5.10 / October 2010

Seven Dwarves And Their Seasonal Affective, Intimacy, Grandeur-Cum-Dependency Issues

Dirge For Happy



with his little half-pint heart
on sleeve—he lived mainly for Art
and Laughter, yet couldn’t believe
when the babes he pined after
shined him on, saying
all they ever wanted
was to be his

Friend. : (

So he began a spitefully torrid bisexual affair
with a Jewish Party Rapper who really, really,

really resembled a young Elliot Gould,
all got up in old school Fly Drag—but when Happy
began hearing the melancholy strains of Theme from M.A.S.H.,
aka “Suicide Is Painless,” during his Early Morning Ablution Routines,
a sourly astringent bikini-brief-skid-mark-with-Right-Guard scent
came and never went, from his baby-powdered septum
pinched shut against what

“The fuck?”

Happy wondered, could make him feel so low
as bloodworms sucking cemetery leaf mulch, and much
to the dismay of his patient lover, who bravely sought a
happy medium

by lugging Other after Other into their tangled bed…

Happy found himself
on hands and knees
instead, crawling through the muck
of seventeen distinct STD’s—a Sisyphus
schnauzer pup, nudging

leaky beach balls of libido up
and up a too-steep satyr slope
of slick, bitter trysts and other

risky things—until they planted him
in the ground, a year later, one soggy
rotten Jack O Lantern, weighed down
with a half-moon pie hole frown
that Happy could never
flip around

to save his soul.

Hang On, Sneezy Hang On!

Sneezy, you see,
he climaxes much
too quickly—in
Hurdy Girdy
Spurty Fits, sometimes
even creams the seams
of his best Guess
Jeans, when he’s really
pushing it—

Sneezy dreams
of the day he’ll get over it, even unto laminating his
penis head with Extra Strength Benadryl, as it said
in the Men’s Health
self help
article which,
as it

turns out,
contains no help—at all: “This Homeopathic tripe ain’t hardly
worth the hype!” Sneezy griped, all the more short-fused and
uptight than ever before.

“Gezundheit!” cried Snow White
at his bedroom door, frightening
the bejesus out of Sneezy, in the middle of drilling a slutty blonde
wood sprite; Sneezy saw a nebula of milky stars, gazing on Snow,
he went off like Ben Franklin’s own
mojo kite in a greased lightning
storm, prematurely tearing up
the night.

“It’s all right, it’s normal, it happens,” cooed Sprite,
“Besides, I like you a lot and we got—all night. Right?”

“Yah, but this sure is getting OLD,” Sneezy
moaned, on the cusp of another head cold.

Ditzy Nymph held a lacy
Trader Vic’s cocktail napkin
under Sneezy’s bulbous,
rash-red hooter.

“Blow,” she said,

And they

Dopey Takes The 1st Step

See Dopey raise
his hand in Group,
tiny track-marked hand
with rubber-banded abscess on carpal root smelling
of rotten peach, and radiating each and every color of a
Kissimmee Saint Cloud sunset—Watch Dopey jut forth
his cleft chin firm as it gets—a single tear clinging
to left eyelash sticky as amber bubble on syringe

dig diminutive Dopey
standing stock-straight in Group, confessing
for the first time how he can’t poop quite
right, nor even get it up for girlfriend at
night anymore, on account of the methadone
he takes in place of his heroin jones, methadone he drinks
at downtown Acme Clinic sink—methadone that dyes
his spine marrow: salmon-pink.

“Ohhhh, my girlfriend be long gone in a week, I think.”

From the Legion Hall comes a chorus of concerned
coughing throats—AA 12 Step Sympatico Drone.

“It’s okay,” sez Dope, “I’m not a-scared
of being all alone, more than what might
happen without my methadone.”

Dopey slumps
back down in his seat, making way for another
new friend at wit’s end with sad story to tell,
joining in the standard Greet A Newbie
Gregorian line:

“Welcome, welcome— Easy
does it One Day at a Time.”

Sleepy Cops A Nod

It is said that Sleepy acquired his awesome gift
by slyly winking at sage Blincoln—a stately
shape-shifting orator / slash / bridge troll
who told the many
Wombats of Jihad:

“Why worry? Be
Happy! … Just saying,
I’m no Bobby Darin or
even McFerrin, but howz about putting away the AK 47’s,
the IED’s and Mac Tens, while damply-tamping a Suicide
Fuse, with Overnight
Hindsight Snooze?”

