Box Full of Ghosts

I was dying on a London subway train,
When a bright light grabbed me
With unecessary force.
"Come into the shit"
Spake the Voice.
A horrible she-voice
Of octaves and decibels
Unknown to most mortals.
Pandora's box is open.
"Go ahead and take a look"
"Fall into it."
"Whatever you want."
I did.
I fell into my ancestors
Briny brains and
The tax collectors'
Handbag which smelled of
The worst sort of dreams.
An ancient sort of man-
Or not a man,
In the eyes of those bloody briny ancestors.
Told me,
Take this for yourself.
Hold it close.
Don't put anything in it.
I did. I did.
And I didn't.
My own box full of ghosts.

Youth

Back in my youth, my youngful days,
I could fell mountains with my nonexistant tail.
You could often find me, and call me His Ebulliency.
Then a banshee came
and stoled my spark away.

The Great Man

A great man once strode here.

An astronaut-farmer by trade,

his fists were great ham hocks.

His voice: a great, trembling fuck.

He spake,

and the huddled huddlers huddled at his leather-clad feet.

His ties, all 1,001 of 'em: the innards of italy's finest silkworms.

Every day, he wakes,

pours himself a big mug of knowledge,

and eats a hearty helping of refinement. Beasts, dragged up from the earth,

dress him merrily. He cleans his commemorative Obama plate;

his mother taught him manners. Then he

kicks down his and our doors and goes to scroan the world.

Orchestras once

followed his every booming footstomp, but

now they don't. these were

the times before orchestras went extinct.

Before you went extinct. Before

I went extinct.

A great man once strode here.

Then he killed us all and left.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 15

I slept in the trash,

Under moonlit overpass,

and spoke to with dog.

Hump Day Haiku: Vol. 15

The janitor sneaks.
Mopping around his mop, he
hopes to kill again.

After the Hunt

You can find me in the scriptorium,

Smoking a Woodbine, reclining illustriously,

Effortlessly sporting tweed.

Landscape of the Grampians blesses my eyes,

Old Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, stares at Time itself,

The quiet dignity of Apsley House, suspended in respectful silence.

Charlemagne, West Springer Spaniel,

Sleeps by sconce-lit fireplace,

Tailing dreamy pheasants.

If you need me - give a ring.

You can find me sleeping soundly,

Boldly doing nothing.

The Unbroken Arc

Three prophecies the ancients told,

descending basements caked with mold,

our hearts are lost, our souls are sold,

Lamassu wakes within the fold,

to eat the sweets the dead controlled,

Papyrus burns, the Dead Sea Scrolls,

Illusion.

Oh, lamentable confusion!

Elysian fields upon the cliffs,

a lifeless plunge into the Styx,

the Shades' defeat inscrutable,

with Delphic signs immutable,

Oh, tell me where the tides will swell,

and crash upon black waters still.

Overshoot me, zenith frozen fate,

your prescient spear is sharp.

Aunt Millie's Sweaty Debacle

August 89'
Rain drop cubicle
Wears no pants
To any of the higher lords.
An infinite struggle,
When wavelengths crash
Into nothing
On a steamy beach
Far, Far
Away.

the Dead Hand of the Past

The Dead Hand of the Past
touches the present.
The Dead Hand of the Past
touches your presence (of mind).
The Dead Hand of the Past
touches your (christmas) presents.

The Founder's Motto

Never say never. I mean it.
As soon as you start saying never,
your ass is grass mister.
Bluegrass.
They'll get you if you start saying never.
It's a terrible word
anyway. I mean, gramatically it doesn't even-
What's that? Who's They??

Why, the everpresenteverknowingallseeingallbeingallscreaming
alwaysyellingmosltyflailingsimplythreshingcontestjudging
pageantcrashingweddingplanningsailboatsterningtraintrackblasting
hiphopcasting They
That's They. You don't want to
mess with They, even if
you die trying.

And always remember:
I f#*@$d the landlord
for seven weeks straight
so you wouldn't have to.

My Boy, Stay Steedfast

You know, it really hurt
when you called me a mangy mutt.
When you stomped all over my dreams.
When you thrashed me in the gut.
When you tasted all my creams.

You said I wasn't worthy
to be the captain's footfat aide.
You said I wasn't worthy
to make a penny in the horse trade.

"A brimbling brambling brook.
That's all you'll ever amount to.
So that when I'm out inside the wilderness,
I'll have somewhere nice to poo."

Well, you know what asshole?
This brook has made a fortune selling steeds.

Hump Day Vol. 14

Sunday. Memphis streets.

Walking doesn't feel too good.

Clamshells up my butt.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 14

Clamshells down the hatch?
Well Sir Archibald Stacey,
Like them up the butt?

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 14

Open wide, say "ahhhh".
I'm gonna take this clamshell
and shove it down there.

Old Mrs. Sourpenny

Cranapples fer all these chillens'.
I'll be kickin' their limey booties thrice-wise,
Lest they starts a thinkin thatta comin ta this yonder home
Be a sin like it is.
Hallows eve or Shmallows eve Ille tella,
If I eyre see one murr of them
Pale lil' arses scurryin up to ma door,
Therrellyle be hell to pay, Gromit.
Ya herd that? Hell to pay....

The Whimsical Fruit

Look at that whimsical fruit!

It looks uncommon!

Pick up the whimsical fruit.

Throw it against a wall.

Look what you've done!

You destroyed the whimsical fruit!

It's no more fruit than an apple-lion.

No more whimsical than a licorice-bear.

The whimsical fruit was probably tasty.

The whimsical fruit was probably rare.

The whimsical fruit was definitely something.

No one will forget -

The whimsical fruit.

That Story

I never heard that story,

in a shadow alley, behind illicit dumpsters,

on a trouble-bound train -

No eclipsed stubble-mouth ever began:

"Once upon Mountain,

I outsmarted a ghost,

Jumped over silver streams,

Hijacked a cabin with a can..."

No one ever continued:

"I threw up the souls I ate,

Trembled upon sacred ground,

Played poker with a willow tree,

Went back to my home-sweet-home,

Slept for thirty days."

Nope.

I never heard that story.

I never seen that man.

And you can believe me,

I ain't never been one for lying.

You Never Left Your Mother's Arms

You Never Left Your Mother's Arms
You wore the silence dutifully,
Bore the cries and won the fear
Of the most important hearts.
You spun the finest silk and cloth
That Rome did have to offer.
You shared your Bread
Your Water,
Your Wine.
But despite your all your rhythm,
Despite all your charms,
You never left your mother's arms.

The Alien Craft part 1

The sky was infinitely bright,
In a singular sense,
Outside my window.
The stars molded,
Space became not a vacuum.
Rather a wild blue phaze,
Of the most stunning shit
In the universe.
The light was singular though,
It came from a street lamp.

The Alien Craft part 2

Van was parked under street lamp,
Had been there all day.
Craft landed at unknown time in night.
No clocks on.
It landed quick.
Shape and dimensions unknown.
Lights flashed.
The van that been there all day,
The street lamp that been there for always:
Invisible,
Behind the craft.

The Alien Craft part 3

Though my mind was numb,
My brain was asleep,
The craft opened and made the music
That made my soul weep.
Figures stood in light
Of craft door.
Horrible,
Horrible figures.
Men but not men,
More naked and raw than any beast.
Living or dead.
A being lurched towards my window.
I lurched away.
A being lurched away from my window.
Drawing nearer,
I peaked outside of my window.
A street lamp,
Older than time,
Standing on an American street,
Older than time,
No van in sight.

The Alien Craft part 4

My eyes unfocus,
To reflect on whether van was ever really there.
And in the reflection,
I catch a glimpse,
Of the most
Hideous,
Raw,
Naked
Being in the universe.
I was not scared.

Halloween Day Haiku

Put on big black boots,

Wear a sheet, step on pumpkins.

Ruin Halloween.

Halloween Day Haiku

All the kids gather.
The Blumpkin carving contest.
Winner keeps their head.

Halloween Day Haiku

Spooks spook out tonight.
Look behind you. What 'you see?
ghosts, ghosts, Ghosts, GHOSTS, GHOSTS!!!!!!!

Live

Rivers ran high on the first day.
On the second day, the moon fell.
The third day saw blood red rain.
Blue stars illuminated day four.
On the fifth day, we forgot to wake up.
The sixth day never came.

Birth of the Noble Fishes

crawling crawlers

wobble-feeted stumbler

stable, sometimes, stable

easy does it does it better

now we're shaking hands

newly brethren, still new

my lips are yours

my tongue speaks in

shallow tides, which

will give way to

booming swells.

swim with me, in a way

I will garble the easier forms

but yes,

we are the noble fishes,

and I am trying.

