towering grate of wisdom/ the elder pants
towering grate of wisdom/ the elder pants
define her eyes
texts are written
at the stake
gather to die
in her wake
all set sweet hearts the stool is just a delusion
is life merely just a hologram or turtle necks
the camo pants make your toe look obtuse
many intoxications with home bound tricyclists
don’t text while blind folded or masticating the
percussionists can be symbolic and horrific o face
the all you can defeat buffet unlocks possibilities
and digressions of alternative bicycles with out-dated
connotations aforethought as afterthoughts I think
frost personage video games make you rethink
HBO Go and championship wrestling belches
with dwindling savings accounts without Chapstick
and again this falling snow
at the ground
but winter is dead
and in death it works
trying to hide either
the remnant ugliness
or the coming beauty
change is coming
and she’s calling again
my love, the land is too treacherous
for man beast
machine and ghost
baring it all
bearing down on me
baring its teeth at me
smiling fangs dripping
about to feast
on a quivering morsel
of tender exposed flesh
a howling holy ghost gospel choir
calls me home
I finish my life on my knees
grace my sole recourse
my final act plays out
who knew I had hidden
so much regret?
I tackled a flying shenanigan and found it more jiggly than I expected. The resulting art was fraught with pity.
And the fiery penance for this most grievous spectacle? A forced wake and bake with Zelma Campbell. Even Will Shakespeare has no words.
The mercury turns counter clockwise here, must be the sudden trickle of Evan Williams you keep shoving at me in a Mountain Dew bottle. I can’t drink the fire water, sir. The villagers will tear me limb from limb.
They have extra-smiley eyes.
I don’t trust it.
Did I just see you ride by on a narwhal? So it’s pandemonium, then.
I don’t even see how you grip with your hooves all caught up in that cool chick’s hair.
I know you like to swallow the ocean, but never be afraid to breathe a little
in between gulps.
And stop staring at domesticated animals and laughing.
You are an asshole.
But I love you in a don’t-make-me-turn-this-car-around-dammit kind of way.
Is that weird?
Yes. I know. Delicious cake.
Calm down, smoke a bowl and do this later when you’re really bored, like let’s say after you’re dead.
The lancet liver fluke first infects the terrestrial snail
Which then secretes the parasite in cysts that are left in its moisture trail
If an ant finds the trail, it will use it as a source of moisture,
Swallowing the cysts and infecting itself with the fluke
The fluke will move to the ant’s esophageal ganglion,
Where it will manipulate the nerve cluster and control the ant’s behavior
Once in control, the fluke leads the ant to a leaf, where the ant remains
Until it is eaten by a grazing animal
It is the nature of the parasite to seek a host higher than its prey
The tongue-eating louse enters a fish through its gills
Attaches itself to the base of the tongue with its mandibles
Slowly gorging itself on the blood of the fish
This eventually causes the tongue to atrophy and fall off.
Once the tongue is no more, the louse attaches itself
To the stub of the fish’s tongue
The fish can use the parasite as an effective tongue
At the price of its blood
It is the nature of the parasite to save its host from death
Pale and beardly.
Never experienced oppression
apart from the slow drum
of feckless oblivion.
Followed for the tits?
It’s nearly time to bounce.
Usually moments away
from total dissimulation.
Never forget to shave.
That’s a bald faced lie.
Sometimes forget to take
The current anginal pain:
a very good example.
Prolifically akin to cancer.
Better ignored or treated.
Sometimes use expletives
not cause it inflicts attention
but cause it is the only way.
Saturday a collaboration
between poets and comedians
felt like a distant sliver
floating in the reaches.
That’s not poetry, jackass.
Sometimes regurgitate lines
most gratuitously self-indulgent.
Sometimes write lines with I
want to gouge myself out.
Here they come stumbling, trying to fake that sexy swagger in shoes far too impractical for being so drunk. You are no Mae West in that cheap polyester dress. The art of the tease lost in a sea of free for all cellulite and half crescent ass cheeks peaking beneath skirts two sizes too small.
I watch them, wondering if the men they’re seeking see what I see. These lost little girls, all struggling to validate themselves in one night stands, as though regrettable sex with a near stranger is some sort of trophy. There are no winners here, just a field of land mines, a soon to be sad display of wreckage.
Somewhere in the mix, the female sexual liberation turned into license to be graceless. This spectacle the antithesis of what that movement ever stood for. The notion that we can fuck just as easily, without guilt imposed by societal standards of the 50s, the pristine holier than thou housewife, no. That’s all well and good, but that is not what this is. This is desperation. This is embarrassment, with necklines so low I can see the daddy issues from across the room. All this squandering to “find a man” with no real consideration of quality, of worth. Still not knowing how to be emotionally self sufficient. Still clinging to the hopes that some boy will tell you how pretty you are, every shred of what you mistake for self respect hinging on one liners. This is not women’s lib. This is a freak show.
It’s not that I ever think I’m better. I just wish they could think more of themselves.
as the universe collapses upon itself,
Good news from around the globe:
Chaz Bono has lost sixty pounds.
Fox reports he wishes to lose more.
Scarlett Johannson, a red-head once
You go, persons!
Someone is weed eating in the rain.
Is anything that important?
I asked a surly woman named Faye.
My eyes were darts, said she
It seems life lacks true porpoise.
I wish to travel to the realm
-of bygone merit- and
behold it’s prosperity once
Her eyes sparkle like a sundae
topped with a rainbow.
But my Friday was severe.
I do not recall if we spoke
all this schmoozing
is giving me a migraine.
you folks can expect
probes of spam
in all the right places.
i want to extend
a personal fuck-yeah
to my friends delegated
to god-emperor poom.
to the other eds whom
continue to detest my brand
i still kinda want
to make out with you.
but i would be remiss
if i didn’t stir the pudding.
i regret to inform the rest
of you: your ineffable pundits
were in after-party attendance
at the grand opening of the
george w presidential library.
everyone was lying
around in piss and vomit.
it was rather squalid.
fun fact: you are looking
at the founding members
of the “supernatural” fan club.
sometimes their pens leak
diarrhea like my own
but more discerning.
and what good is pudding
if not stirred?