So, for many moons Sleepy zealously guarded his wet dreams
it seemed he could conjure at will, no VR goggles, hand cream
or Porno Stills; that is, until
Doc prescribed the Tri-Cyclic

Mood Swing Pills.

“Effexor and Paxil, washed down with Diet Pepsi,” Sleepy told
Snow, “That gosh darn Doc wants to kill my natural Narcolepsy!”

Snow White said: “But dear, isn’t that a plus? Then you’ll stay
more as it were with us; you won’t miss out on reality so much.”

“Oh no, Miss Snow, won’t you save me, please? I gots
what Dopey craves, but without the bad Chemistries!”

“Very well. I’ll have a little Talk … with Doc.”

“WHEEEE! I feel so much better! You’re tops, Miss!”

Sleepy hugged the pink velveteen hem
of Snow White’s Royal Wrap, then took
a three-minute nap on her firm,
warm kneecap.

Grumpy Takes His Lumps

Grumps gets it roughly
once a month, at the talented hands
of a lanky Dominatrix; he pays for
her round trip plane ticket
to frozen Bangor,
all the way from
her home in sunny
Pahrump, Nevada.

Sweet Miss Nutcracker
shows up at Grumpy’s door
in a sequined Hewlett Packard
Clean Room Bunny Suit, clucking her tongue
in rhythm with salad bar tongs as veritable lobster claws,
and from the moment she tells naughty dwarf to get down
on the floor—he’s hardly Grumpy at all anymore, and for
whole hours there is nothing but Order and Ardor
in his little universe.

Later, Grump gets a call from Sneezy
on his cell:

Sneezy sez: “Well?”


“Wherefore the Pain, falling mainly
in the Maine?… Hook a brothah UP!”

“Huh uh. I don’t give out her number any more–your
heart won’t take it, you’ll end up like Happy and that
I can’t be responsible for!”


“You obviously mistake me
for someone who cares.”

“Ohhhh… Wank off!’ cries Sneezy,

“Why, bless you, dear sir,” replies
the Grump.

Bashful Gets His Groove On

Bashful hawks letter press broadsides
at a Nashville gift shop, the glossy
brochures and flat picks fanned out
on immaculate lapis countertop,

Bash vanishes
from his high chair
in the slack times when
no tourists are there—

back to the stock room closet where
he writes tragicomic sonnets about

agoraphobic troubadours weaving
corn rows of apple cores on casement
window sills, watching them wither
away, day by day, as soap sliver
follicles in a rusty
claw foot tub.

It’s Snow’s
Secret she favors him
above all the rest, she’ll
drop by

of a Sunday
to help young Bash rehearse the Kinky Lola Song
on ukulele… Bashful dreams of nailing the Davies’
coda chorus with his buckshot eyes tightly shut,
which is when all his
monkish privations—the practice
upon practice—will win Snow over
in a gush

of sea foam and moans,

hot Vegas slots raining buckets
of lucky quarters, bushel after
bushel of aromatic clover.

Doc Extends His Lunch Hour

Doc scrawls positive thoughts
on his Reed Richards Lunch Box, indelible ink
that grows … like news print imposed on pink
pad of Play Doh:

“Oh, The Mind-Body Schism is naught but a
Dialectic Syllogism,” cries Doc— “and that is
… s t r e t c h i n g it!”

Doc leaps off
his massive desk, pacing
to the spot where Dic-Ta-Phone
is strapped to window latch
a la platinum car hop
squawk box:

“Marci CarpetRose please take a letter—no, better yet
at eleven thirty on the dot bring vacuum pump and piping
hot Starbucks scone, on a platter, while you take a long
powder at Fountain Park
on 4th street!”

Truly, Doc has seen it all
in his Simulated Wood Grain
Study Hall; he rabidly eschews God Complex, yet
can’t rightly argue with Master Siggy how everything

“Comes down to zee Sex”

Doc idly rifles
Rolodex, killing time while he waits
for Gal Friday to go…

And next comes a velvet-lined Dwarf Yardstick, fished
from yonder flesh-colored hot metal bureau—will show
whether the hydraulic exercises are working, since Doc,
he knows,
under the Aegis of
Snow, it’s not only
Intellect that will
continue to grow,

and grow.