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"OUR GUEST OF HONOUR: BOB FOLDER"
a cura di Vittorio Curtoni
The renowned American poet Bob Folder, who is unknown, is 65 years of age and possesses a fantastic sexual appetite. "Bob is a very likable fellow, a democratic fellow, don't you know. Registered Republican, though, but only because his friend Will Caul ran for state legislature in '62." This, according to Pierre Queneau. All our information comes from Queneau. Bob Folder is a legend in certain poetry circles, of proportions equivalent to Paul Bunyan in American lore. Like all legends, both germain and granola, Bob Folder may be based on a real man, or simply based on a human. Either one. Certainly he existed. Who else could have written these poems? Queneau has in fact met Bob. How else could he have gotten the poems? Written on bits of tree bark and computer printout paper, which Bob kept hidden in a hollow log (along with his birth certificate, dated July 12, 1921), what we have is merely a swan dive in a vacuum, or what Folder himself calls "the price of the cannon." [sic.] Also, Bob has only been published in "Jake the Pike," and "Emergency Horse" magazines. Otherwise, like Chaucer, his manuscript circulates. Thanks to Curt Hopkins, Steve McQuiddy and Scott Taylor for this rare, precious informations. Anybody interested in the poetic world of Bob Folder should read the essay "Translating The Worm: Irony Apropos" by Pierre Queneau, published in this issue of DADA.Go to poem index
Il ben noto poeta americano Bob Folder, che e' completamente sconosciuto, ha 65 anni e possiede un formidabile appetito sessuale. "Bob e' un tipo molto simpatico, un tipo democratico, e che cappero. Pero' e' iscritto al Partito Repubblicano, ma solo perche' il suo amico Will Caul si e' presentato candidato per la legislatura di stato nel '62." Questo stando a Pierre Queneau. Tutte le informazioni in nostro possesso ci vengono da Queneau. Bob Folder e' una leggenda in alcuni circoli poetici, di proporzioni equivalenti a Paul Bunyan nel folklore americano. Come tutte le leggende, tanto etiche che etniche, quella di Bob Folder potrebbe essere basata su un vero uomo, oppure su un semplice essere umano. O l'uno o l'altro. Di certo e' esistito. Chi altri potrebbe avere scritto queste poesie? Queneau ha incontrato Bob. Se no, come sarebbe entrato in possesso delle poesie? Scritte su pezzi di quercia d'albero e su stampati di computer che Bob teneva nascosti in un ceppo d'albero cavo (assieme al suo certificato di nascita, datato 12 luglio 1921), sono tutto cio' che abbiamo: un semplice tuffo a rondine nel vuoto, ovvero cio' che lo stesso Folder chiama "il prezzo del cannone" [sic]. Inoltre, Bob e' stato pubblicato solo sulle riviste "Jake the Pike" e "Emergency Horse". Per il resto, come nel caso di Chaucer, i suoi manoscritti circolano. Grazie a Curt Hopkins, Steve McQuiddy and Scott Taylor per queste rare, preziose informazioni. Chiunque sia interessato al mondo poetico di Bob Folder dovrebbe leggere il saggio "Translating The Worm: Irony Apropos" di Pierre Queneau pubblicato in questo stesso numero di DADA.
Hey Davy Crockett! Poemland Down by the river Sonnet For A Landlocked Numeral Caliente Seminal Logic To A Belly Hole eam Me Up, Scotty, There's No Intelligent Life On This Pantsuit Love sonnet
Hey Davy Crockett!