Dark Blue

Falling

Loosely

Unattached

Translucent

Entity

Deep

Cavernous

Blackness

Breathing

Living

Silent

Death

The Greater Beast

Windswept playground - bones protrude
from every nook and granny.
Wolfmen prowl fruitlessly. Howls abound.
Too many bones here, not enough pickin's.
The greater beast has been here.

Dusktime Aqueduct- bloodstuff dribbles
down the hills to Caesar's Rome.
Wolfmen prowl fruitlessly. Howls abound.
The greater beast has been here.

What's that?
You've never heard of the greater beast?
Once aman, now anot.
Once notabeast, now is.
Once afriend, now anot
Look behind you. What do you see?
You see the greater beast, don't you?
You've been eaten now, haven't you?

Magi

Three men raised me.
Three men amazed me.
Three men praised me.
Three men glazed me.
Then three men braised me.

ManOne, a mechanician.
ManTwo, a magician.
ManThree, a ghostly apparition.
And me, an academician.

Forgetting

It's far too late,

To leave our miseries behind,

To carve our troubles into trees,

To make permanent

Our best intentions,

And worst.

It's far too late.

Even for forgetting.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 13

You think you're so damn
phisticated , but you're not.
You're just an asshole

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 13

Midtown Manhattan.

Three nude men tied to a car.

Another nude night.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 13

Violent reckless hits.
Watch as young Johnny boy splits
Ma's skull wide open.

Oh What Beasts, And Nightly

There’s a beast in my closet.

There’s a beast on my shelf.

There’s a beast wolfing string cheese

And I can’t help myself.

There’s a wolf with a halo,

Playing lute with the band.

There’s a cat in the attic

Drinking liquor with the man.

There’s salad-tossing monster,

There’s a blacksmith smelting shoes,

There’s a longsleeve in the gutter

And it’s melting into glue.

There’s a beast spinning silk,

There’s a beast painting brains,

There’s a beast cleaning cupboards,

And he’s taking great pains,

Not to go outside the lines,

Not to tangle up the vines,

Not to spill the candelabra,

Cause he got drunk on the wine.

What a terrible bewilderment.

The beast is glowing white,

What a horrible unhappiness,

This never-ending night.

I said that I can’t help myself,

I can’t get out of bed,

But what I haven’t said

Is that the beasts are in my head.

Brothers!

Brothers! Sisters!
Men of night! Those of you
who have come here today
know...
Of the wretched tragedies that have borne to us sons.
The knights of your,
of long ago once spoke of times.
longgonelongpassedandlongeventfullycomingevernearereverclearerneverlongjohning
tojointheranksofthosewhowalkthestreetsofthecityandtalklikethey'retheshitbuthey're
just shit.
Brother! Sister!
Tonight, we fuck up the King's Topiary Garden!
Tomorrow, we fuck up the King's private Burger King!
And the night after, we take over our world!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 12

Bearded grunts roam town.
Still nobody wants them here.
Time to kill some grunts.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 12

Two kind gentlemen

Joked with their best friend ever

With questions of dick.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 12

Two rude gentlemen
accosted a good lady
with questions of dick.

The Sly Dog

The Richness!
Oh the Richness!
It surrounds us
With abounding mystery,
And romance.

It swallows the fear,
It quells the tear,
It kills the demons,
The hounds and the deer.

If there ever was a place,
Where I would have to stay..
Wrapped up in my mortal coil,
Not shuffling,
But staying put,
In a metaphysical sense,
It would be in the thick
Of that amazing grace,
That willowed woberbottom,
The swampy lagoon of
High times and low,
Soft,
Sweet,
Melodies.

Oh good Lord,
Fly me there,

Quick.

Now.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 11

Well I killed again.
The Doggies barked pretty loud,
But I killed again.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 11

Silas raked oak leaves.

Silence crept up behind him?

Just me in a mask.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 11

No handed Timmy,
I'm sorry I ate your hand.
Pa made me do it.

In the Bookhouse Now

Books upon books
upon books upon books on
books that are on
books
on bookes...

Warden makes the walks
Us prisners don't do talks.
We can't. Warden stole
our mouths when we came here
with some sort of spell...

The stenching of rotten tomes and woodden houseframes;
the stenching of freshly tomes and wodden houseframes;
the stenching of lacerated paperwhipped skins.
The moans, O' the moans! of us!
Imprisoned
here for
57 consecutive life sentences...
O' woe! O. Henry! O' terror! O'Neil!

Atlas Hugged

I held the world betweenst my fingertips,
and for a moment
I contemplated
squashing it.

On Grand Street I stood.
Those passing by didn't see
that I had the whole world
in my grabbers.
Had they known,
I'm sure they would have respected me;
talked to me; thrown me bits
of bread;
acknowledged my existence.

Looking down on the world in my hands,
upon Grand Street I saw myself, holding
the world betweenst my fingertips.
Other-me was hurrayed, lauded
for his feat.
Acknowledged...

I held the world betweenst my fingertips,
and for a moment
I squashed it.

Hey!

Hey!
You!
Night!

Hard Work

My doorstep led me to a waterfall

Of bright and triumphant sound

That laughed and tumbled all the way

To a bridge I think I remember from my childhood

It might be a bridge from another time

I’ve seen a lot of bridges

And crossed a lot less

I’ve never laughed memorably

But that’s normal I think we all can

Rationalize

Driving is like walking towards the

Warmly lit window on the

fourth floor

And imagining you’ll never get there

And if you imagine hard enough

You’ll just keep walking in the same place

And never get any farther or closer

And it’s all

Like driving

Davis Beauchamp Thinks For Miles

Let me go

And I'll silence my deadening revelers.

I'll answer the farthest questions and

I'll compose an oath to any Being

- however grotesque -

your massings desire.

Let me sleep

And I'll say no further word.

You payed me with ephemeral diamonds,

You corrupted my soul with love

- in Ephemeris Time -

deceiving and receiving my universal reaches.

The last spirit-driven train is due at 9.

I'll wait a mile.

Let me catch it,

and I'll never-even-almost reveal

the innermost stirrings

of our unhinged minds

in this universe

of shadowy obscurities.

One Powerful Bitch

Honey said I didn't have no money,
Honey I said now this just ain't funny,
You know I like my women strong,
You know they got it going on
I know what you know she say she know
She wanna know what you know I know you
Know
You know?
Honey's got it going on,
And allll that.
And more.
But this honey,
Well this honey is
One powerful bitch.

The Caretaker's Volume

Lifted spirits,

Soul spurts,

Transcendental longings of the third kind.

The fifth dimension of order

Of quasi-impulse radiation

Satisfaction.

Cooky birds want the cracker

But she doesn’t want it.

Twomes of gutterhalls dance in my

Elysian vision.

That’s because we left our word hordes

In the alps.

The clean, clean,

Elysial,

Transcendental,

Pure,

Clean,

Alps.

How To Categorize Dysthymic Nodules

Once he lost it

Once he truly lost it

He softened the blow

With a jar of tissues

Strung around his

Useless fingers

Twice he lost it

Twice he truly lost it

He fostered the Beards

With a sack of hate

Strung around his

Lonesome fingers

Thrice he found it

Thrice he truly found it

He gleaned the flash

Strung around his

Nimble fingers

But he didn’t know it

And he didn’t try

He lost himself

For the last time

In a field of wheat

He’d seen

many times before

In a life

he'll never know

Skeleton Limbs

I opened up

On the mountain of kindness

I sharpened my tools

On a mountain stones

I tarnished my socks

En route to Dublarney

I stashed all my gold

‘Neath the shivering stones

I lost Ithaca’s rubies

Midway up over Iceland

I painted my soul

Searching for the divine

I locked up the priestess

over lunch with devil

I locked up the devil

outside my front door

I closed it in silence

Gathered up all my bones -

Oh,

I

never want to see tomorrow

but I know I will

I say "What's life?"

You say "You're living."

I say "I've had my fill."

Urbanite Waltz

lofty angels

toss me apple screamers

Mamma Paulson

bakes me apple skies

solemn down High Street

the world is a heavy interloper

ear-stretching my whispers

stickball with Osiris

decapitated Joe DiMaggio

playing card (or the real thing?)

soggy cardboard by the sewer-door

urban shimmer

of a sweaty night's eve

hot yams

Tallahasse Gold

fever dream

minute memories

urban shimmer

no way out

but i don't want to

anyway

no way

no how

Big Dreams in Little Italy

I’d be a giraffe.

Yeah, a giraffe!

Oh man that’d be so cool to be a giraffe!

I’d meander throughout the Serengeti looking

for the most delicious leafs on my four twiggy legs and hooves

without any fear of the lions or cheetahs or hyenas

because I’d be too beautiful to eat.

Oh! I’m getting excited just thinking about being a giraffe.

