From gene@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu  Tue Dec  7 13:40:18 1993
Date: Tue, 7 Dec 1993 12:39:34 -0600
To: fegmaniax@gnu.ai.mit.edu
From: gene@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu (Gene Hopstetter)
Subject: 12-inch Comix

Here's Robyn's poem from the _I Often Dream of Trains_ vinyl. Being that
his handwriting's sometimes difficult to read, and it comes from a very old
typed copy of it, I can't vouch for spelling, indentations, and line
breaks, but here it is nonetheless.

++++++

Five clattered Fegballs --
	        Each, a painless ram
	        Whose pincers gouge the clotted silence
		               Tender and infinite --
As we watch the wallpaper.

So the five appear
From wrinkled, steamed beginnings, the bulges swell
Five eyes! Five heads! Five orbs! Globes!
Oh God of Bulbs!
	   The wall is giving birth again.

Five infant slots, blinking and dreaming
On behalf of the soft, electric house
And we behold the gashes part and flutter
It's lunchtime and five open eyes
Reflect the four square windowpane
New eyes, aging out of innocence
Throid onions in a swelling wall...
	                                               ...the plants retreat, the cat
	                                                              sheds fur.

The furniture doth knot itself.

Here's Cynil! Come to dust the falls;
He whistles in on roller-skates
And points his feather thing
But stops -- five staring eyes turn on his clothes
Leave him to flee in smouldering shame

It's three o'clock -- the mitered lids
Can hardly hold the straining orbs
The room is silent
Except for the sound of muscular contractions

Then falls the first
An orange flop
And Autumn's first pumpkin hisses to the floor

A second squeezes from her slit
And shoots across the room
To splat, deflating on the soup-tureen

Now click, now clack, now Cynil's back -- in Sophie's drag --
With lipstick, stockings and a fag
-- or is it Sophie's anyway? --
Enter Renfrew, the soda butler
They prize the three remaining eyes
Mellow and putrid
From their slots
-- they're ripe, and come out easily --
And serve them in a nest of claws and lettuce
Somewhere out of doors.

Five fegballs seeded, swollen, grown and gone
Five sutures in the flaming wall
Five fleshy tubers, hanging limp
Vestigal, umbilical
They fall like pork scratchings
And are swept away

Five maroon scars that slowly heal
Till next time someone needs a meal

Gene Hopstetter, Jr.   +++++++   gene@mailhost.tcs.tulane.edu
      Writer Guy   +++++++++++   Tulane Computing Services