Harnk
08-03-2006, 10:19 AM
Fine, if you don't want it then I'll just give it
Fragments of Tom
Nothing laughed itself through the neck of a disenchanted sigh, barking a warm wave that lifted us above short trees. Polished to resemble a cloud, and the inevitable virus that hammered his breath flat, it seemed beautiful that she would glow in shades of glue and still say hello. I leaned in to smell her breath, taking in notes of pears and hostility. She stepped back to calculate her heart, sorting through discount shoe pamphlets faster than I could comprehend, and to a much lesser extent, a nutritious breakfast.
Swallowing Hammers
I detected cod in your breath and so I felt obliged to water your wig with hearts and hammers, I mentioned to my wall calmly, drained stiff from nothing happening. Build me a dream wrapped in songs that resembles a Buick, and Mom. So now you come to me with boxes of hair and a limp. I will protect you, and that you smell my devotion, we will bark under the neon lights liked mules in motion.
Toilet Thoughts 6/26
"Stand back Hellroy !!! I'm gonna crush that mule if he takes one more step towards my lunch!"
"But Dad, that's not a mule, that's Mom"
Kill Gene Simmons
Mules canter in fancy delight
Gabe whispers a gentle goodbye
A Cadillac passes quietly in night
A couple argues, Chinese or Thai ?
Lonely Eyes
Tuberculosis, for a slighted harlot struck softly upon with a cotton hammer, although said harlot never sighs openly, she cries into a handkerchief, for fear of pneumonia, or worse, nylon panties. And then of course trips to Peru for better rest, her best wishes dressed in a sweater, her cats will stay with the neighbor, and then nothing for at least a month or better.
The mighty Peru, as ever is, and was, to be and ever more, she breathed in and then out, her breasts dangling, her pill box empty- beggar boys begging for chicken at her ankles. And to be alive in such times, with an underserved bout of syphilis, albeit no so bad, each boil a burst of memories, forgotten lovers and the like. Canoe trip with strangers, not the Peru she knew, and so she stayed behind waving off the team of eager boys, oars in hand and plenty of sandwiches for long journey. A gentle hello bid her farewell-all dreams must end, she thought, much like she never knew, then of course the return flight home.
More Teeth Please
He wanted to lick her teeth, but feared she would not understand. So he dug a hole in the yard, lowered himself into the ditch and sat there. She never called. He never got out of that hole.
"I'll enj-j-j-oy your t-t-t-eeth" he stammered. "You jjj-j-just wu wu wait and see"
Camp Kogg-Bullets and Broccoli
We set up camp a stone throw from Blarm Gardens, between a pile of rubble and a well-spaced collage of litter. Night fell a few hours early, so we made our lunch in the dark. Claire was carrying on about the impossibility of daylight dropping off a few hours too soon, though no of us were listening, or much less caring. Kogg was keeping the crew entertained with his interpretation of the Bible as seen through the eyes of a wool antelope with acute renal dysfunction. This gave me time to gather my thoughts and map out tomorrow's agenda. I poured neat bourbon in my shoe and sipped in gently until it was just right, then slowly began dripping the fluid, drop by drop, down the crack of my backside. My thoughts began to clear as I carried out some dialogue that came to me earlier when I was peeling twigs, waiting for Kogg to move his bowels behind a wall of empty paint cans. "Too tight, young pup, and what have you, all over, what nothing lent well to sherbet and quail. Let's give it up for the down dogs who keep camp for Blue Moon chapters, and all of the love we dropped in sequence, littering the soil with nonsense and oil". My eyes began to flutter, as I slipped into slumber gently, hearing the fading voice of Kogg "And now Jesus, see Jesus was a fair man who knew full well that he was hogging up the entire spotlight with his walking of graham crackers routine"
I awoke the following morning with a bruise on my wrist and an empty container of maple syrup beside me. Claire was making pancakes for Kogg over a makeshift BBQ grill that she assembled with the remains of tin canoe she found in Panda's duffle bag. I decided that I wouldn't press the issue and fought off any urge to question why Panda was using my briefs as a napkin. After breakfast we all walked down to the lake to clean up. Clair was slowly dropping her naked body into the lake, cooing like a morning dove, as Panda and Kogg stood covering their genitals with teacups. I sipped my coffee smiling, thinking that I was truly blessed to have such friends. Claire emerged from the water with a green gloss of algae, looking quite fetching. I gave her my coffee and tugged on her nipple. She hiccupped a small bubble of yogurt which slowly drizzled down her chin. I thought this was cute so I gave another tug on her nipple. Panda, meanwhile, was capturing lightning bugs with his teeth, screaming "Nazis" each time one escaped his gnashing yellow teeth.
Carl Colorado's Head-Upturned for Frequency
Pot tilts from Wilson and how everyone discourages fangs from that point forward through a child's clutch-punched tipple phantom partially disguised as World War II, emotionally and domestic. And now foul-breathed hens pant and excite the noble Honn Jeyo into spinzic frenato, thus Us touching buses with are long fingers in a depot in Denver today, and then some more, Lover. Cries tip toe over her whispered kitten so frequently I almost apologize, but come to my senses and spend my time ogling fences in Boulder. Later on and pretty, wow smiles billow and plume, blue skies back the drop, then Gayle drops pants, ribbed for her pleasure, corduroy surprise, I touched her eye. Bold cologne on the boys was affirmative and ridiculous chants of Ma No Knee Wisdommo's approach-~-and a descending plane pardons himself into landing, God casually mentions day was done once and for all. Hug Bob Dylan like you mean it.
Ogling God Through a Brick
Old Man Custard pulled his lips over his head and made
a beeline for the taco stand where he stood on some
tacos until Lady Maroo screamed bloody murder, at
which point she sucked the flattened taco from the
sole of Old Man Custard's Buster Brown shoes and
crawled back into the tree where she made tea for the
owls that flew backwards.