Eve of St. Agnes they swam the platter like a log Ding-dong, the poodle baron. A day-care center Thursday and I am standing on the back porch facing sideways Macreasa inside, dollop in the bean pot Crispy chitlins—they sell bananas like a freeway And spin a sweatshirt from plum juice and ocean Saddled like a midget’s buttocks this life of ours is really important and conforms to my warm insect Bring me forty streetsigns, fire me a gross of beetle sympathy and tired pancakes, to the rictus of my emotional heartstring ruptures and floods Macreasa’s dress with our first child Lastly sinful like a magpie on vacation, How many rabbits can hide in a desk-clerk’s hair? holding two lizards like drumsticks or music clogs and clots the plain ham of our life together And like Jesus at the cycle-barn, and Pharaoh eating stone I bought a shirt with a timber locket stolen from a telephone pole Ruptured rubber gadgets sprinkled on my neck and pulled-out backbone lay down on plastic hairpiece dreamed especially for Mother EarthBack to poem index
Poemland
Scraping by by me something along the tracks, a gelatinous grouping in the shape of a TV personality, ochre eye shadow cascading grim red tie punt like pool-shark lampshade cookie-poodles paddles soap pining gimpy nuts soccer for free siccing the dog on the sick limpy nut vendor laying soaky bun blisters over the side Fall like a leaf from the sea.Back to poem index
Down By The River
Ibbly: beveled morphology and a snack tuna on cables. Smack me so it leaves a mark. My interior is pox-ridden and smooth of squeeze it reheats the dusty chops. One warm breast spills out of a turtle neck. Click shut the refrigerator door, cleaving the soy patty, falling limp as tissue into the freshwater mainstream squirming from the crinkled tube. Watch on the freeway the tires unravel into sparks and ha ha death: 30 ballpeen shots to the noggin.Back to poem index
Sonnet For A Landlocked Numeral
The sampans rust into a slight nod Feel the black shine lantern boom and Bob Crusts against the ancient King of time that shines and oils down a rebar rod “I want you Bob, yes, I’ll make you mine” Quoth she, spammed to touch the knob fidgeting and relaxing to black the tab and sawed blast like figs, leveling the garbage can sings spud frogs to a healing man he slipped and gained eight or more who ran.Back to poem index
Caliente
Forget lithe spleen habits in song decorate the garrulous limb with homicide can you peel lost pulpmeat so long? Sure I can, imam, stoney peach part it’s hard to angle rods and cones and start pilfer petticoats scratching rheumy time forward to part, coalesce in King Kong twist me up a dooby, Cal, drink insecticide Hand me a poodle, I want to feel aligned to the Axis, split, ballpeen is fine Gilgamesh has lunged for the twister mat Slap, apparently, look to nibble and long in my heart for a steamed milk enema lied ten minutes ago I touched a hamster and criedBack to poem index
Seminal Logic To A Belly Hole
Love lip trippingingly swan dive to secondary motions in chandelier skin —I think of Marxism as a sexist joke on myself— "Scrumpdillyishus!" quoth she chucking down my wrinkled sack to the delicious toad drippings of her snack, T-shirts stuffed with scribbles in black. Isaac the Cossack is the buff chick about town; "Nice bag of marbles, Bobby," he promised, withdrawing the baguette. "Nick, Nick, my Pincers of Bagwan," stealthily— Hey-wann-ah, hey-wann-ah ho, you're the waxpaper Santa of my wandering toes. Alert the pirates, my desk is roundBack to poem index
Beam Me Up, Scotty, There's No Intelligent Life On This Pantsuit
It all started when I couldn't shave the Cuban Instead mayonnaise plastered my gums as I smoke Buttering me up in the home of ex-president Truman Fuck the begonias, Save your land! He then began to sort the anal beads as crystal cottonballs snap! I stand naked from the waist down to your song watching 9 one-minute managers humping a bar-b-que Toilet poster! Toilet poster!Back to poem index
Love Sonnet
Kneeling in the soft carcinogens of your cellophane vase, I shall vacuum up your up your svelte chowder As Pab's mom sticks jelly to her mace "I am Chinese, I am, I am," says she, louder and louder. Your dribbling nose paste nails my heart to thine. "Well Doctor, it seems he's choking to death on your own patela." "Apply salt lick to injured area and whine 'I'm just a turd-bird with salmonella!'" "Do not divorce my loaf, sell it to the birds." Sotto voce, sotto voce, adagio and pulsing dong To whet my lyre and sing pepper ear wax turds. sing: "Weepy weepy Love Jones, birdaloupe Bong Bong." "Only love is capable of grating you a happy life." Who ate all the blistex? Is that your paring knife?Back to poem index
