7 Minutes in Heaven 06-09-12

Last night I performed at the 7 Minutes in Heaven show at Space 55. It has been a while since the last time I graced that stage (since last Christmas if memory serves me) so I felt a bit nervous. So much so in fact, that my heart was beating at an accelerated rate that made me a bit queasy. I really felt like I was on the edge last night, which is odd as I am always made to feel so welcome by my friends there and my recitals are usually fairly well-received.

The line up wasn’t as long as it has been on previous nights but since I was humming I didn’t pay much mind to the preceding acts. For the sake of completion, I shall quote my buddy Ashley Naftule’s description of the show:

“”7 Minutes” was a lot of fun: Tommy Cannon did his dinosaur impressions, Kevin Flanagan invoked the spirit of Evel Knievel and jumped over a pile of monster trucks, Manuel Paul Arenas read some poems & I played Truth Or Dare with the audience*. Lots of other fun stuff happened that night on the show, and there’ll be plenty more to see over the next 3 Saturdays as “7 Minutes” continues.”

He neglected to mention the Arcana Collective, which did one of their esoteric performance art pieces involving Ernesto being abused by three nubile Goth girls whilst jabbering about tarot cards and Fate, Hanna Leister and Rich Briggs doing a one-act farce about a string of “pearls”, and Leslie Barton doing something involving a werewolf mask and a little stuffed animal of some kind. And a fun time was had by all…

I read three poems and in a moment I shall reproduce them below in their entirety. The first piece, “Ode to Stout” was an old Creative Writing assignment from my Community College days in Florida. Our professor asked us to compare two items which on the surface seemed unrelated, but we were to find their similarities. I chose chocolate milk and stout ale. It went over well and he suggested I enter it in a contest Guinness were having where if one wrote something nice about their product, one could win a genuine Irish Pub. Alas, by the time I got around to looking it up the contest was over.

The next poem is a portion of a larger piece which I had intended to read at the “7 Minutes in Love” show that I missed. I have printed the full poem on here before, but so that you might see it as a stand alone piece, I present “Broceliande”.

The last was my offering to the legions of poems about murder and mayhem: “Manqueller Manque”. This was originally inspired by a word I found in a book entitled “The Word Museum”. The word in question, “”Manqueller”, is defined by The Free Dictionary as “a killer of men; a manslayer” . My poem is about a man who aspires to be a killer and follows him as he muses on what sort of killer he’d like to be.

And so, without further ado…


Stout is like a chocolate drink, semi-sweet and well nigh black
Dellectable amaritude in creamy bitter draught
Sweet unmalted barleywort, cordial cocoa quaff
Heavy, almost viscous, seen darkly through the glass
Liquid velvet, hazy curtain obfuscates the eyes
Tawny lips, the foamy kiss, a bittersweet goodbye


Piscean, watery enchantress, ardent; lubricious lady of the lake
Merlin, assotted, awaits you, though he knows your kiss means to quell
Nimue, bury me in your joyous garden, once curiosity is slaked
The loving-cup, which you offer over-brims with a philter fell

Eyes of pale green luminescence, searing my soul straight thru
Nipples like red Chinese lanterns, on hillocks of new-fallen snow
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you; but know, that I love you still true
In a place where time is suspended, tho’ forgiveness and love freely flow


I could’ve been a lady-killer, just like Springheel Jack
Decollating prostitutes, prostrate on their backs
Viscerate them cleverly, split up to their necks
Displace all their vital bits and desecrate their sex

Or, perhaps, a Bluebeard bridegroom, handsome, suave, and fell
Loving husband, till the wifey breeched my private Hell
Monsieur Verdoux killed his spouses, only for the cash
I would do it for the bloodlust, then char them to ash

Don’t think me a woman-hater, I’d kill menfolk too
Just give me a sniper gun, and I’d know what to do
Ensconced up in a bell tower, in the hub of town
The cops would have to take me out, before they took me down

Maybe I’d just go legit, tho’ still indulge my spree
Killing killers on Death Row, whilst other people see
When I’m done, I’d get a check and Uncle Sam’s glad hand
Only in America could slaying be so grand!


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