Foiled in bronze, Klaus stepped off the elevator and
continued to elevate, which clearly bothered Miss
Tetley, as she booed in dismissal, as if to say 'stop
flying you prince, I'm hungry as well, but you won't
catch me pissing in the broccoli'. Klaus smiled and
released a soft fart that whispered hello, only
goodbye is what he meant to say, so he reached inside
his thigh and removed a turkey voucher and floated it
below to Miss Tetley, who at this point had forgotten
about what she had just witnessed, as she seemed busy
trying to teach her ankles French.
Mind Your Lawn
Counting breaths between thoughts and clouds, his eyes, in a gentile moist squint, shaping sunbeams into bursts of light with the slightest let of his lids, shifting lights in patterns that choked science, he wondered about the possibilities. Why am I here, that is, right here. Could I not have been placed somewhere more suiting, perhaps a lake, or a friendly village. He often thought like this. It never really helped. He walked back home and raked the leaves, dropping a shy smile to the squirrel who perched in his tree. Mr. Robinson waved hello. He waved back. Leaning on his rake, whiping the sweat from his brow, he looked up at the clouds, and created a notion that put rest to his mind, the one he ran from all these years.
Neighbors
The doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Larry
crying like an imbecile, his hands flailing and his
pants pulled up well over his waist. It was hard to
distinguish his words between the bubbles of spit and
the gasping of air, but from what I gathered he was
deranged over the new fall season lineup on NBC. I
kicked Larry in the face and asked him to never return
to my house.
I pulled down my pants and sat down for a cup of
coffee and a cigarette, and before the cup had even
reached my mouth someone had knocked on my back door,
it was lanky Roger Lentils, who at first seemed
focused, quickly regressed into a fit of aggressive
free-verse that was as jarring as a punch in the face
“My world, so beaten and lonely, like a pony in the
breeze, only without knees, shed you fire on my loaf,
fill my heart with your death, and I lay there with my
face in blood, tell my pony how I loved him, and make
me a sandwich while you’re at it, only this time rub
your fucky fingers through my hair”.
I asked Roger to come in for some coffee. At this
point my pants were still down, so I excused my self
to the bedroom to completely remove them, as I did not
want to seem presumptuous. When I returned Roger was
in my refrigerator pouring a cup of mustard, still
shaken by his apparent misfortune, which at this point
was still undetermined. He had mentioned the electric
wolves club before, only I hadn’t been paying
attention. As it turned out Roger had been rejected a
membership. This came like an atomic blow to , as his
father was president of the club. His sadness soon
turned to hate, and a plot to remove his father became
his only focus. He tried hiding his father’s fruit and
vegetables, but this only caused his father to stop
eating fruits and vegetables. He tried disconnecting
the brakes in his father’s car, only he got into an
accident when he borrowed the car to get coffee and
cigarettes later that same day. His anger became to
take shape in curious form, as Roger began to boycott
all products that were distributed by trucks, which he
felt would somehow topple his father from office, for
reasons that were only clear to Roger. I made a few
suggestions and sent Roger n his way. It was at this
point that I decided my open door policy was becoming
a bit risky. I turned over the CLOSED sign so it read
DESOLC and fell into a deep slumber.
Sparks filled the skies and my eyes watered like fresh
dew running off a pigeon, I feared for the worst as I
struggled to make my way back home. Rainbow fish were
jumping and splashing as I walked past the lake, an
old man warned me to turn around just as his left arm
fell off. The soil was warm and loose, in the distance
a pink caboose, as clean as a meat house whistle,
chugged along the countryside. As I skipped across the
worms the children began to heckle me with delicious
poems. I retreated to the barn where a few handsome
pigs nursed me into a tender pile of warm blankets
made of donkey pants
Colon Massacre for Asthma and Children With No Paragraph Breaks
Some other where, where lanterns paint the streets in hues of yesterday's future, thus tomorrow's dreams paved in goat for the second byrthe of content, she regretfully laid to rest her mosaic pantaloons with a mournful and somewhat panthered requiem that suggested infidelity. Soyle Chant, the muted ranger who siphoned breath from parted girls who left in wails of despair now live painfully within, fighting for breath that fills the smiles of Soyle's child, who enthusiastically chooses silence before her gasping servants of lung. Now, what never seems to remain, lives in shame built on plum garnished tables of feast, to his gluttonous desires, clad in peppered delights, small children await their demise. In time war grows in the caverns of Soyle's liver, strengthening armies of soulful youth pass quietly through the intestinal ducts of the filthy beast, disguised as a hiccup they march in a small crawl, planting bulbs of sickness in the murky crevices of the creature's body. Patience was their virtue, as years pass in Soyle's empire, seemingly wonderful, they plot. The once brutish self-serving boil now settled in for family life. A courtship ensued with a local pheasant girl who mysteriously communicated without the use of vowel. Love bloomed in each breath of Soyle's day, his heart conquered like a basket of figs before a pack of raspugne otters. Soyle asked pheasant girl for her hand in marriage, to which she harmoniously accepted in a Welsh opera (no vowels). And so now life was grand for the former beast, as he spent his time dreaming of pastures and picnics under loving skies. No sooner upon his wedding day, as his stood upon the alter, handsome yet gross, he began to feel a punch in his gut, which he attributed to the Ukrainian salad he consumed earlier that morning. The pipe organs moaned from each corner of the cathedral, as pheasant girl made her way down the aisle, hopping on one foot with a corsage pinned over her lazy breasts. Soyle's face, at war between indigestion and utter delight, began to quake and crack, as tiny children chipped through cheek with rib bones of friends who were less fortunate during their stay within his dark castle. A small girl crawled out from his nostril with a violin began a tearful ballad that signaled for the great assault. Soyle's body ate itself from within, lashes dropping, soon limbs, as the pipe organs played Ave Maria, his guts spilled diarrhea as his body fell before pheasant girl's gown. She smiled as she laid upon his pile of remains a letter from her sister, who lost her breath to the brute six years before to the day. In time the village would return to function, but it was clear in the eyes of each folk, that these times would never die, and their losses, a whispered cry in the grass blades, a distant song with no ending.