Just Imagine!

My long, snake-ish neck would stretch

far above the skulls

and shoulders of all the other animals on the Serengeti!

Oh man!

I’d be able to see for miles from up there,

checking out all the lady giraffes from far away,

and then I’d strut.

I’d strut my giraffey strut across the plains next to the best mate,

and I’d stick out my

long

black

tongue around the branches quite seductively and strip the branches of their leaf-clothes slowly,

and all the ladies would love me.

Oh man, it would be soooo awesome to be a giraffe.

Flowers

and now

a word

about flowers

yellow

green

blue

green

low in

fat

and

calories

friends of

noses

and of

bees

some grow

on the

ends of

trees

ah

and so it is with beginners...

The Christening of the Creamery

I bless thee,
Young prince,
Purveyor of milky delights,
Bold garden...
Of earthly,
Treats.

Here, in the year of our Lord,
The year two-thousand.
Let it be known to all men,
Large and small,
Black and White,
Homo and Non,
That the creamery...




Is open for business.

RobinShould

I steal from
"Those that have
that which
those who do not have
do not have..."

I give to
"those who are sufficiently lacking
in that which those who have
have..."

I get beat up by
"those that have
that which my arms that do not have
do not have..."

I make love to
"those that have
that which my nether regions that do not have
do not have..."

The Epitaph of Davis Beauchamp as written by Davis Beauchamp

I waited for the rain,

Waiting there,

In the pouring rain.

I pounded the earth,

Feeling how it felt,

Smelling how it smelt.

I braced for the pain,

Screaming there,

In intensifying pain.

I founded a city,

Before it was built,

I made its flowers wilt.

I cut out my brain,

Lying there,

Without my brain.

I hounded my students,

Told them of death,

My final breath.

Away Agayn

I'm made to leave my hounds agayn.
Leave my furry mans agayn.
Leave their dogly mayns agayn.
I don't like to leave my hounds agayn.

Rejoice, Rejoice!

People of Suburbia! Rejoice!
The king hath sired a son!
The royal court hath deliberated upon a name
for this heir-to-be,
and have decided upon these possibles:
Jayce Sexer
Lemony Jaggerbran
Mortimer Powell
Snook Williams
Slace Jackson
Lord Duncan
Herman Leftor
Shelder Harbormaster
Randall Sneedley
Sly Robinson
Harp Leiberstrung
Mouth Scandal
Franz Buckelgrouber
Buck Franzgrouber
Georgie Jemaine
Slam Wilson
Duke Springsteen
Glib Jibblets
Chilluns McFadden
Heely Macintosh
Windy Famberlung
Desmond Gobblegobler
Tex Winston
Gary Raisinbread
Dill Rainbow
Paco Fattyacid
Timothy Toothpick
Ebola Jones
Welder Brainmosh
Diabetees Johnson
Mince Philbert
Sigmund Fishensheckel
Gary Grinder
Mad Tooter
Henderson Cooper-Barley
Harrison Jowley
Johann fartknocker
Champ masterson
Shooter Tamland
Garland Wetbandit
Soak Beckett
Super Mandathoe
Damp Slammer
Drink Slinker
Darwin Sneezeater
Klaus Karpenter
Wagstooth Windbag
Jim Higglesby
Ragumon Hundsley
Sluece Halfpipe
Slice Ragu
Marteen Tinseltoes
Gloria Gaysborg
Randall Erectus
Klaus Cyborgersteen
Raul muntantfinger
Steve monkeypaw
Raymunder Hagsby
Raymundo Houndstooth
Rogertop Gizzardly
Samuelman Slinker
Graciela Goatsmacker
Warbling Absteen
Antonio Spectacular
Haggle Risktaker
Swifty Silversmith
Bam Tinkertoys
Harley Hamhock
Looey Muttonchops
Swampy Softthighs
Studley Fishmonger
Hamley Heptup
Huntsmith Johanasburg
Squilbert Farshman
Stubert Wigglesmith
Wagley Dopplemayer
Lemur Hambargstar
Snapely Pencilbottom
Butch Rigormortis
Samuel Bansheesexer
Harmon Keelstarber
Shleeming Sfartskoff

Who should be our next King?

Promise City

Desert sands and mesopotatoes,

Makeshift hands shake naughty oregano,

Promise City doesn’t exist -

Yet.

But in twenty-years

When I’m through with being me

When I peel off my ghost skeleton

Smashing concubines and pleasuring the sphinx,

The world will look like a disfigured spirit,

And I’ll take off my clothes,

press my face against your window,

my nose will look like a pig’s dainty proboscis,

I’ll shout:

Hangman Harry!

Is back to save the world!

Kill me now

If

You

Want

To

Halt

My

Inevitable

Construction!

A Danish goatherder will rise to the challenge

He’ll sever my face in horrendous places

He will be

the inheritor of love.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 10

Archibald and Smacks,

Settle down and listen up,

You're poets, not beasts.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 10

Dear King Archibald,
You are an enormous dunce,
And you know nothing.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 10

So, Smackmeal my friend.
Tell me who it is you love.
I'll make her love you.

My Morning

It was a pretty good morning

I guess

I woke up on time

got 9

hours

My head hurt

I had my juices

though

so

I felt better soon

I felt pretty good

oh

and the shower

it was cold

at first

but it warmed up soon

it was even too hot!

I'd say

it was too hot

made my skin red burny

might have been the shower light

made it look red burny

the red went away soon

enough

alright

I guess breakfast is

in order

I need energy

for my afternoon

Newly Alabaster Life

Skippin' up the downtown rightline left foot first
in my newly alabaster kicks.
Listenin' to the latest outdated beebop bus stop beats
on my newly alabaster 8track.
Yellin' at the phattest kid in town, three-hundred pounds worth
with my newly alabaster pipes.
Northing going southbound on life it's a highway 80 miles to the desecrated city
in my newly alabaster Kia Sorento.
Jammin' with what I've lost and who've I've loosed to stringly tunes of angels
in my newly alabaster studio apartment.
Takin' you overunderbackwaysforewaysforsooths to the man below
in my newly alabaster life.
Neverending on the road to nowhere on the road to somewhere where they know me and don't love me
in my newly alabaster life.

A is for...

The everlasting anticipation
eats your philosoulphical heart.
It
doesn't care.
It makes us beasts, you know...
I mean, like this one time, I was in line
for a Phish concert.
It crept up into my gut, the everlasting a...
Ten men died that night, ten men up front, up in my face.
One beast was born that night, one beast died that night.
The everlasting anticipation
eats your philosoulphical heart.

I Wish It Weren't So

True Story:

I moved from Venice to Nowhere in my eighteenth year,

spent twenty years dusting off my soul in Tallahassee,

ate a grotty bit of slime in London, the month I lost my age,

found a legless priest in Reno when I thought God was my brother’s mother,

killed a sneakless hotel-bug on a motel-rug in an East-End Middle Eastern hostel,

I thought I’d get away conscience hungry monster-free, (but I didn’t and wept),

I prayed to the God of Ichthys when Greece was still cool, I think.

I never never sold my soul to nobody but the Devil’s Uncle’s Son,

I never never told my secrets to nobody but burning Phlegethon’s lonely guardian,

swallowed my bitter hate and washed it down with bitter beer,

and stomach-launched bits of Chicken Liver Tuesday in a Silver City alleyway,

when I died I thought I’d be forgotten, forgiven, forewarned of the faceless.

…

But I weren’t and I’m not

and what’s been is will be.

Now take a seat young ones

This is where things

Get a little fuzzy.

The Acquaintance

I met a man
who spoke in tones of old.
Who dressed in robes of gold.
Who ate with bread of mold.
Whose tongue was spliced twofold.
Whose beard was all but deforested.
He sang me songs, and slept me stories of his home.
"A wintry-washed willow where women white with weight wait
for men to come. For men to come. That is home.
Away on some range somewhere, where my fears and my
robschneiderlopes fray."

That is home.

I met a man today,
and that man was

Death (Itself)

It is the death of death itself,

That makes a bookshelf just a –shelf,

That makes an eggplant just a plant,

That makes you eat things when you can’t.

The death of death itself.

It makes you fat.

The Twatters Prison

Here lies the old twatters prison,
The old steel gates that shake
And the old steel men that shake them.
There lies the old guard,
Unclenching his fists and releasing the long,
Overdue shadow of grief over the long,
Overdue souls of the inmates.

The men themselves feel not,
They have gone too far without feeling
Their lymph nodes and
Their lymph tails and
Their rectal itches.

They will pass unnoticed through the annals of history.
Their stories will not be sung nor read nor danced.
They will die alone.
For to twat is to subject oneself to the lowest form of misery.

For twatting, my brother...
Is the ultimate sin.

