An Interview with Dewie Arub Ices by poet and critic Lew Icarus Bede.
LIB: Here I am at the mike, yo, slutty pigs,
with Dewie Arub Ices. Loves Iraq.
He is with us here in between his gigs
(a warm applause). Let us welcome him back.
Good evening, Dewie Arub Ices. How
are you?
DAI: I'm cool.
LIB: What are you up to, dude?
DAI: Five-ten.
LIB: I mean, what are you doing now?
DAI: I have to admit I'm up to no good.
LIB: Like what?
DAI: Well, beatin' off on toilet seats.
LIB: You're a bit of a jerk.
DAI: Some think I'm cute.
They like my curving dick, my hairy teats,
my black flag and my rifle.
LIB: You're a brute.
Who are you dating these days?
DAI: Dating, huh?
Nah, I just rape hot bitches who show up,
and put black hoods on 'em.
LIB: For real?
DAI: No, duh.
But then, of course, I take the holy cup
and drink it down.
LIB: Are you a sexist?
DAI: Yep.
But it is so much fun. You should try it
yourself. It gives you quite a bit of pep.
It makes you wanna go out crazed and fight.
LIB: What is the purpose? Raise a little hell?
DIA: Hell, no. I'm after total chaos.
LIB: Why?
Aren't you out of control?
DIA: Perhaps.
LIB: So?
DIA: Well,
it makes me feel good. It gets me high.
LIB: Some say you are a nasty bastard, true?
DIA: Yeh, pretty much. But I enjoy it so.
LIB: How 'bout incoming missiles? That's no fun.
DIA: You are correct. But it's part of the show.
With each hamburger patty, there's a bun.
LIB: Who's yo Big Daddy?
DIA: Cid Wa'eeb El Sur.
LIB: The poet?
DIA: Yeh. I like his work the best.
It's sweet, it's fresh, and it's about my turf.
LIB: Who else do you admire among the rest?
DIA: "Scribe" El Uwade. He is quite a stud.
My favorite quotation of his is
'The pen is mightier than...er...the word.'
I think that that is priceless, pure whizz fizz.
LIB: Some say you and your group are murderers,
vile scorpions unleashed upon the Earth.
DIA: Who says that? She-asses? Turkeys? Wheys & Curds?
Fish Heads, or Zero-ass, Tree-huggin' Turds?
Hell, they are all a bunch of infantels.
They probably don't like beheading as
a punishment; but it works wonders, sells
quite well upon the social media.
LIB: You frighten me.
DIA: That is the plan.
LIB: Why is it you like writing poetry?
Why? Why? Why?
DIA: Writing makes an exact man,
as Bacon wrote. Without great memory,
I'd better write.
LIB: But you are so uncouth,
so rude, and so uncivilized. It seems
a contradiction.
DIA: Well, to tell the truth,
I feel that writing comes from crises' dreams.
LIB: What do you mean by that?
DIA: To live is best;
to write's a failure. Yet we live among
the World. How else can we speak to the blessed?
To write invokes tradition's vital lung.
LIB: I think you are an unsung idiot,
kind of like those Shakespearean blockheads,
who blather like a T. S. Eliot.
DIA: Thanks for the compliment. To talk nonsense
oft is to skirt with brilliant sapience.
LIB: That's not what I am telling you, you oaf.
I don't imply you have intelligence.
but that you are endowed with half a loaf.
DIA: Is it not you who is uncouth, and rude?
LIB: You make me so.
DIA: That's why I'm thanking you.
I cannot help but feel real gratitude.
I feel creative, strong, wise, good, and true.
LIB: I do not care about your feelings, dolt.
DIA: Why are you always talkin' 'bout the dumb?
Why not speak of the beautiful, the gold,
the wonderful, and hoped for kingdom come?
LIB: Huh?
DIA: That is why I like a Socra-tease.
LIB: I do not think you know what in the hell
you're talkin' bout.
DIA: Perhaps. And yet, at least
I'm thinking...
LIB: Are you?
DIA: Yes, sir! Can't you tell?
(Lew Icarus Bede cuts the interview,
and Dewie Arub Ices just looks on.
And then he shouts out loud.) I love you, dude.