Maniac in Love Is Like a Pool on Fire
Paul sat in the corner disguised as a pencil sharpener
thinking this was a sure way to win the attention of
Dana, the undertaker's daughter, who had been the
object of his obsession for 16 long years, well
actually 17 if you count the year his disguised
himself as an Oak tree when he discovered that Dana
was originally from Oakland.
Paul fell ill in 1987 just after he received a letter
from his local Senator who urged him to campaign for
the upcoming election. It was at this point that Paul
decided that becoming a bottle of champagne was
something he was not willing to do at this point of
his life, and that he should put all of his energy
into developing his reading skills.
In 1993 Paul attempted suicide by swallowing a whole
crate of Poison's 'Look What The Cat Dragged In'
albums'. He felt this was a sure way to get his foot
in the door of Dana's home, where her father practiced
undertaking in the cellar. As it turned out Poison
records contained very little in the way of harmful
poisons, though he did indeed become very ill, and it
was at this point that he decided to drape himself in
tinfoil for the remainder of the Major League Baseball
season, for reasons that are still unknown to all
those in Paul's family.
Paul's father died when Paul was 12, from Toxic Shock
Syndrome where her necked down 42 pints of orange
juice, in attempt to show his loyalty for his favorite
football player, O.J Simpson. The death of his father
marked a strange shift in behavior for Paul, and it
was at this point that he started the one man
revolution to help raise awareness for the "underclass
of fruit juices". At the age of 13 Paul began dressing
up as an orange on a daily basis, traipsing from town
to town calling everyone in his path a "beanshifting
tit canoe". Later that same year when Wall Street
announced the crop reports, stating that Florida
yielded the best oranges in history. Paul responded in
haste and later that year vowed to only correspond
with those who wore velour pants. As luck would have
it no one seemed to wearing velour pants, or velour at
all for that matter, except for one sheepish girl from
Brike County, Dana Wublo.
Paul met Dana at a Pencil Appreciation Conference,
where she was trying to bring back the # 3 pencil,
which virtually disappeared when the Stanford
Achievement Tests, by law, began requiring that all
test takers use a # 2 pencil when filling in the
multiple choice questions. Paul approached Dana and
asked her if he could smell her ear. Dana, being the
quiet and reserved type responded by calling him a
"typical pen user", and while Paul in actuality always
preferred using magic markers, he knew that there was
no way that Dana would ever data a man who used a
disposable pen as his writing utensil of choice,
regardless of his true preference, which he was still
unsure if Dana would appreciate at all, seeing as she
was so concentrated in the art and revival of the soft
lead pencils that fell off the market in the wake of
the classic # 2. Paul left the conference and returned
home where he racked his brain endlessly over a bowl
of maple syrup. In the spinning wreck of the
subsequent sugar rush, Paul decided to disguise
himself as a pencil sharpener, and that he would
return to the conference the next day to make a second
pass at Dana.
Paul's plan to disguise himself as a pencil sharpener,
while mildly absurd, could have been just the right
thing to turn Dana's attention to him, if it wasn't
for Paul's surreal vision on what a human pencil
sharpener would look like, this plan could have proven
wise. Paul arrived 4 hours early at the conference
hoping to rehearse his new role, only his disguise was
far from apparent, as he stood there with a stainless
steel mixing bowl over his head and tree branch
implanted in his left ear. When the pencil enthusiasts
began filling the auditorium Paul began to act out his
pencil sharpener routine, as he cranked his left arm
in circles as his right arm pushed the tree branch
into his left ear. When Paul's ear began to bleed and
niblets of brain matter began dropping from his nose
the entire auditorium shrilled in horror and the place
cleared out faster than a New York rush hour. Dana
took a glance at Paul as she hurried for the exit,
seemingly worried she turned pace and began to
approach Paul, at which point she handed him a deluxe
Wensington # 3 pencil, and just as Paul's pained face
turned to smiles she was gone.
Paul awoke the next morning in a hospital bed where he
had just undergone major surgery to repair the torn
layer of cerebellus lining that was damaged the
previous day. Paul patted himself on the shoulder when
he recalled that he had snatched the conference roster
just before he fainted on the auditorium chair. He
pulled the roster from his velour pants and began
frantically making his way down the list until he
reached the line that read Dana Wublo 169 Neeper Ln,
Oakland California. "Oakland", Paul laughed out loud
"Of course, Oakland. I'm such a fool." Paul was
released later that week, where he was given strict
doctors orders to refrain from any mechanical
impressions that involved pushing lumber through his
orifices. Paul returned home and spent the following
month peeling the bark off the 80 ft oak tree that
stood behind Saint Gary's Hooptalalian Church, just
down the road from his home.
Meanwhile, back out the Wublo residence the
undertaking business was dying and Mr. Wublo was being
forced to take on a second job to help pay for Dana's
mental health bills which at this point had reached an
astronomical $127,520. Having very little skill, Mr.
Wublo turned to his friend Jack Woods, who was the
head foreman down at the Lumberjack Union offices.
Jack offered Mr. Wublo a fulltime position cutting
down trees. Mr. Wublo, reluctant to put behind his
life long career as an undertaker, took the position,
as the pay was more than double what his was bringing
in from the funeral business. Much to his surprise, Mr.