The Eventual Design

I cried that night

because the wind was broken

because our voices had spoken

of the eventual design.

We killed the hominid shaped dummies

and shipwrecked the old-timers,

kicking survivors like "we ain't one of you"

I stole a minute from the time farce

and stole a corner from my house's smallest room (mine)

And I cried like tomorrow was the last time.

And I cried.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 9 (Written by Smackmeal Fritz)

Donglings! My fav snack!
They're like little schlongbites. Yum!
Come on! Eat mine out!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 9

Nine nude shamans

Gently show us love is real.

They do it with rain.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 9

Mangrope swamps sound fun!
I'd love to go to one, Tod,
but they're long extinct...

Underwood Typewriter 2:14

As the blues flew down from heaven,

The men held their noses and balls,

Great job.

Kill me a good ol' prize hatchling.

Kill the monkey face, ball.

The Crimean War exceeded all hopes of man.

It blew the balls off champions,

It burnt a hole in a weathered oak.

When winter froze,

The families went north.

Italian Nights

I sucked the balls right out of the room

when I put my severed leg up on the table

or should I say

when I put the empty space where my un-severed leg once was...up on the table

I stuffed a steaming hot golden brown dinner roll in my mouth

Burnt cheeks?

I care not.

I'll rub stringy red prosciutto on my leg

You gonna stop me - uh what's your name - uh? Fane?

Oh, Jane.

Goddamn nametag makes it look like an F.

Goddammmmit.

What Jane?

You don't think my leg is really severed?

Taste this blood.

It's good with parmesan.

Bring me more rolls.

King Arthur’s Mother’s Round Dining Room Table

Lookin’ about the table
D&D stronghold, these fuckers aint got nothing on me
I’m their fucking master,
The s&m dungeonmaster.
Look at their faces! Disgusting!
Are those chocolate stains?
Really, Jeffrey? Go clean your face!
Now, let’s get down to business!
To defrost these cinnabons!
Wizards, tobacconists, haberdashers, caresses.
Wave after wave I throw
Frank and his level 2 gravedigger go down like dominos.
Next goes Bartholomew and his level 40 aristoclown,
victims of my pantsthief horde.
Only Darrel remains, him
and his negromancer.
They’re always the last ones, always testing my wit.
I’ll figure something out, they’re going down.
Fuck them.
I guess it's just a pretty normal night
In King Arthur’s mother’s round dining room table

Jimmy O'Connor

The newsprint read:
Jimmy O'Connor: The Spindly Six-Legged Boy Wonder.

Jimmy kept to himself, Mostly.
His complexion was pale, some said ghostly.
He drew diagrams of chimps,
And wrote letters to pimps.
Wearing sweaters to keep himself toasty.

Then came the day
So early in May
When a knock came to young Jimmy's door.
It revealed with surprise,
Sending fear to his eyes.
An eight foot tall Siamese whore.

One head said, in a tone like a beast,
That on virgin souls should Jimmy's mouth feast
The other one said, with a voice like a mule
That the other head jests, you are not to be cruel.

Jimmy learned his fate that night.
Cold windsickles fluttered around his headgear as the whore(s)
Strolled casually,
Sauntered,
Into the darkness.

The music had died,
The rhyme,
Disappeared.

Jimmy O'Connor was now







SPIDERMAN

Tweet!

Tweet! Tweet!
goes the canary,
heavenly isotrope.
Lordy!
Wingéd lover,
devilthorned grouse.
Tweet! Tweet!
goes the canary.
The canary on my plate

Tweet! Tweet!
goes the stallion,
tubthumping, clubpumping.
Hoofbeats upon hoofbeats upon hoofbeets
cross the prairie, beneath native bottom,
beneath open sky, as bucked-off native yells.
Tweet! Tweet!
goes the stallion.
The scallion on my plate

Tweet! Tweet!
goes the old man.
Trapped in his
time machine.
It bore him,
Through the depression,
the war, the
other war, and
another war still.
Now it rests him.
Tweet! Tweet!
goes the old man.
The old man on my plate

The Bicentennial Dollar Man: A Collaboration

The bicentennial dollar man
Struts his way through the junkyard drawgate door.
Pulls out his manskin diamond wallet.
Spends like there aint no life worth livin’ for.

Hairspray clogs the mandroid’s cavities.
Red snakeskin boots intensify the dust.
Procuring mannequins tenfold,
’75 Chevy grinds on through the night

No pleasure here for this rambling bob, this weary blues traveler.
Who plays his flesh to the carnal crowds of women and men alike.
No pleasure here for this money-spender cock-lender devil-pretender.
By the time the leather melts down his crooked spine onto the seat of the Chevy, he will be dead.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 8

Weasel crowed at dawn
Pa said that weren't no weasel
Soon I'ma git it

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 8

Mr. Tom's Ankles
Very bloody and funny
Where did he get them?

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 8

Two apes doing it.
That's all that we'll ever be,
so let's get it on!

At the Discotheque

I saw you last night
at the discotheque.
From you looks I could tell
You were a discoczech.
So I laced up my platform boots
and took a discotrek
across the multicolored dancefloor.

You said you used to live
In discoUtrecht.
Started feelin’ lots of love,
gave you a discopeck
on your cheek and on your disconeck.
We danced all night to some
discoBeck.

We went to my place, and under the stars
made love on my parents’ discodeck
for an hour or two and then watched
discoShrek.

Crashed in my bed, slept till nine.
Woke up not feelin’ too fine.
Tequila sunrise, this must be a sign.
I’m such a discowreck…

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 7

Citizens of Greece!
Heed my scary warning cry!!
Neptune is frotting!!!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 7

The Denver Broncos!
Marching down the big Broadway!
Those guys are a hit!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 7

Frank! Wake the fuck up!
Springsteen concert starts at nine
and I won't be late...

Urine

I looked in the mirror.
I closed my eyes and counted:
Two.
Three.
Easy does it.
I opened my eyes.
Fancy that.
I was still looking in the mirror.
I aged twenty years and had no nose.
My eyes were bleeding.
My mouth was shut tight.
And possibly not a mouth.
I called my wife.
She slunk in.
Decapitated.
A torso.
A trunk.
A symbol of my wretched livelihood.
Hot tears urinated down my face.
Should have been urine.
Should have been urine.

A Carnival Tiger Speaks His Mind

Three jugglers came and went
I smelled their scent as
They juggled out the tent (smugly)
I’d wager they’ll do it maybe twenty times
Before the night’s no longer night

They pose an age old question to myself
Is it better to be queer than by yourself?

Morning Ice

I took a jog around the city
Cool blue
Morning ice
Heavy balls but
Don’t look twice
I ate my weight in gold
Baby
I’m feeling old
Maybe
I’ll take a swing around
Old Jack Frost’s
Have my fortune foretold
Because
Ghosts come in many colors
And mine’s ice cold baby
mine's ice cold

3 A.M. insomnia

Why is it always 3 A.M.?
when the city engenders enlightenment,
when sleep is unhealthy for atman
,in a vital sense,
I slept down 34th stared into a coffee reflections of Plato
this ain’t no way to live they say
I’d agree with a nod
if I only had the time
or the strength

Roger Ebert Called this Poem “One of the Funniest Family Adventures Since Citizen Kane”

Ah, finally…
night off from work.
Let’s get down to business, the world is totally overdue
for some me time
some glee time, some tea time, some Aegean Sea time
and maybe, just maybe…
some she time (bow chicka wow wow).
Nothin’ can ruin me, dawg.
“BANG! BANG! BANG!” goes my door, my floor.
The landlord?
No
The overlord?
No
The slumlord?
No
The warlord?
No
Grandpa?
Yes…
Door creaks open, wrinkled hands
creak and slither towards my shoulder,
wrinkled tongue creaks
and slithers out words.
“C’mon sonnyboy! We’re goin to the graveyard.
It’s time I taught you a lesson.”
30-minute ride in grandpa’s smelly jalopy…
I fucking hate that car. I fucking
hate
that
car.
Honestly, what the heck is a nine-track player?
Honestly, what the heck is a Victrola? Who is this
Victor guy anyway?
I hate grandpa’s car, I hope he
doesn’t leave it to me in his will.
I swear, everything that’s wrong with the world
is grandpa’s car.
Finally, never thought I’d be so happy to see
a graveyard, a cemetery, a boneyard
a necropolis…
A rotting tombstone sits…
Etchings bear a name…
Grandpa, who is Slam Wilson,
born 1885, died 2010?
“Me…” squeals grandpa…
He thrusts
his chiseled bony wrinkle-ridden hands
deep into the tombstone earth.
Grandpa shrieks! He
reverse-thrusts
his hands!
Out of the ground
come grandpa hands filled with gold and (grandpa’s?) bones!
Silence…
Can we go home now grandpa?
“No…
We’re going to your uncle Louie’s house.”
Fuck. I hate Life with Louie

Fruit Salad Blues

Weeping weeping,
Mother weeps the floor clean.
Her tears flood away her apple soul
And her banana head.