(Lew Icarus Bede turns around, and yawns.)
LIB: Here I am at the mike, yo, slutty pigs,
with Dewie Arub Ices. Loves Iraq.
He is with us here in between his gigs
(a warm applause). Let us welcome him back.
Good evening, Dewie Arub Ices. How
are you?
DAI: I'm cool.
LIB: What are you up to, dude?
DAI: Five-ten.
LIB: I mean, what are you doing now?
DAI: I have to admit I'm up to no good.
LIB: Like what?
DAI: Well, beatin' off on toilet seats.
LIB: You're a bit of a jerk.
DAI: Some think I'm cute.
They like my curving dick, my hairy teats,
my black flag and my rifle.
LIB: You're a brute.
Who are you dating these days?
DAI: Dating, huh?
Nah, I just rape hot bitches who show up,
and put black hoods on 'em.
LIB: For real?
DAI: No, duh.
But then, of course, I take the holy cup
and drink it down.
LIB: Are you a sexist?
DAI: Yep.
But it is so much fun. You should try it
yourself. It gives you quite a bit of pep.
It makes you wanna go out crazed and fight.
LIB: What is the purpose? Raise a little hell?
DIA: Hell, no. I'm after total chaos.
LIB: Why?
Aren't you out of control?
DIA: Perhaps.
LIB: So?
DIA: Well,
it makes me feel good. It gets me high.
LIB: Some say you are a nasty bastard, true?
DIA: Yeh, pretty much. But I enjoy it so.
LIB: How 'bout incoming missiles? That's no fun.
DIA: You are correct. But it's part of the show.
With each hamburger patty, there's a bun.
LIB: Who's yo Big Daddy?
DIA: Cid Wa'eeb El Sur.
LIB: The poet?
DIA: Yeh. I like his work the best.
It's sweet, it's fresh, and it's about my turf.
LIB: Who else do you admire among the rest?
DIA: "Scribe" El Uwade. He is quite a stud.
My favorite quotation of his is
'The pen is mightier than...er...the word.'
I think that that is priceless, pure whizz fizz.
LIB: Some say you and your group are murderers,
vile scorpions unleashed upon the Earth.
DIA: Who says that? She-asses? Turkeys? Wheys & Curds?
Fish Heads, or Zero-ass, Tree-huggin' Turds?
Hell, they are all a bunch of infantels.
They probably don't like beheading as
a punishment; but it works wonders, sells
quite well upon the social media.
LIB: You frighten me.
DIA: That is the plan.
LIB: Why is it you like writing poetry?
Why? Why? Why?
DIA: Writing makes an exact man,
as Bacon wrote. Without great memory,
I'd better write.
LIB: But you are so uncouth,
so rude, and so uncivilized. It seems
a contradiction.
DIA: Well, to tell the truth,
I feel that writing comes from crises' dreams.
LIB: What do you mean by that?
DIA: To live is best;
to write's a failure. Yet we live among
the World. How else can we speak to the blessed?
To write invokes tradition's vital lung.
LIB: I think you are an unsung idiot,
kind of like those Shakespearean blockheads,
who blather like a T. S. Eliot.
DIA: Thanks for the compliment. To talk nonsense
oft is to skirt with brilliant sapience.
LIB: That's not what I am telling you, you oaf.
I don't imply you have intelligence.
but that you are endowed with half a loaf.
DIA: Is it not you who is uncouth, and rude?
LIB: You make me so.
DIA: That's why I'm thanking you.
I cannot help but feel real gratitude.
I feel creative, strong, wise, good, and true.
LIB: I do not care about your feelings, dolt.
DIA: Why are you always talkin' 'bout the dumb?
Why not speak of the beautiful, the gold,
the wonderful, and hoped for kingdom come?
LIB: Huh?
DIA: That is why I like a Socra-tease.
LIB: I do not think you know what in the hell
you're talkin' bout.
DIA: Perhaps. And yet, at least
I'm thinking...
LIB: Are you?
DIA: Yes, sir! Can't you tell?
(Lew Icarus Bede cuts the interview,
and Dewie Arub Ices just looks on.
And then he shouts out loud.) I love you, dude.
(Lew Icarus Bede turns around, and yawns.)