Wublo took to his new profession with great pride and
joy, as he soon became the fastest and most efficient
lumberjack that the union had seen in a long time, so
much that Mr. Wublo would often return from work and
practice his swing on the oak trees in his yard. Mr.
Wublo was very happy that he was able to pay off the
medical bills, which were still piling up, as Dana was
being given extensive treatment to help her overcome
her disabling fear of wool and corduroy.
After a month of hard work Paul had assembled enough
oak bark to cover his entire body, at which point he
began gluing the bark piece by piece until he was
covered head to toe, resembling a perfectly small oak
tree. Convinced he was the ideal mate for a girl from
Oakland his excitement grew as he planned his journey
over to the Wublo residence to announce his love and
devotion to Dana. Paul made a few final touches, as he
placed a few fallen leaves from the yard on his head,
and then he made his way out the door, smiling, in
love.
Heads turned from each passing pedestrian as the
walking oak tree wobbled down Neeper Ln, peering left
and right until his saw house number 169. Without
hesitation Paul smiled and headed up the walkway to
the front door. Inside Dana was up in her room pouring
milk all over her father's corduroy overalls, as Mr.
Wublo made his way through the back door, excited from
his axe swinging workout. The doorbell rang twice and
Mr. Wublo walked towards the front door, axe in hand
cheerfully calling out "I'm coming I'm coming". Mr.
Wublo opened the door and saw the small oak tree. As
he stepped outside to inspect the young tree, Paul
said "Hello Mr. Wublo I'm Paul, at which point the
terrified lumberjack leaned back and thrashed forward
with a perfect Redwood arch and split Paul's head into
two perfect hemispheres. Mr. Wublo smiled and whispered into his fist "Lunchtime, baby".
The Robert Plant Demise
The time I spent as a freelance onion peeler was less
than tragic but lightly soiled in humility. I had fun,
but I also lost my will to succeed, so I peed on my
lawn. Business was business, although none did I have,
bar a few quick peels for Lady Mamoo, who failed to
pay me claiming that I could have been a little more
considerate about my onion squirt precautions. After 7
months of sitting around sharpening my paring knife
and perfecting my Dom DeLouise impression I decided to
file for bankruptcy.
Six months later I set up my shoe appraising business,
thinking that most people would like to know the value
of their shoes, for bragging rights. People laughed
and I laughed back. I closed shop after 9 days of
business. Mark Plunsky stopped by that Wednesday to
cheer me up. I did not know Mark Plunsky, and his
constant prattle about “government intervention in
shoe play” only confused me. Mark offered me a job as
his left shoe. Bills were piling up so I decided to
take the job. The next morning I walked backwards to
Marks house to start my new job. Mark gave me a
doughnut then stepped into face with his left foot. We
went for a walk into town, me doing my best to be a
left shoe, and Mark doing his best to adjust to me
dragging under his left foot. This went on for about
11 weeks, and while Mark was more than pleased with me
being his left shoe, I was beginning to think that
this was a dead end job. I left Mark on a Tuesday
morning and never heard from him again.
Days turned to months and months tuned to years, and
I, Menk Wilson, former shoe to Mark Plunsky once owner
of the Moist Shoe Appraisal Corporation was facing a
crossroad, one that would determine where I ended up
in this brown world. I opted for a career in nomadic
bean travel, while not a job; it would provide me
with the challenges and excitement that my previous
jobs hadn’t. I strategically mapped out the itinerary
for my first tour. The trip would take me from New
Jersey (white beans) to Spain (red beans) to Turkey
(gasha beans) to Russia (long bean) and back to New
Jersey where I would categorize and file my beans for
future studies, which is where the money would come
in.
I advertised in Fortune 500 and the Better Science
Tribune, showcasing my findings and offering a low
introductory offer that would allow researchers access
to my catalog of beans to perform studies for smarter
business decisions. The phone did not ring for a week.
I began to think that I’d made another poor career
decision. The very next day, while considering
lowering my prices, I got a call from Led Zeppelin,
who were interested in a reunion tour and were looking
for a ‘fine set of beans’ as there opening act. Robert
Plant was pathological about his public image and was
very unsure of his status in today’s rock and roll
business. He did not want to be upstaged by the
support slot on his tour, so he thought a bean
display, while exciting and different, would guarantee
him the spotlight of the event. We worked out a deal
that was beneficial to both Led Zeppelin and myself.
The tour was announced the following Friday and
tickets were selling out all across the country.
The months that leading up to the beginning of the
tour was unusual to say the least. I spent quite a bit
of time Robert as he prepared for his return to rock
and roll. He practiced his scissor kicks and I curled
his hair with a gentle brush. I told him stories of my
bean travels and he sang Stairway to Heaven in Yiddish
to pass the time. We were having a great time. As the
opening night began creeping up I began dedicating my
time to cleaning up the beans and working on different
display techniques. This is when I began to notice a
shift in attitude with Robert. I caught him sprinkling
dust over the beans just after they were polished. I
didn’t say anything at first, as I wanted to give him
the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t sabotaging my
showcase. The next morning he passed me in the hall
and mumbled something about ‘beans will never be
bigger than Zeppelin’ or something to that extent.
That evening he asked me to think about changing the
velvet skirts that were draped over the bean showcase,
claiming that he didn’t want any velvet in my display,
as he was planning to wear a velvet corduroys. Was
Plant in competition with me I thought to myself? Our
friendship dissolved in the days that led p to the
opening night at Madison Square Garden. An underground
buzz was making its way across New York, and bean
enthusiasts were scalping tickets for as much as 200
dollars a piece. Plant summed up the buzz as ‘media
hype from the Jewish media companies who are still
upset about Stairway to Heaven being a song for the
Christians”. I knew in my heart that this wasn’t true,
as touchy as the Jews can get sometimes when they feel
gypped.