Simple lies fucked up the books,
They fucked up our cooks,
They fucked up my looks.

Sometimes I think the castle isn’t big enough for the three of us.

Trying to stay in purgatory is risky business, you know.
You fight for anything
To break the chains
Of whispery, feather-light
Ghost songs and ghost
Molestations to bring you away from your
Creepy, creepy thoughts.

Your thoughts are like a Mango,
On the outside they are hard to contemplate,
Yet on the inside their delicious juices make you sing.
But in reality, all this does is mask
Their ungainly texture.

Wait, those are my thoughts.

I suppose I must
Steal a gun, replace the nodules,
Clean the chambers.

Whatever it takes.
To wash the skins and rinds
From this never-ending bowl
Of Fruit Salad.

The Dropout

Who kneads these fools?

Professor Absteen's always up my ass,
Principle Balboa has got it in for me-
I heard it from Mr. Elixer.

I aint got no friends (cept for Jimmy Dean and Samwell, and they're incapacitated most of the time)

Mom aint lettin' me get no dawgs.
(Hows a kid gonna grow up with no hounds to back him up!!!)

Carl Perkins Elementary isn't big enough for this wandering cat, this lonesome lion, this marauding ghost, this foul devil.

Lookout world, school is gonna have to lick the bottom of my leathery bootskin, cuz this third grade dropout's got big plans.

Mansong

Mansong wakes me,
Early morning,
Sweet and dewy,
Molasses pancakes saunter in my home-made oven.
Mansong inflates me like a porcelain steamship,
Breathing like a valley,
Thoughtful as a lake,
Sunny kitchen tile,
Reflects all Mansong.
The melodious gatherer who harvests life,
Deals in Mansongs, stands upright,
Leans on his harvest staff, adjusting his coonskin,
Kneading his stubble, muttering long forgotten
Mansongs to his old friend country sunset -
Back to his toil.
But the Mansong lingers,
Unfurling its sultry fingers,
Like a cup of honey smuggled into the shower,
When no one’s home,
To see what it’s like.
Altho I’ve never seen the Man,
When I look up at his tree,
I know that he is home,
And that his Mansong is for me.

A Letter Home From a Professor

Yo, wazzup…
Mr. and Mrs. Slinker.
Let me begin by saying,

stating,
proclaiming,
whispering,
screaming,
mumbling,
asking!

Billy is a wonderful kid,
Truly a pleasure…
To have in class, I mean.

Now, let me chillax and elaborate, you fuckers.
(Yeah, I said it. Everybody thinks it.)
Billy is a shining beacon of hope,
Of knowledge.
He lifts my spirits with his political knowledge,
his radical new ideas,
his radical new hairstyles.
His essay on the dichotomy
Of love and lice in
Sagan’s opus was
Fucking incredible.

Signed,
Professor Warbling Absteen
Grade 1
Carl Perkins Elementary School.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 6

Three dirty old men,
Caressing unholy gifts.
Some nights are too long.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 6

Shit motherfucker
You have got to be real mean
To get in that club

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 6

Bozo and The Clowns.
Playing songs down the Rhine on
silly string guitars

Clean House

Ain’t no dead men in my house!
I cleaned ‘em up
I changed the sheets
I washed my feets
Went to the stores
Got what I needs
Some soap
A brush
Adrenaline rush
Hey baby – don’t cry
It’s gonna be alright
The bad men are gone
Let’s turn down the lights.

Petting Zoo

The petting zoo has nothing for me.
I hate goats.
I hate cows.
But most of all –
I hate the Chairman Maos
Skulking like it’s Christmas morning
Looking for presents in all the right places
And gloating cause they can.
Oh -
It -
Makes -
Me -
So -
Goddamn -
Angry!
Seeing them.
Stark naked.
Piles of mango rinds.
Piles of mango-scented defecation.
Chinese nation!
Look upon the foolish hordes
Of your plumpish once-corpsed leader!
Pet him if you dare.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 5

Today I saw you.
Stranded in the pouring rain.
I don't help retards.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 5

Rough day at the job,
Come home to empty pantry,
I will beat my wife

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 5

Rorschach test today!
That blot looks like a goat scrote!
I'm going away...

The Baron

Do they think
That they can just not tell us
When the King dons his wordrobe?

Bullshit

Here, on this day my gentleman,
We shall form a list of complaints.
So that the court may see
That our baronny-asses mean business.

No more of the courtier's bullshit.
No more of the King's bullshit.
No more of the count's bullshit.
No more of Francois' bullshit.
No more of Leroy's bullshit.

List of complaints:

1. The high podium of the barons is not a receptacle for the Archduke's undergarments.
2. Peasants may not mingle amongst barons in their chambers.
3. Twenty schillings is not enough for the damage that Viceroy Ralph did to Baron Von Gladstone.
4. No one frots with us. (Someone's got to frot)
5. SOMEONE FROT WITH US!!!

The Peasant

Ay me heard me hounds a soundin agayn
Looks it muddled at the castle yonder hilled
Ohhhh bloody hell Doris not agayn
And at tree in the morner
Bloody hell.
Bleedin alchemists sockin at me portal
Be gone with ye wizards
Get back to yer dungons,
Oh Mr. Kingly thrown yer out her diddie now?
Well get yer serry arses out me eyesites
Bloody hell Doris, not agayn!
Ear come the cunting criers.
What’s this be doing now his Kingling?
Ay the wordorbe donning is be done!
Oh bloody hell of curse it’s ner truble tall
I thunk it were a toosday not a werdnesderday.
Slinky me oh my apologetics to ye friend!
I shouldsya nonnit were the nite uh the duke council meetin
Doris! His kingshippsing needs a sheeps and two porkish loinings!
Bloody hell.
What is François smokin on high?
Best never be trustin barons up on that castled hilly.
Will thems never leaves that bleedin castle?
Back to beddybed me dainty Doris.

The King

Sound the trumpets!

Release the hounds!

Release the trumpets!

Sound the hounds!

Call the dukes! They must assemble! Nobody-
leaves this fucking castle until the duke council has met.
You got that?
Alert François the chef!
Tell him code dread, we need his special broth!
The barons you say?
Fuck!
I forgot about the barons! Well…
Tell them nothing, it’s best if they don’t know.
You can never trust a baron…
The Viceroy! Get him to the safechamber.
Throw out the alchemists! Clean the dungeons!
Get me the bishop, dammit!!!
And tell him to bring his sheep, or else we’re all fucked!
What’s that? The Archduke is in France?
Fuck! We can’t waste any time! Empty the chambers!
Proclaim to the peasants!
Send out the criers! Tell them…
The King has donned his earthly wordrobe!

Hot Party Tonight?

The night was just

…

heavy,
heavy,
in a
heavy sublime way.
night was sweaty
wine was heady
mead was meady
at 5 I was ready for party
part two

Morning:
damn the sun always
coming up unwanted
like the not-really-a-friend
who doofs up in your space
jamming your brain waves

Late Morning:
I crawled into the farthest reaches
Of my sleeping bag
Hiked up my breaches as I bragged
Of 15 brews (downed like a champ)
Whilst I screwed a (something?) warm and damp

Where is I?
Probably Nottingham.
Where am I going?

Home.
Climbing up my roof
Making cold beds look night-slept.
Drunk on life.
Sober by noon.

The Blongorth

Three scienticians depthed the many-footed Blongorth.
Caging the magnitude, they scored a test of intelligence.
Unanimous deliberation arrived at concrete conclusion.
“This is no man.”

Many study-months go by.

Three scienticians furrow brows and think fingers over mouth,
No symptom of glee, manifestation of appetite, only signals of grief
“The Blongorth is a solitary creature,” spake the heavy-holy sagacious textbook
“Wild-freedom is advisable.”

Good-bye day came and went.

Three scienticians read late-nights about insomnia,
Three scienticians discovered sleep difficult sans Blongorth nightly cage sounds
From within the neighboring lab.

Three scienticians left the Blongorth by the New Jersey Turnpike
Three scienticians recall his lonesome cowboy groan,
And regret his misty cowboy eyes in the science-van rearview.
They gave him a book bag and few wrinkled t-shirts.

The heavy-holy sagacious textbook was.
Wrong.

The Blongorth is a social creature.
The Blongorth only needs a friend.

Our Band: Gorgeosity made flesh

Slap!
Jobe’s groovy bass
Pluck!
The stinging strings of Dave Singer’s six string
Shit!
Duke, the funky drummer,
We left him
At the gas station.
Carl!
Turn up the volume
But wait until a million souls are present.
Our audience
Is your militia
Use them,
At your will.

