Hey there, Heather here to bring y'all the news.

Sutekh is stuck in a big chair.  It's a nice chair, it really is.
  Plush.  It has to be comfortable, because he is going to be stuck there for a long time.  A "long time" I like to call "eternity."

He won't talk to me, and I can understand that.  But he really shouldn't keep all those emotions bottled up inside.  I decided I needed to do something about it, so I told him a dirty, dirty lie.  I said that a past installment of WWSD really got people talking:  Poetry Corner.  It didn't really make people talk, it made them retch.  Sutekh is what we in the business like to call...a "bad" poet.  He just isn't very good.

When I told him his rhymes were a hit, however, his eyes lit up.  They lit up as much as the dead, cold skull sockets of a powerless husk could.  He asked, "Really?"

"Really," I replied.  I almost felt bad for leading the dumb bastard on.  Then I farted and felt a lot better.

"Maybe...I could do some more verse for the folks at home?" Sutekh asked.

"Sure, why not," I said.  For whatever reason, I was feeling particularly charitable.  Let the poor schmuck have his fifteen minutes of deceptive fame, leading to an emotional crash in his well-padded chair.  I'm already popping the popcorn to sit and watch Sutekh's paralyzed form imperceptibly slump when he realizes a couple sonnets ain't gonna change the fact that he's fucked.

Without further ado, I am turning over the News page for something entirely un-newslike.  Sutekh, take it away!

Poetry From The Chair

By Sutekh The-Recently-Confined Destroyer

I may not be able to move, but I can still kick out the tasty licks and jam the flavorful rhymes.  Without further ado, let's start off with the reason I am reduced to the power of poetry!



Shiny bauble.
Red shiny bauble.
Powerful red shiny bauble.
Paralyzing powerful red shiny bauble.
Tricky paralyzing powerful red shiny bauble.
Swallowed tricky paralyzing powerful red shiny bauble.
I can't believe I ate the whole thing.
Frozen in space and time.


Glad I got that out of my system...  Well, the emotional portion, anyway.  Damn bauble is still inside me, and apparently isn't going anywhere.

I'm not going anywhere either, and it has given me a new perspective on existence.  Since I can't do much, I find myself listening more.  Joe came down the other day to see how I was doing, and I could tell something was wrong by the tone of his voice.  I asked him what was troubling him, and he told me about a recent problem with the ladies.  Ah, ladies.  Can't live with 'em, can't hurl them into a temporal vortex (well, not now, anyway -- used to do it almost weekly).  As Joe told me his tale of woe, I could feel another poetic gem brewing...


Blind Date

She said her cheeks hurt.
    The evening's happiness working her face.
She said she hadn't laughed like that in ages.
    The quotes, the songs, the thoughts (I thought) of times to come.
She said her eyes were broken.
    I wanted to be her eyes.
She said she had strong opinions.
    A quality only she was allowed to have.

I tried to tell her who I was.

She said I was acting odd.
She said I sounded upset.
She said it seemed like bickering on the phone.
She said we should end things there.

I silently disagreed.


Whoa!  That gave me a little shiver!  I don't even know where that came from!  Hey Joe, go get dumped some more, you sorry sack!  HA!

I better lighten the mood now.  In my past poetry installment, folks seemed to enjoy the limericks I was spewing out.  I wasn't always such a golden-penned genius, however.  Here is one of my first limericks...


Bad Limerick

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose ability to write limericks wasn't very good.
He said with a grin,
As he tapped pen to chin,
I have no idea how to end this shit.


Yeah, not so great, eh?  Since my paralysis, I have taken to writing limericks in more of a story form.  Here's a little dittie about several things I had on my mind as I stared at the wall:  aliens, tacos, and satellites...



Taco people from the sky,
Fell in 'chutes, their conquest to try.
They threw on their cheese.
Took the planet with ease.
The earthlings left wanted to cry.

Soft shells and hard,
Taco people set up their guard.
They knew humans were tough.
"We must not take their guff!"
"We'll not give them the slightest regard!"

Humans were hard to stop.
But taco folk wouldn't drop.
They fought with their meat.
Shot hot sauce at enemy's feet,
And drowned them in tomato slop.

The people of earth were beat.
The hot sauce packed too much heat!
What could they do?
When Taco Bell came for you?
Humans were left to grow wheat.

A lonely satellite caught the word.
A plaintive voice, as if from a bird.
The world asked for help,
Said the tacos must be whelped.
Power from space would be heard!

The com-sat was smart.
Had a very good start.
He beamed down a wave,
Told the food to behave.
"Mess with me and end up on the salad cart!"

And so the tacos were subdued.
Made back into ordinary food.
The humans rejoiced,
Victory flags hoist!
And the satellite hullabalooed!


Mmmmmmmm, tacos!  And human domination!  I'm not sure why I let the earthlings off the hook in the end.  This damn Eye of Horus in my belly has really got me changing my tune, I guess.

One final thing I am noticing in my prison-like trance is that my senses are melding together.  Tastes turn into visions, visions turn into sounds, sounds turn into jock-itch (dammit!).  It's like I have become a single nerve-ending, a spastic neuron firing chaotically.  Most days, it all screams "PURPLE!!!!!"  I finally wrote a poem about it.


An Ode To Purple
Purple People Eaters.
Damn, that's stupid.

Or is it?

People eaten means fewer eyes to view.
Fewer mouths to feed (the already full).
Nothing more unseen by the human eye.

Or does it?

Purple means nothing without vision.
Vision to realize the...the...
Only that which can be described with sight.

Purple cannot exist without attention.
Purple is vain.
Purple craves focus. Strain your eyes.

Or close them.

Can you still see it?
The deep purple?
Hear it?
Perhaps as heavy, guitar-laden Haze?
Feel it?
Ensconced in royal velvet, caressing the maroon freedom?
Can you smell grapes? Catch the scent of a fine merlot?
Taste the Jello?

Perhaps purple is beyond us all.

Maybe a lot of things are.


Well, that's all for me.  Sorry to cut this short, but my paralysis is ironically draining.  I think a part of me keeps resisting, straining, never giving up.  Damn, that's tiring.

Maybe I will eventually give up and let the Eye of Horus turn me to stone.

God, I hate Heather so much.

Goodbye, everyone.

The End