Fans made their way through the Garden’s entrance,
cheering ‘Zep-e-lin Zep-e-lin ‘, but as the arena
began to fill the chants for Zeppelin began to fade as
thousands began circling the bean exhibition. A fight
broke out at the red bean expo where a Texan began
strangling young Mexican boy who was claiming that
chili had its origins in Northern Mexico, and that it
wasn’t a true Texan meal. The excitement quickly
spread as people began to align themselves with the
bean of there choice. The well-lit arena drew black as
a spokesman from WBAB 102.7 asked the crowd if they
were ready for the greatest rock and roll band in the
world, which was met with alarming silence. Plant was
pacing on the outskirts of the stage, swearing and
pulling at his hair. Meanwhile things were heating out
down by the Gasha bean exhibit where Middle Easterners
where having words with the religious right. A small
boy from the back of the crowd called out “Fee beans
at Penn Station”. A Stampede of 48,000 supposed
Zeppelin fans rushed for the exits, and in a matter of
minutes the arena was all but empty, bar a few
concession stand workers who wouldn’t move if their
hair was on fire.
The following morning Robert Plant and Led Zeppelin
gave a press speech sighting “technical difficulties
with Robert’s hair curling iron not operating safely”
as a quiet Plant held back tears behind dark
sunglasses. All ticket holders were given the
opportunity to get a full refund or to use their
ticket to see the Menk Wilson Bean Extravaganza. Of
the 489,000 tickets sold only 17 tickets holders opted
for a refund. Menk Wilson and his bean show were the
hit of the Summer, outselling Celine Dion’s “Canadian
Torture Tour” by 157,000 tickets, making it the
biggest money earning event of the century. Robert
Plant was not available for comment and is said to be
procuring a small underground bean farm in Hull.
Rice and Kites
I sat under the couch counting the blades of grass that I stole from your yard. I thought this would bring us closer, but all I got in return was a perfume catalog written in Chinese, which didn't do much for my cause. I rode my bicycle down to the park and set up a blanket to lay down with my thoughts. I recalled the time when you said "You make me smile and completely disarm me", which alarmed me, because my elephant bed only had room for one. With this, I thought, let's make this work, so I sliced my arms off and placed them in a Tupperware container beneath the kitchen sink. "Only Fools Rush In" sprang to mind, as I sat in front of a pile of mail trying to open the envelops with my eyelids. Later that day I choked on the rabbit that you left behind for lunch. The guilt I felt when I realized that the ham sandwich was the lunch and that the rabbit was a gift, for me, from you, to keep me from feeling blue. So I cried, and the neighbor sighed when he saw the ham sandwich sitting in the cage behind my garage. When I pulled the sandwich from the cage, opened it up and saw a stiff blend of carrots and alfalfa patterned in Arabic scriptures. I called in my friend Mohammed Dot, who translated the message to read "Oyt, Baby, why did you kill the rabbit. How can I look into your eyes and not think I would've done exactly the same thing? We might be angry with ourselves now, but it is our anger in common which draws me to love you more". Laughter dripped from from my gapish grin like pungent turtle kisses, only more sweet and more bashful. I knew this was short-wave destiny, and as much as I laughed, I couldn't tell you to tune into wfunny 666.66. Neither poem nor smile could weaken the miles of hydrogen bonds between our watery souls. I poured a bowl of cereal with cabernet confetti, kissed you as you were sitting on the swing, with your pigtails and turnip shorts, took a spoonful and swallowed. My vision sparkled as I crawled beneath the swing set and looked up your skirt, murmured myself into a delicious siesta, my last thought being how I adore you so true.
Japan Leaves Me Blue
Walk through my Japan, with a pimp limp, Fire Operator, and whatever you gave me, Baby Gravy. You Save me.
How Can We Live In Reverse
Milk clouds fenced in the green air, holding the geese
that flew backwards in a holding pattern, forcing them
forward without a greeting, leaving the geese
perplexed in their small world of Larry synergenics. A
cow crawled left when the Sun dropped from the
confines of the westward milk cloud, and in response
to this the farmers laid glue over the fields, closing
up season two weeks before the corn explosion,
ultimately putting great strain on Barney Kemple, the
gentleman who ran the annual Corn-hop Thunder Parade,
which the Encronads loved so dearly. False hope came
in the form of a tall pigeon that crossed his legs when
his read the news, which we saw as a signal from Snod,
our Holy Supervisor. The clouds dropped, just low
enough for us to mow our lawns undisturbed, but too
low to make any sense of the barrage of slowbirds who
clumsily flew into the our necks, which eventually
prevented us from mowing our lawns, which led to long
grass that would eventually tickle our feet when we
danced barefoot at the Corn-hop thunder Parade, which
was not going to run this year due to the gluing of
the crop fields, which was necessary since the milk
clouds had fenced in the green air, holding the geese
that flew backwards in a holding pattern, forcing them
forward without a greeting. We never accomplished
anything in Shemp Town
My Wandering Hip
It had been six weeks since my last ‘wandering hip’
episode had occurred, the one that landed me in the
county jail for 7 days. My wife Bruce had left me this
time. She said I had complete control over my hips and
that I was using this ‘wandering hip’ condition as an
excuse to do as I pleased. I thought about defending
myself but later decided that it would be best to let
her go, seeing as she branded my condition “puerile
and typical Lester behavior” it was clear she had
other issues with me. The fact that she never allowed
me to march in the Happy Pants Parade made the
decision all that much easier. So there I was, single
and young, with a ferocious case of the ‘wandering
hip’. The next 14 days would mark the turn of events
that would change life as I knew it, which wasn’t
necessarily a tremendous feat, as I had recently
resigned to a life of pot roast and house chores.