Making the band.
2009.

Ruby (Tuesday) Slippers

I left my innocence
Sitting in a Ruby Tuesday’s booth.
Should I go back and get it?

Naw.

Besides, the waitress probably thought it was her tip.
My innocence,
that fragrant beast;
that melodious Frankfurt shepherd-
bound up in that saucy wench’s apron pouch
like some alabaster glasses case!
Terrible thoughts…
We left it there, you and I and your little brother,
(I hate that he comes on dates with us)
after a pleasant dinner, a peasant dinner, a pheasant dinner
the present dinner.
We should go back.
Turn the car around, mom.
I said turn the fucking car around.

A Night To Remember

We spent the night in a dumpy motel
Playing cards on a gyrating bed.
We played by Mike’s rules (three-halves-naked)
Sharing nightmares (orgran grinder's egregious hump)
Making plans (tour of my basement?)
Forgetting the homeless existed.
We twisted our bodies
In glorious expression
Of how trees must scream
When the brutal axemen
Screw them un-politely.
We painted impressions.
Oh, what impressions!
You called me your little Monet.
I called you my ‘mongous Manet.
We always did get them confused.
An artist and a gentleman.
An artist and an artist.
I knew you didn’t smelled like a prostitute.

Harvey Sleevemaker

Soak up the sun! Soak up the sun! Soak up the sun!
Shout the chancellors from their high horses
Where on earth do they get such high horses?
Whipping the vomiting slaves in the streets
Relentless whippings for the non-soakers!
Tenacious beatings for the don’t-funhavers!
Serious bleedings for the bored-claimers!
Knives to the face?
Spiders to the crotch?
Mild slaps to the genitals?
Men
Named
“Gordon”
up the butt?
Bruises on my unspeakables.

Harvey Sleevemaker stands up.
struck down.
bled out.
fucked up.

God, I hate my babysitter.

J. Edgar Hoover's Tombstone

Cardinal George said “don’t go in there”
Cardinal Groucho said “don’t go in bare”
Cardinal Luigi said “don’t go in hair”
Cardinal Stev said “don’t grow in bare”
Cardinal Stephan said “don’t grow in hair”
Cardinal Franz said “don’t throw in there”
Cardinal Bonna said “don’t stow in mare”
Cardinal Mahmoud said “don’t flow and stare”
Screw them
I did all that, and more.

The Scientist's Mating Call

Hey lady,
Hey baby,
Wanna feel some man?
Wanna rub up
Against a big time scientist?
Let me show you the stars
Then let me show you my scars(gamma radiation injury).
We can party in the steppe,
Or in the sub-tropical monsoon forests,
Or in the Taiga.
Be my Ribosome,
I’ll be your Golgi Apparatus,
Squeezing
Your nodules.

Let’s have intercourse.
2009.

Crunch Time

Crunch time,
Squeeze time,
Got to feel my way around this garden of earthly delight,
Lunch in the vestibule
Beautifying in Marie’s parlor
Swimming by the bog,
Writing up a log,
On the hours spent,
Drying grandpa’s trousers.
So much to do
So little time
What was I doing last week?
That so ungraciously swallowed up this poet’s time?

Ate crickets
Danced too hard
Smoked royal poison
Carved up a real gangster with my right hand.

Now there’s time though.

Oh, Imma make it happen.

Crunch time 2009.

Pina Coladas and Summer Storms

Whooptailing and smackballing
The gunnery pirates know best
Where to find sharp knives at True Value.
Its so hot in here,
So fucking hot in here
Open the screen,
Empty the furnace
Pour the mango sauce on my feathery skin
Let it all hang out.


Summer 2009.

O Frabjous Day!

O! Garden of earthly delights
Alights outside my dusty classroom window!
Old tomes shine from sunlit dustbunnies.

A veritable garden of Eden-

A veritable discotheque of Eden-
A veritable rodeo of Eden-
A Veritable Waterloo of Eden-
Whatever it is, it must be Eden!

Ticking clocks
Ticking down the seconds of life until that sweet sweet freedom
of this garden of pleasures.
Birds, lovemaking on the springtime breeze
Deer, lovemaking on the springtime breeze
Steve, lovemaking on the springtime breeze
Oh shit, he’s at it again. Somebody get the hose.
Ow!
Sorry professor,
a dog walked by the window,
you know how I get sometimes.
RRRRIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGGG
Done! I’m outta here!
Do? What should I do?
carpe the diem, as my Uncle Roberst would say?
Ab asino lanam, as my friend Butch Er would say?
Ave caesar! Morituri te salutamus, as Cuz Frightyear would say?
Nope, I’m going home to sleep
I’m going gravedigging come the bewitching hour…

It's the Freakin' Weekend

Yo dawg, let the poet flesh out his mind
and tell you ‘bout his weekend-

Friday

School’s out;
bell’s rung-
work’s done.
Fuck this I’m too high strung.
Let’s go to the club!
Insidious boogiebeats, tropical drinks
Breezin on the breeze, coconut tanspray sinks
to the floor, to the spiked-hair, to my lungs
I don’t care. Fuck it it’s the weekend.

Saturday

Tequila sunrise, turn on FoxNews- Fuckyeah-representin’ GOP!
Eat some poet chow, crunchberries and hotsauce. Two hours later-
dog park time, little Barnaby’s gotta pee.
Finished that malarkey in no-time flat, nobody makes a dog piss like this bard, this madrigal.
Lunch with Linda, gotta have lunch with Linda(How else is a poet supposed to get any?).
Afternoon with homeboys, afternoon with books, afternoon at the Laundromat.
I saw some ghosts there, no biggie. I’m a poet, this stuff don’t scare me!
No clubbin for this patriot, this scoundrel of letters,
early to bed, early to rise, I got plans for tomorrow.

Sunday

Gotta go to church, I’s a man of god.
I preach the prophet’s verse, the lord’s lyric.

Monday

The weekend aint over yet…
Not till I say so

The Flame

Awaking in the night,
A solitudinous candle
at the foot of my bed,
flickers,
a reflection in my mind.
I can't believe
I've never tasted the flame.

I lean
I crawl
Under sheets
Past pillows
Tongue first
into the flame

Ow.
the flame
tastes like burnt tongue.

The ink onto the paper, the paper into the trash.

Twenty years without them man,
They fall like cards out from my hand.
A Dodo bird in a whooping can.
What does all this shit mean?

I never fucked a little hooker
In a little kitchen.

Who the FUCK
Do you think I am?

I may sound like an angry dude.
I don’t mean to be rude.
Don’t get all nude don’t get all lewd.

And a shot rang out.
And ten shots rang out.
The bodies fell fast.
And hard.

When blood spurts.
Angels learn.
How to give a shit.

Don’t get all fast don’t get all rude.
Don’t take off you clothes,
Please don’t get nude.

Send Me Back

I haggled with a barterman
Who launched me insults father than
the ancient sun washed sea wherein
he dined on simple feasts again
reiterating points because
he always will and never was
the man who started World War Three
and taught me ways of husbandry
how to be free with me you see
forget your silence touch the stream
of conscious feeling mixed with cream
a coffee in a coffee shop is hotter than
the eagle’s back that carries suns
and calls me back to fields of youth
that soothe the soul and call me friend
begin again begin again
the cycle that will never end
and ever send me back

Hey man -

Hey man -
Don’t crotch my hammer
Hey man -
Don’t wave my banner
Don’t burn my wood
Don’t lounge in my manor
Hey man -

The Man of the House
Strokes up down the corridors
He keeps things in order
He strokes down the steps
Leading down to the foyer
Hey man –
Don’t swing my chandelier
Hey man –
Don’t sex in my chamber.

The Beast of the Assembly
Gains upon midnight the pains
Of a century.
He rips through his passage
And sips through his wine
He gets up his getup
Only to find:

Hey man –
Woah man –
Never again man -
Put on your clothes.
And get out of my house.

The Maiden Voyage of the HMS Meriwether

Much fun was had by the Meriwether’s crew
When the captain presented his world-famous stew.
The first mate had seconds
The second mate had thirds
There was even enough to feed all the sea birds.
The captain sat proud at his table;
Proud father of a stew that was able
To satisfy these salty sea dogs,
sea men, sea beasts, and sea hogs.
The admiral was summoned and upon his arrival
The crew had descended to a party most vile.
Crewmen hung from all of the rafters,
What a terrible sight for this grandiose quartermaster!
A trial was held; the captain was tried
Everyone thought his freedom would be denied.
The judge was an old landlubber of course
Whose face was weathered and whose voice was coarse.
The trial began and the prosecution took rest,
Then the captain’s stew was put to the test.
Exhibit A, it was, for the captain’s crime
But the stew’s moleculation had changed with time.
Old Judge took a bite,
But it was nothing to fright.
“Delicious,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong here.”
And the captain was freed, and Old Judge even bought him a beer

Very Early on Wednesday Morning

Swallow sweet jibblets
Of qumptiomous joy,
Melodious greecities,
Calhoon’s wistful flavor.

