Op. 25: VII. Guige - Arnold Schoenberg, Florent Boffard



There are twenty-seven episodes
With Milhouse Van Houten.
Strange boy of blue,
The reflexive friend,
Favourite of the writers room.
A father found in a red racecar bed,
Divorced of all age,
The same, as ever.
Glasses round, veering from an ego, dead.
Is everything honestly coming up you?

There are twenty-seven episodes
With Milhouse Van Houten,
None of them redeeming.
Nothing is that clear.
Still, to Simpsonish sensitivities,
Be thee without Bart?
The moment shows that as I sell my soul,
Our touch is similar.
As blue as you are, we are the same.
Sensitive to all illness,
You are, in the end,
the roughshot winner.
Experience has taught me
To stay in your corner.
You are not a plot-relevant lackey,
I have in you, a friend.

There are twenty-seven episodes
With Milhouse Van Houten,
I’d watch them all again in a heartbeat.

(I have burnt out, like a final Thunderbird. I don't want to write any more words. This is a poem I wrote for a beloved friend, but something needs to be put out there to satisfy productivity. At the same time, the nail of my right thumb is chipped. My hands are blistered from carrying boxes. Sleep is a sweet and rare. I can feel the grease of suncream on my slipping knees. There are flies in the front room. These are things I cannot expel. Sorry! Nonetheless, try to stay strong.)

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