By definition, my definition that is, as the medical
community has yet to acknowledge my condition as one
with any degree of validity, is a centrally focused
pull that while in a state of mobility can lead,
direct, and misguide an individual through a forceful
and sometimes eloquent pull stemming from the hip
flexors. A few isolated episodes had mysteriously
instilled an alarming sense of dance, allowing the
individual, or rather me, to dance the Rompapa with
the grace and delicacy of a prancing gnu. Where I was
once bashful and insecure I was now steadfast and
barrel-chested.
My first occurrence happened on a business trip to San
Diego where I was giving a seminar on ‘How to Be
Lonely and Weak’. As I approached the podium to begin
my speech I felt a quick tug on my pants and a series
of gentle taps on my testicles. My first thought was
that I may have sprained a muscle while lengthening
with penis weights, but the second wave hit with
striking force pulling me by the hips. Now I’m not
sure if it was my condition or if I was just ‘going
with it’ but as I was being pulled in circles around
the auditorium I began to yell, “Pumpy has arrived,
get off my funk and watch me drive”. The crowd
dispersed before I could contain myself. It felt good,
I knew that, but I wasn’t sure how this was going to
work within the context of my everyday life. The next
episode caught me off guard, as I was online at the
bank. This was also when I discovered that the
wandering hip had feelings. I soft surge had moved
through my midsection and my hip began to thrust in a
counter clockwise rotation. Some of the customers that
were on line with me began to gawk at my tender
gyrating hips. Inside I felt sexier than a poodle but
it was clear that I was offending others. A tall
slender white man sidled up next to me and told me in
a soft breathy hushed voice that “I would stop all
that hip **** of I was you. I’m getting angry”. Much
to the slender white man’s dismay my now frantic hips
were lashing out at him, pulverizing blows sent the
slender man barreling into the apple juice display at
the end of aisle two. I combed my mustache and fled
the scene.
Word of my hip’s mischief had spread through town
faster than I would have hoped for. Over the next week
or so I received a fair deal of press, both radio and
television. Fame was kicking down my door and I was
all too happy to thrive in its frivolous hype. I took
things up a notch and began speaking at universities
all across the Southwest, was my celebratory status
was reaching unfathomable heights. James Brown was
contacting my agent on a daily basis begging for
lessons in what he called the “Hippy Soul Trot”.
George W Bush even name checked me in his State of the
Union address as he pumped his hips towards the right
side of the assembly with every shot he took against
the left. The ‘Lester Sinclair Hula Hoop’ hit the
shops just before Christmas, many retail analysts were
claiming this holiday season was all about the‘Lester
Mania’. Tyko reported all time lows in revenue,
causing them to slash 2,600 jobs. Things were getting
out of hand.
I took a well-needed break from my publicity tour and
decided that a few days at home would help ease the
unexpected stress of being famous. It wasn’t until
Thursday morning that I had realized that 4 days had
passed without as much as a twitch in my hip. My best
friend Slappy Gooseman became worried; he said he had
never seen me so apathetic and lethargic. In a matter
of weeks I had gone from the hyperbole to the toilet
bowl. I missed the anonymous lifestyle, and most of
all I missed my ‘wandering hip’, who at this point
seemed less than enthused, making only 4 appearances
over the next 7 months. The press no longer had
interest in me. I was even turned away from a
celebrity softball charity game taking place in
Central Park, being passed over for the likes of
Carrot Top and Hulk Hogan.
8 years had passed since my explosion to fame. I
married a girl named Mook from Ecuador and had 3
lovely children, two boys (Hector and Phetus) and an
extremely tiny daughter (Ponch). My hip powers were
all but gone, with only distant memories and a
scrapbook to remind me. I chose to keep my past hidden
from my children, as I wanted to teach them to use
their minds and not their bodies, to be successful.
Later that same year I attended my 25th high school
reunion at the Holiday Inn. As old fiends laughed over
drinks and the women traded stories about their
children, I stood alone. Not a single person had
approached me, let alone a nod or a ‘hey Lester’. It
was then that realized how lucky I was to have such a
loving and caring family. I decided to leave the party
and head home to my wife, the women who loved me for
who I was, Lester Sinclair, not some hot shot hip
thrusting dancing sensation. As I headed across the
dancehall to leave the party, Deelite’s “Groove Is In
The Heart” began to pulse from the speakers. I felt a
warm surge in my thighs, that quickly made its way
through my hips, and like the past 8 years had never
happened my hips were thrown into full throttle, as
the music took over me. I was pumping my hips like a
jackhammer, as a crowd began to circle me. Chants
filled the room “Lester, Lester Lester”. I turned it
up a notch as my hips led me into a dizzying
repertoire of spins and pumpshots. I was on top again
and boy were these dullards lapping it up. From that
moment on I owned that party. The women were winking
as the husbands were sinking in their chairs, Lester
had arrived, and not a minute too soon. The ballroom