Twipsy woverhauls,
Temptation and turnaquettes.
The Jowlers bargain,
The Zaggersours' fruit.

The nindegency of power rardors.
Flactoon all over the doches of lovers
Past.

Youthful vigor?
Of the frewhors?
Day of tarckening?

I think so.

A Ship Named Jenny

A restaurant called Applebees,
A plea to all these companies,
To make a burger filled with fleas,
And call it Riceroni.

I ate-fucked-drank and
Smoked and called,
But no one ever had the balls,
To tell me where we were at fault.
And carved a ship named Jenny.

Twenty lizards licking Twenty lizards licking Twenty lizards licking
Twenty lizards licking Twenty lizards licking
Twenty lizards licking

A hardy post of wood.

This Poem Was Inspired By A Pooch

The Vanderhooves gallop,
Trusty steeds astride;
Salisbury plain has never seen
The likes of this.
Actually…
it has.
Ere a fortnight has passed
Since that terrifying sighting
Of some dog-pattern-baldness.

I hear you get it from your mother’s side.

Crown of Gold

I left you standing in a
parking lot with no cars
Whimpering in an empty space
Caught between two neat white lines
The stars were out
I looked behind and
There you were.
And then.
You weren’t.
I was alone on the road.
Me and the devil.
He stroked me with a crown of gold
And told me I did right.
I did right – I did I did.
But then I remember
That night in December
When your heart was dismembered
By me.
the devil.
And a gas station employee.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 4

Satans of New York!
Silence your booming voices,
and observe the child.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 4

Ectoplasmic cows,
drinking all grandpa's whiskey.
Weekend at Bernie's

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 4

Tweety bird sleeps tight,
Hungry cats fuck around him.
Shit tweety bird run.

The Black Man's Burden

Bitch Please,
Nigga Please,
Ghost please,

This stuff needs to be passed down,
To our progeny.

If weren’t a beat poet,
A dirty white meat poet-

I might not have the lyrical chops,
I might not have the musical props,

To lay down the rhythm,
The one thing that’s still alive in this town.

Down town,
Old town,
Sweaty man town,
The dark man’s town,
The white man’s
Burden.

His over burden,
His under burden.
His tailings,
His gangue.

Who rocks the mic?

I rock the mic.

But who rocks the mic?

God rocks the mic.

Strange Alaska

Oak tree oak tree
Underneath the smoke tree
A secret sewer of mystery
Humping rather violently
Two monsters groaned
Italians stroaned
And baked a strange
Alaska

There's a Moratorium on Field Trips

Billy stood there, awestruck
Mouth agape, evolved-from-ape.
Notblinking, notmoving.
Stan, well he just hit himself
And hit himself, and hit himself
Neverstopping, neversmiling.
Bernard laughed
And laughed, and laughed.
There’s something wrong with Bernard
My lawyer tells me, my father tells me too.
So does the old lady next door.
Everyone thinks there’s something wrong with Bernard.
Marvin shouted, and shouted,

and shouted.

It was a C sharp, I think.
Antoine smiled and wept,

smiled and wept.

Johann stared too, but fists flew

at Davey’s face.

They tell me that Theodore locked himself in the janitor’s
Closet.
I’d rather not go looking for him.

The slaughterhouse is a horrible place for a field trip.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 3

Essential Garments,
Banana Hammocks are not.
Just grab some boxers.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 3

Three goats make man-love!
I hate grandpa's magazines.
Go away grandpa.

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 3

No, Steve, Goddammit!
Wolves must never sleep with hounds!
Or else we're all dead!

My Cuddly Noodle

Please have a nibble
Of my cuddly noodle.

You can lick him,
Or call him on the telephone.

Always remember,
He loves you.

The Mathematician's Plea

Stop!
The decimal places.

Hold!
The remainder.

Add two hearts locked
In perilous battle.

What do you get?

525,600 minutes.

Subtract this

From the time it takes,

To realize,

That you,

You sir.

You.

Are doomed.

The Seven Plagues of 2009

On the first day,
Every woman was forced to make love,
To powerful ghosts.

On the second day,
Every toddler grew a second ass,
On their ass.

On the third day,
The coal miners
Shot themselves.

On the fourth day,
There were birds of every manner,
Fucking newborns.

On the fifth day,
A billion drunk old men,
Descended on the land and shat.

On the sixth day,
There were storms of every manner,
But mostly shit storms.

On the seventh day,
The walrus flu took millions,
Of healthy fuckers.

The year ended on a very low note.

Lord Stanley Sits

“Just call me Lord Stanley”, he tells me.
This man
with the gilded codpiece who

released me

from this mental prison.
Restricting me from my true potential
Like a stripper’s clothes restricting
The stripper from its nude potential.
Opens mouth,
tongue-and-lips ebb and flow
like the tides of passion,
forming words in an ol' dead tongue.
I

can

comprehend

Them.

Slowly, but Shirley Temple,
sweet nothings are whispered into my faceless pagan ears.
My mind, like Thor’s skull, is shattered;
mental chockablocks, thoughts clouded by deceit;
words stampede over my cerebral cortex, knocking
me metaphysically unconscious.
Slowly, bestial braingoop coagulates;
translating Lord Stanley’s words-
----------------------------------------------------------
“Every shower King Midas ever took was golden”

Untitled

Oh shit, dad.
That was nothing like how it was
on T.V.

Don

I put Don to bed.

I waited until Don fell asleep,

when I could hear Don sleep-breathing.

I kissed Don's gentle brow.

My Don.

I walked to Don's door,

but turned back towards Don's nightstand.

I licked Don's half-eaten apple.

I licked Don's floral wallpaper.

I climbed on Don's bed.

And licked the dust off Don's ceiling fan.

I licked the juice stain on Don's rug.

I licked Don's light switch.

Off.

On.

Off.

Good-Night Don.

Uncle Max

Absolute, Resolute.
Maximillion stands to reason.

And he stands up

to my father.

He stands on the pedestals of the poor,
And walks over the faces of the weak.
He gropes at the hands of the powerful,
Softly licking their fingers and picking the meat bits out of their chops.

He punches holes through things.

Like thick meaty walls and
Thick meaty balls.
Aluminum, Titanium, Cinnamon rolls.

Rapture beset by the narrow focus of his evil machinations.

Colloquial protests, knees bent and hands up high to the sky
In the clouds
On the moon
Over the planet Pluto
Which is still a planet
In the eyes of Maximillion who shits
Red Wine
And pisses
Vinegar
On his enemies who are weak and defenseless but not Max no he could fight you, he could fight you and win because he has the skills he is so dirty at shit you don’t even want to step to Maximillion.

No, you don’t.

The Sea of Green

Slippery slopes
Sloppy frog croaks
Dog man grope
Lost our hope.

I hope to never find
A tie that never binds
I had it in my mind
To push play not rewind

Ten million wild antlers
In a sea of green,
To find one is a miracle,
To miss one is obscene.

YUMMMMMMMMMM.
Finally, A taste of summer.

Father's Pasta

Father’s

pasta jammed into my jar
crammed in - oh so tightly
Put your hand into my jar
I do so every nightly

I like it cold and stringy
like meatloaf from a lukewarm
can

Words for describing Father’s pasta sauce:

Hemoglobin

Red

Hemogoblin
Red
Homogoblin
Red

down, down, down the stairs

pussyfooting springy slow

put your hand into my jar

no one will ever know

Jesus in the Ice Cream

I’m tempted to reveal it
Like Jesus in the wilderness

Hidden secrets,

Darkened treasures
Ancient memories that can’t bear to see the light of day

It’s sitting in my basement
Waiting not to be revealed

I must tell!

No! Fuck no!

I swore a sacred oath upon Frankie’s grave
At Jimmy’s funeral
And again at Steve’s wake
But,
The devil that tempts me taunts me
With sugary teats:

Chocolate-covered men
Chocolate-stained overalls
Chocolate-stained rugs
Chocolate-stained breath

He plays a chocolate fiddle

O glorious music play!
O Caloo Monet!

Quickly moving Satan-hands
Over strings made of lost souls

Oh how I am tempted...
The promises he makes!

