Showing posts with label Lindsay (Poet). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lindsay (Poet). Show all posts
0
[postlink]https://diaphragmblues.blogspot.com/2009/09/diaphragm-blues-13.html[/postlink]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phyKVXrGiO4endofvid
[starttext]


The scene is a Slam poetry event. The Poet Reads.



“Diaphragm Blues.”
THE POET AKA LINDSAY


Oh I’ve got the diaphragm blues, because I didn’t have one to use. The pill seemed too risky, I’m sure you heard that news.

The foam was just too gross, and I could never find the right dose, and The IUD, left me feeling at sea. Now, I should have walked away, resisting his call to play. I could have hung up the phone, created an arctic zone. And now his Lawyer say:

(singing) This is what you call fate; you should never bait your date without a diaphragm in place. This is what you call fate; you should never bait your date without a diaphragm in place.

(spoken) And the boys say:

(singing) We won’t wear no raincoat, don’t like no second skin, we want to feel like old faithful, girls apply within.

(spoken) He told me that sex was great, but now my periods late. Sadly, that was only our very first date.  I didn’t know what I was doing, and now my boobs are bloomin’. I should have a seen this as a very clear sign, even though it was my very first time. 

So, I’ve got the diaphragm blues and a baby with no shoes. The only way now to win is to lose; I’ve got the diaphragm blues.

And his Lawyer said: 

(singing) This is what you call fate; you should never bait your date without a diaphragm in place. This is what you call fate; you should never bait your date without a diaphragm in place.

(spoken) And the boys say:

(singing) We won’t wear no raincoat, don’t like no second skin, we want to feel like old faithful, girls apply within.

Lights Dim - fade to black











[endtext]

The Diaphragm Blues - 1:3

1
[postlink]https://diaphragmblues.blogspot.com/2009/09/asshole-in-ad-22.html[/postlink]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHon5u3e77Eendofvid
[starttext]

Lindsay, AKA the Poet, reads one of her poems at an open reading, “Asshole in the Ad.”


“Asshole in the Ad.”


THE POET AKA LINDSAY
I went through the personal ads, well you know it’s the latest fade, I met a guy named Bobby you see, and later that night, he got me drunk on JD.
My hormones were all a swirling, his kisses had my toes a curling.
His technique was totally rad, and that’s when I fell for the asshole in the ad.
Didn’t use a pill or a diaphragm, didn’t have a rubber or an IUD. Now Mother Nature is playing her hand. And Bobby Ray said: see you later man.
He’s the asshole in the ad, asshole in the ad, asshole in the ad.
Now, Bobby smiled and said: hey, it’s not mine. Besides it wasn’t that great of a time. As he walked away on that rainy day, I wished this pregnancy away.
I felt so helpless what could I do, I ran to the law to help me through. But like my feet Bobby Ray disappeared and ladies and gentlemen, I don’t want to make you nervous but my water just broke right here.
Lindsay Pours Water from a pitcher and drinks
Didn’t use a pill or a diaphragm, didn’t have a rubber or an IUD. Now Mother Nature is playing her hand. And Bobby Ray said: See you later man.
He’s the asshole in the ad, asshole in the ad, sorry kid that’s your dad.














[endtext]

Asshole in the Ad - 2:2

0
[postlink]https://diaphragmblues.blogspot.com/2009/09/buddha-man-23.html[/postlink]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCwfKkQPuC0endofvid
[starttext]


The scene takes place in a cocktail bar. Two old friends are drinking and catching up with each other. The conversation turns to sex and sexuality.



“The Buddha-Man.”


LINDSAY AKA THE POET

The first time I saw sex? I was eleven years old. My sister and I skipped school with the Camron kids, Liza-Belle and Bobbie-Ray. Now, their mother did “IT” for a living and we were going to find out what “IT” was. It must have been toward the end of the school year because it was already humid as hell by the time the four of us snuck up onto the Camron’s property and right under the master bedroom window. There, Bobbie-Ray made of himself a table so I could stand on him. Looking through that window all I could see was the back of the fattest, hairiest man I had ever seen. Why, he had so much hair on his back that I swear I could have just reached over and made a long French Braid starting at the nape of his neck and down the middle of his back, ending in a tail to drift among his buttocks. Then he turned his Buddha stomach to the side for my viewing pleasure. There I saw it. Sprouting straight up from between his legs was something that resembled a slot machine lever. Miss Camron kneeled like in prayer before this Buddha-like-Slot Machine-Man, but she didn’t pray. Instead she reached her right hand toward the lever, and pulled it down towards her . . . and well, she must have gotten four bars because that lever of his just started to shoot out the most disgusting substance I had ever seen. It was at that moment that I realized I was gay. It was also at the moment that I realized that if this was the most interesting thing to skip school for, than nothing was worthy of skipping school. Which is why I am a lesbian and a poet today. Funny, I can’t go to Reno and play the slots without thinking about Buddha-Man. I owe Bobby-Ray Camron a great deal. Don’t you think? Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.










[endtext]

The Buddha-Man - 2:3

0
[postlink]https://diaphragmblues.blogspot.com/2009/09/breasts-how-proudly-they-wave-32.html[/postlink]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jo8RUG10vtkendofvid
[starttext]


Lindsay, AKA the Poet, reads one of her poems at an open reading, "Breasts: How Proudly they Wave."


THE POET AKA LINDSAY

"Breasts: How Proudly They Wave."

I saw a sister dancing on the stage, moving her hips, I watched her sway. It was the Fourth of July and patriotism was flying free, along with cook-outs, beer, and my sister’s dance . . . That is, for a fee. Upon her breasts were patriotic pasties, flags to salute this holy day. Women’s breasts can be so ambiguous, serving many functions in their own way. My breasts have been called the following: 

Boobies, Winnebagos (when they go cross country), ta-ta’s, melons (all kinds depending upon size, from large to small, we have…: watermelons, cantaloupes, honeydew [do you honey do, do you?], grapefruit, oranges, grapes… ), hooters (also a restaurant serving wings), feeders, ho-hos (a Hostess favorite) , bazoongas, bodacious tatas, the girls, milkers,  bettyboops, fried eggs, lulus, ant bites, mole hills, alps, apples, Babylons (babylons?), bazookas (also a type of gun), bread-winners, mammaries (clinical), cans, rack, knockers (on my front door?), jugs, bee stings, mosquito bites, Abbott and Costello, Ben and Jerry, Bert and Ernie (why are these all male names?), airbags, blinkers, bombs (not the explosive kind), balloons, boulders (for the over the shoulder holders), cha-chas, chesticles (is there a resemblance?), cupcakes, Danny DeVitos (Really? After drinking his Lemoncello!), lemons, David and Goliath (Biblical), Devil’s Dumplings (Biblical?), Eisenhowers (political), funbags, Gobstoppers (the everlasting kind), headlamps, high beams, Holmes and Watson (should you get lost), honkers, hood ornaments, hubcaps (to round out the car metaphors), John and Paul (Ringo and George on Tuesdays and Thursdays), Mounds (of ice-cream? You scream, we all scream for . . .), muffins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum (ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum), Volvos (because Honda will not do), ying-yangs (because balance is everything) and Yahoos (also an internet search engine). Mother dear, may I have a drink?
Drinks a glass of Milk













[endtext]

My Breasts - 3:2