doors opened and just as I was spinning my self into a
frantic doublestep pumpshot I saw my three kids
standing there, grinning with pride. I felt a tap on
my shoulder, I turned around to see and saw my wife. I
wasn’t sure if she was upset with me. I stood waiting
for her to speak. She said nothing. The ballroom
lights dimmed just short of complete darkness. The
speakers crackled in anticipation, and like a kick in
the face the thumping bass began to shake the room. My
wife, who up until now had never displayed any signs
of being a dancer, began to gyrate and pump her hips
like she was I, only back in 2003. I met her groove as
we began circling the dancefloor, blowing hipshots at
everyone in our path. The sounds of bones cracking and
femurs crushing sounded like cherubs singing sweet
songs of love. Mook and I collapsed in love before the
mess of casualties. We left the Holiday Inn holding
hands, fleets of ambulances weaving around us, our
children smiling. We had arrived
Abe Lincoln Mania
A modern discourse for bulldog, on what appeared to be
bread, who opened his head and removed his legs and
whistled for Sally instead. A week or so, if ever, and
while be are having such weather, deliver to us, with
good beans and your trust, a dollop of Lester on a
feather. On or about or even a shout, Good God we are
the Long Toes. To which or whatever, forever together,
we seek out the best eskimos. So long and so slender,
some sherbet would be nice, if ever you would, if not
once then please twice, could you milk my tomatoes or
sprinkle my anger, alone sat young Paulie in a large
aeroplane hanger. Engines for arms with and his
Aeroplane scream, he hung from the roof like William
Obscene
In Love with a Bishop
Without you I am me, only in a tree,
Free as a junkyard gorilla, curling vegetables between
his toes
This is how we feel, do not question it
Without you I am no one, only having fun
Like the wolf who just rationed off the last of his
home fries
Summer fun in the sun, only we can understand
Without you I can feel, only with my legs
Much like the fleeting canoes who left you stranded
This is our word, please don’t misconstrue our angle
Without you I can feel you, only delicious
Like a tall lobster pushing his love all around
We pretend this isn’t happening, please let us believe
Without you I am a dog, only with fever
Much like the truck you parked on my face
We can embrace this, please don’t stand in our way
Without you I can sleep, only it hurts
Like the smell you drop when you say hello
We like this all the same, please don’t ask for
donations
Without you I can sulk, only I laugh
Like a cool glass of milk, just before you collapse
Our word is our prayer, kindly remove your pants
Without I am dead, only happy on a bed
Delivering the curly logic of Clempt
Resisting all fear, please rise with us
Larry
I pushed open my head and pulled out a blanket and
rested my head under the shady birch tree and thought
about my dilemma. My thoughts slipped into dream and
my legs became rigatoni. A small girl, named Lois gave
me a root beer and told me that we would be Okay as
long as we kept our spirits high and drank plenty of
soda. I stepped out into a field with muted barns and
what appeared to be a slim moose. Jelly rabbits were
glazing the dirt road with their bellies as a trio of
heckling farm roosters lapped up the sugary
thoroughfare with an obvious sense of making it. The
trees were whistling symphonies of despair and the
cowgirl cried in the distance Oh dear this and that,
I have lost my Chinese cat.
Top 5 Ways to Have Yourself Removed From a Party
1. Stir your Vodka and Tonic with your penis. When
finished dry you penis on the arm of the sofa.
2. Place the host's dog atop the grandfather clock and
then sing the Russian National Anthem in Yiddish.
3. Let it be known to all that you are not feeling
well, then proceed to shit in the fish tank,
casually, as if you normally do this.
4. Respond to every question with "I'm sorry, I left
my plums in the shed, I'll be right back" then just
stand there whistling
5. Tell the hostess that cocktails franks "are for
fascist idiots" before toppling the tray
Habba
Old Man Custard pulled his lips over his head and made
a beeline for the taco stand where he stood on some
tacos until Lady Maroo screamed bloody murder, at
which point she sucked the flattened taco from the
sole of Old Man Custard's Buster Brown shoes and
crawled back into the tree where she made tea for the
owls who flew backwards.
Foiled in bronze, Klaus stepped off the elevator and
continued to elevate, which clearly bothered Miss
Tetley, as she booed in dismissal, as if to say 'stop
flying you Kurd, I'm hungry as well, but you won't
catch me pissing in the broccoli'. Klaus smiled and
released a soft fart that whispered hello, only
goodbye is what he meant to say, so he reached inside
his thigh and removed a turkey voucher and floated it
below to Miss Tetley, who at this point had forgotten
about what she had just witnessed, as she seemed busy
trying to teach her ankles French
Vintage Bob
Vintage Bob peeled back his thighs and pulled out
Wednesday. He stepped into Wednesday, forgetting to
tell Tuesday of his plans. When Wednesday clashed with
Tuesday a cold slide of octopus tentacles rushed from
his ears, pushing back the release date of Jethro
Tull's "Symphonies for Small Boys in Detroit". Local
news authorities are predicting a very small Thursday,
with a 60% chance of Friday not happening at all. Don
Knotts was arrested for Public Display of Abstract
Lunch without a city permit.
