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…
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Hump Day Haiku Vol. 7
Frank! Wake the fuck up!
Springsteen concert starts at nine
and I won't be late...
Springsteen concert starts at nine
and I won't be late...
Monday, June 22, 2009
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.
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?
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
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
Friday, June 19, 2009
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
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
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A Letter Home From a Professor
Yo, wazzup…
Mr. and Mrs. Slinker.
Let me begin by saying,
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.
Mr. and Mrs. Slinker.
Let me begin by saying,
stating,
proclaiming,
whispering,
screaming,
mumbling,
asking!
Billy is a wonderful kid,proclaiming,
whispering,
screaming,
mumbling,
asking!
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!!!
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The King
Sound the trumpets!
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!
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!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
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.
…
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.
Monday, June 1, 2009
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.
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.
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