Uncle Wait-on-it-Murphy

your tambourine don’t clack or
jangle
like it used to, rusty red beard

no,
all that cactus chewin ain't sane old sir

you mop like a wet sock
when you spit barbells into the puddles,
them preppy puddles
only four fingers away
from your tin foil feet

those penny vacuums
sucking out soup
pouring all over your favourite David Bowie cd

no, Major Tom can’t help you on this planet
of Cracker-Jack maps

leading
you to them puddles

where you let the guppies decorate your toes
and tell you
sad
sad
stories
while you wait for the soapy cardboard to melt
and then the purple wave hits
and the guppies
go
and you wonder why this imaginary toilet bowl
won't flush you to the infinite underworld
where your mad suggestions would catch you a fine fish
that would lick you dry
of your
empty earphones
and
magical Mexican plants
that leave you
c o n s t i p a t e d
as you pop-corn over the golden dumpsters
burping out melodies
twisting to the fat fingers
stuffed in piano keys
and
you tighten your knees with your fishnet skin

when i was a cabbage patch kid
you were cooler than pop-eye

i'm not as dumb as i was two hours ago,
them things ain’t candy cigarettes
puffed outa
that plastic flamingo