See how they get "better" and more "poetic"?
It's called "progress" and it's "real".
Saturday, January 6, 2007
As ballast we used a word hitched to the protectorate
And hoisted high that fancy cannon which shot glee forth
Like sugared butter from its frothy mouth-
And set out, with politicians fueling the balloon,
A lily-encrusted chamber pot primed for action,
And promptly we hid in the clouds.
Accumulating in the cottoned bushes we spoke of
Vietnam and Antietam
While taxpayers threw grizzly scalped mullets
And frayed propaganda pamphlets at us,
Upsetting the pollsters and causing the first ladies to weep.
There in the clouds, we, the king-makers, the rain bringers,
Jockeyed for position, who best to man the binoculars looking
Down into George Clooney's perfumery? Who best to beset
Their speech-writers on the tribulations of this nation's great tributaries?
And who best to pull the puds of the gas-spouters rigged to the foremast
And triggered to the jerk-knee bone of society?
As our self-adulation grew exponential in the mist our lookouts
Became embroiled in the debate of who was the greatest syphillis dodger
Amongst us and we lost sight of all that is grand and guignoly, namely
The Blackened Hand of God slashing down from on high to twist
Our sails into anchors and plummet us into the waiting fray
Which pounced like maggots on rotting meat, rending, masticating, rending.
And here we sit, immortal and molecular, the pure food of those who
Just so recently
Allowed us to ride on their broken backs
Into the sunset backdrop of our choosing,
So recently turned on us, so unappealable, so unsatiable,
They chaw right through us so ignominiously, us, us nobility.
And hoisted high that fancy cannon which shot glee forth
Like sugared butter from its frothy mouth-
And set out, with politicians fueling the balloon,
A lily-encrusted chamber pot primed for action,
And promptly we hid in the clouds.
Accumulating in the cottoned bushes we spoke of
Vietnam and Antietam
While taxpayers threw grizzly scalped mullets
And frayed propaganda pamphlets at us,
Upsetting the pollsters and causing the first ladies to weep.
There in the clouds, we, the king-makers, the rain bringers,
Jockeyed for position, who best to man the binoculars looking
Down into George Clooney's perfumery? Who best to beset
Their speech-writers on the tribulations of this nation's great tributaries?
And who best to pull the puds of the gas-spouters rigged to the foremast
And triggered to the jerk-knee bone of society?
As our self-adulation grew exponential in the mist our lookouts
Became embroiled in the debate of who was the greatest syphillis dodger
Amongst us and we lost sight of all that is grand and guignoly, namely
The Blackened Hand of God slashing down from on high to twist
Our sails into anchors and plummet us into the waiting fray
Which pounced like maggots on rotting meat, rending, masticating, rending.
And here we sit, immortal and molecular, the pure food of those who
Just so recently
Allowed us to ride on their broken backs
Into the sunset backdrop of our choosing,
So recently turned on us, so unappealable, so unsatiable,
They chaw right through us so ignominiously, us, us nobility.
Work Day
A piece of monkey meat
Slipped from her lips
Into the vat of baby food
As the metal walls
Reverberated with the
Sound of the gigantic
Banana peeling itself into
The shape of a skeleton.
The foreman nodded and
Checked the appropriate box
With his double penis.
Slipped from her lips
Into the vat of baby food
As the metal walls
Reverberated with the
Sound of the gigantic
Banana peeling itself into
The shape of a skeleton.
The foreman nodded and
Checked the appropriate box
With his double penis.
A Nice Poem
Try as he might
the trapdoor in the sandbox
wouldn't open
as he swung gustily from the rope beneath
the children played noisily above
farting and giggling
at the balloon vendor
near the pond.
the trapdoor in the sandbox
wouldn't open
as he swung gustily from the rope beneath
the children played noisily above
farting and giggling
at the balloon vendor
near the pond.
As midgets wrestle with dogs' penises
The wind sprickles liquid nits on our faces
I shyly grab at your neck
And lovingly clamp your hands behind your back
The freckles on your cheek turn pale, then green
As I suck each one in turn like seeds
From a watermelon
The midgets drop their dicks in the rushing water, slowly
Turning their vivid midget eyes to us
As I wind my tongue around your head
And rest my feet with a tender caress
On your breasts
And recite the writings of William F. Buckley Jr.
To you until you cry.
The wind sprickles liquid nits on our faces
I shyly grab at your neck
And lovingly clamp your hands behind your back
The freckles on your cheek turn pale, then green
As I suck each one in turn like seeds
From a watermelon
The midgets drop their dicks in the rushing water, slowly
Turning their vivid midget eyes to us
As I wind my tongue around your head
And rest my feet with a tender caress
On your breasts
And recite the writings of William F. Buckley Jr.
To you until you cry.
Manifesto
To destory the normelle ideas of poetry
NOT
Because there is ennything WRONG with poetry
BUT
Because there is nothing WRITE with pottery.
There's your motherfucking poem, asshole.
NOT
Because there is ennything WRONG with poetry
BUT
Because there is nothing WRITE with pottery.
There's your motherfucking poem, asshole.
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2007
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January
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- See how they get "better" and more "poetic"?It's c...
- As ballast we used a word hitched to the protector...
- Work Day
- Abortion
- I couldn't pull myself awayFrom the enchanted toil...
- A Nice Poem
- Is he coming?We wonderedas the barometerfell and o...
- If there's not enough nakednessI start to get itch...
- As midgets wrestle with dogs' penisesThe wind spri...
- The late afternoon sunAh, fuck it, it was drearyWi...
- Manifesto
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January
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