You will have kings before you, hands on their swords
You will have beasts of all kind call you master
You will have all 151 Pokémon (including mew)
You will have souls coming out the wazoo
You will have me…

I think I might reveal it
Like Jesus at the Ice-Cream Social

Your Nightmare

can you picture?
fifty naked men?
with bat wings?
made of skin?
opaque as a crepe?
flap, flap, flapping?

ears like wolves.
snouts like wolves.
swim through blood
like fish tank
frequenters.

caverns like locker rooms.
naked and free.
naked and steamy.
naked and clean.
naked and mean.

close your eyes.

can you picture?
your nightmare?
give it wings.
give it wolfish snarls.
take off its clothes.

your nightmare is
fifty naked men
with bat wings
made of skin
opaque as a crepe
flap, flap, flapping.

isn’t it?

Killing Swine in '09

Andale! Andale!
Arriba! Arriba!
Not even-
Speedy Gonzales can outrun
The tide of swine.

Sea of Cortez
or
the
Cerebral cortex

Swine Flu.
Or should I say
Mind Flu?
Coincidence?
I think not.

Doctor’s orders
To smite these swiney brainy disorders:
Splay across the borders
Of mind and mexico.
Skull and El Paso

Parents orders:
Go to your room
There’s swine fluey doom!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Man the Battleships!
Launch the defense dingo-bots!
Cousin Ralph is here!

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Bard strikes the harpstring
Jarvis smelks a potato
Late night at the pub

Hump Day Haiku Vol. 2

Bless the evil men
Who cavort in outhouses
Lets see some titties

The Epidemic

Onward Swine,
To pull my load-

The foul beasts of an ancient land
Long gone,
Long forgotten-
Plaguing the memories of my father,
And his father,
And a million fathers before.

Onward Swine,
Until your wretched stench,
I can bare no more.

Onward Swine,
You punk bitch,
As they say...

Your illness is my promise,
Your demise is my saving grace.

The catcalls and the screeching boar-cries,
The pig hoards and the hoary cockadoodledoodlers
Sit in quiet agony.

Onward Swine,
Pollute our fragile minds,
Until we are no more.

The Filthswine Flu

“Oink, oink!
Cough, cough!
Well, you’ve got trouble my friend; terrible, terrible trouble
because
The filthswine flu is coming to a town near you.

Beautiful days,
Once used for loving and fishing and big game hunting.
Now are wasted-
Spent in an foolhardy haze
This, my pet, is the clouded curse of the filthswine flu.

Dogs no longer walk like men
Billy Goats no longer has a beard like a man
Men no longer act like men
Why should they?
When they’ve got the filthswine flu.

Eastern delights?
The Big Crapple!
Buzzwords of industry
Buzzwords of nonproductive invalids
Buzzwords of…
The filthswine flu”

-Charles Dodgson (1872)

The House Where I Live

sooty
floral couches littered less than generously
the crooked living room
yellowed picture frames slumped, straining
grinning corpses in a camera jar
yellow apple picking corpse
yellow garden planting corpse
yellow melting birthday corpse
for a laugh –
I fell corner nail and cupboard
wooden faces burn better
togetherness can creak and rot decay
so give me fire light
and run

Do the Dog Trot

In the end of the world,

Will the Harold Angels sing,

Or spit?

In the end of the world,

Will my tongue speak wise words,

Or shit?

In the end of the world,

Our final respite.

In due time,

My gaussian stares will turn

The leaf litter

Into an impenetrable barrier.

For the Heroes of yesteryear,

To bathe in.

And fuck in.

And call the wild calls they longed to call but never called and now will call and now will call but at what cost?

What cost?

What cost?

What cost.

My Lordy Lordy King

Some time earlier:
My mind touched upon a thought,
It stroked an impression – a notion?
No, it’s a musing it’s more of a -
More of an -
More of the –
More of uh –

Contemplation

I’m sorry imsorry
It comes and it goes and it goes and it grows like a plantwithnonoseandakingandakingfrompekingcakefrostingisbetterinbrown
And yet –
A Prince had a spiritual kind of carnal knowledge with my mind
and he spoke:

“the flesh of a brain is a (possibly frankly speaking as) possibly speaking as frankly (fleshy brains make fleshy thoughts) without brains the My Lordy Lordy King would (disintegration is frankly well frankly well) frankly well (frankly well) flesh of brain and the flesh of my Lordy Lordy King is production of art the production of artists the fleshy procreation of fleshy brains (it’s the putting the pen on the paper) the pen on the paper the ink on the finger the finger on the thought on the thought on the finger on the thought that he touched upon (the brain with the thought touched upon “Some time earlier:”?) yes yes yes yes yes yes yes. I promise you. That’s the impressionalthoughtful production of a fleshy, Lordy, fleshy&beautiful brain.”

What he said.

50 Days to San Jose's

Atop the parapet
stands a noble beast?
A lion, perhaps? A Busey?
No, it is I, king of kings and spacetime.

I stand

atop the parapet
Cosmic lasers!

Shot from my bosom!

God’s divine breath in laser form
God’s divine fury in bosom form.

I falter…
Poised to puke
eons of regurgitates from
atop the parapet.
The parapet crumbles,
weighed down by the wearies of weights of eons of lovemaking
atop the parapet.

Grandparents
Regular ol’ parents
Future parents
Never-parents

All of them once in bygone yesterdays
atop the parapet.
I fall
alongside the crumbly parapet.
atop and abelow
the falling parapet.
I scream…
but all I scream is-
“Atop the parapet.”

The Capstone Chronicle

The conceited tabernacle,
Where a childhood playmate,
Became a war-torn primate.

The cruel intentions of a million men,
And women,
Lay buried deep,
In the constipated bowels of the past.

Carry on, and carry on,
Carry on away,
Ceaselessly into the sun,
To find our brighter day.

Builders! Builders!

Lengthways!
cried the builders
of the horizontal tower
over - under - beaming sturdy
beaming strong
it won't be long - it won't be lengthy
til our vision sees fruition
shaking handly
shaking boldly
builders! builders! of my tower -
ever breaking by the hour -
every stone is like - a flower
scenting sweetly - so concretely!
Remember - Stan?
who fell -
from grace -
onto his -
beaming -
smiling -
face?
Oh! the gkirsh -
of head implosion - brainymelon! tired over!
gkirsh! gkirsh!

It's windy work to work
alength the horizontal tower
but - I like it - yes it's lovely!
ever breaking by the hour!

Hump Day Haiku

Hark! For pork shank scent
hath reached unto my snout length.
Me? A wolf, wolf, wolf.

Hump Day Haiku

Hallelujah Jim,
Our nuptial agreements hold
More venom than shit.

Hump Day Haiku

Flacid Penises
Flopping down the mountainside
I drink your milkshake

Common European Ash Mountain

My grandfather used to sit me on his lap
“Grandson, somewhere, beyond all your tomorrows, lies a mountain.”
He never got further,

his denture glue wouldn’t allow it.
his wrinkled face wouldn’t allow it
his hairy ears wouldn’t allow it
his nagging wife wouldn’t allow it

Now I know what grandfather meant.

I think

Please don’t quote me on this

Beyond everyone lies a mountain
Not a real one, figurative
It could be love

Or drugs

Or coyote sculptures

Or cigar-store Indians

Or island tikis

We all must
climb the mountain
Bloody, briny cunts that we are
We all must transcend the monotony of the rat race
The demagoguery of life
All represented by the mountain beyond our tomorrows
Mine is made of ‘75 Chevy Camaro’s

Disney World

Let my people free,

From this horrid nothing-scape,

The continuum of shotguns,

Firing shit,

Into the heavens.

Four score and twenty years from now,

Will the cantankerous cries of the weak,

Outgrabe the unwieldy asses of the privileged?

No one can tell.

No one, that is,

But the spring peepers-

Who rest peacefully,

Quietly,

On my shoulder blades.

Water is the Curse of the Drinking Classes

Have you ever seen a man with two dicks on each dick?

I have

Have you ever seen ghosts that walk like men?

I have

Have you ever heard the smells of sages long dead?

I have

Have you ever fallen in love with something you can’t comprehend?

I have

Have you ever gleaned the teeth of the bishop?

I have

Have you ever praised the devil that mocks your life?

I have

Have you ever planted your seed in foreign soil?

I have, many times

Have you ever gyrated to the disco beat with prairie dogs and coyotes?

I have

Have you ever read true love in the pages of Dickens?

I have

Have you ever blasted snot from the caverns of denial?

I have

Have you ever plunked out fantasies of lordship on a sitar?

I have

Have you ever kissed the walrus prince?

I have

Have you ever rapped with an ancient Hindu god?

I have

Have you ever laughed at monks playing on a jungle-gym?

I have

Have you ever schmoozed about with harlots with harts of gold?

I have

Have you ever felt the breeze run through your mustache?

I have

Have you ever seen my manhood?
I haven’t