANK, and Pretty Lit, among others. He’s an editor at Consequence Magazine and occasionally does weird things with his friends at wakeuprod.blogspot.com.