Some things To Consider Before You Urinate on Dad
1. snouty hamper dragons
2. egg dilemmas
3. tweed lobsters
4. handsome carpets
5. sneaky gerald equations
6. ill-advised lunch revivals
7. pickled air
8. intercepted transmissions from lonely doormats
9. relentless library meal-carts
10. disheartened toyota proteges
11. barnacle pollution therapy
12. buick trousers
13. gravy harrassment
14. angular onion parachutes
15. diproportionate larry rations
16. wilting bologna extensions
17. drive thru hardware stores selling loose meats
18. lonely sofa entrenchments
19. lippy horse pockets
20. undigested leotard fruitions
21. vagina protocol variances
22. gloody knee comparisons
23. mulched rangina tarts
24. a resolution in the parp frozzle crisis
25. milk substitutions in the form of genocide
26. fanatical umbrella repetoires
27. rabid horse trunk inclusions
28. unenthused turkeys
29. german gentilness
30. persuasive hamhock virus
30. pensive milk delays
31. traffic due to small genital backlash
32. overdue porkshed cable networks
33. platypus hype
34. norty salad reclassifications
35. hybrid lucille carts
31. octopus synergy malfunctions
32. horse fractals upon arrival
33. return unused portions to china for refund
34. lethargic pizza practicalities
35. insipid butt virus 36. electric lunch
37. fresh born baby legs $1.99 a pound
38. rectal lester squats
39. neglected garlic contracts
40. tuna fish truck licenses
41. the Henderson dance squad
42. hyper scarf crisis
43. flangoney mulk situations evolving into Sunday
44. pumpy stillness
45. irregular lamb shoes
46. sensitive beef appraisals limiting dutch bubble
practices
47. gentle waves of wolves cascading over our genitals
48. hark the herald Larry screams
49. lucid raisin defense
50. tickle pickle bon voyage t-shirts
51. the bureau of rectal collitis serenades
52. Prickly delusions in Polish romance
53. warm choruses of silk battery neglegence
54. Greek knee therapy for lonely ballerinas
55. Francis sneakers
55. Illogical shifts in nanny pumps
56. Porkchester Farms County Intelliegence Center for
the Retarded
57. Viscious Jews without bread
58. Guacomole displacement due to coding errors
59. flesh mulch depositories
60. Hectic electric vagina escapades
Love Is In Bloom
You took me by surprise
Like a Japanese Winter
I peeled back your eyes
And chewed out the center
The Egg Rat
I was the Egg Rat, and yes my head was fat, from those
who pushed eggs up my ass. Now I am Egg Rat, and yes I
feel fat, as you other rats pass me by, all thin and
vain. Now I feel sad, as you mock me and make me feel
bad. Like an Egg Rat, the only one who can be called
that. Soft boiled, God forbid, No you push them up
there hard. Now my head is fat, like an egg, so you
call me Egg Rat, and I was never fat, until now, and
my head is like one of a cow, so sad, as a rat I
should be small, not tall, and living in a wall, but
alas I am Egg Rat, the rat who walks alone, sad, and
always feeling bad. She was Miss Egg Rat, and indeed
she was fat, like me, only free, as she never looked
back, Miss Egg Rat. So we got fat, together, as they
pushed eggs up our legs. We felt that, as we were
rats, not egg cartons, but hey, today we are the Egg
Rats, now we feed cats, to make them fast, and hungry,
so they eat rats, but not Egg Rats, but the rats who
made us fat and made us Egg Rats. We were rats, and
yes we were fat, but now the Egg Rats are the only
rats, and fat is the norm
Flounder Creek
Harry stood up and said "Yahtzee love I", I told
Harry to turn around and talk forwards. Such strange
people I thought to myself. Flounder Creek was
something of an enigma. The town was populated mostly
by eccentric single adults, not a family for miles,
nor a decent thought to be spoken of. Marge Thunders
was the closest thing we had to normalcy, which says
an awful lot about Flounder Creek, seeing as Marge
owned a bait and tackle shop, with the closest body of
water being Lake Michigan, which was 652 miles to the
North. Marge was Mayor of Flounder Creek.
Syd Baker stood waiting for a bus. The bus never came.
I suggested to Syd that he'd have a better chance of
catching a bus if he would step out of his linen
closet. Syd didn't agree and insisted that most bus
drivers were smart enough to check the linen closets
for passengers. Syd was a classic Flounder Creeker,
irrational and always thinking sideways. Don Apples
was Syd's best friend as well as his business partner.
They held a shop on the outskirts of town selling
refurbished terry cloth robes and lawn seed. Business
had been slow ever since Barry Sockwaters opened up a
shop in the town center selling refurbished terry
cloth robes, lawn seed, and powdered milk. Business
was cut throat in the Creek, and only the strong
survived.
For all the inanity of this town there was something
rather comforting about it. Somehow I didn't mind the
things that would have otherwise drove me into a fit
of anger when I was living in New York. I didn't care
that Mr Zelbertson watered his car and planted exhaust
pipes, or how Mrs Delila sang Polish love songs to the
flowers in her garden. Even the way Father Louie held
mass in the produce aisle seemed fun. Friendliness
took a backseat to logic in Flounder Creek, and
nothing exemplified this better than how this Stop
signs read "Hello". Life was precious and by God the
Creek people knew it better than anyone else
Aunt Potsy-No Potato Drama
"This is an outrage" cried my Aunt Potsy, "And now they want to take away my potatoes....all of them!!". I tried explaining to Aunty that she was having another episode, only she was so caught up in what she thought was her darkest day that I couldn't bear to see her face when I told her that she in fact had no potatoes.
Dad Tries Again
This was a difficult year for my mother, as Dad quit his job to become a fulltime soil engineer, which between us, isn't really a recognized career. Dad would spend his days pouring Kool-Aid over the dirt in the yard, waiting, waiting for what is what he would not tell us. At times I wondered if there was any correlation between Dad's new job and the dark forest that was protruding from my skull. Other times I would believe that our conditions were predetermined by a higher power who has yet to deliver his message, as he waited for us to put together the clues, only Dad and I were the furthest thing from being inquisitive. One summer dad and I counted the blades of grass in our yard in an effort to reduce public sin. Dad gave the orders and I as ever followed, not even contemplating the fruitlessness of this task. Dad fell into a deep depression when the deed was done and he still found people sinning on the streets. Mom, at this time, was growing a mustache so that she could receive coupons and discounts at the Tom Sellock GroceryMart, where all patrons, if donning a mustache at least one inch thick, would be privileged with low price selections from the Tom Sellock food line, which included Mom's favorite, Sellock Succotash.
And God arrived (strapped to a mule) !
When I was a small boy my father squeezed my head so hard that I became an otter, only they don't give otters drivers licenses so I peeled off my face and lined it with turkey skin, thinking this would solve my problem, but as it so happens they don't give turkeys driver licenses either, which is why I'm wearing this trench coat today. I hope you like me.
Smell It to the Judge
"A maniac in love is like a pool on fire, reversed in language through optical nausea, its best left to the Dutch", she probed. The jury stood silent contemplating her rationale, calculating the twists and turns of her abstract tongue. "Fear is the smell of sparrows scraping at you tonsils, and while the rest of the World cowers in fear, it is I who pushes forward like a rook too warm in a battlefield of confusion. God will have his day, and to this notion I rub the lotion of wizardry, deep into my soul, styled to a hectic primrose sniffed on a prairie, too hot for love, to bald to be hairy".
Court assembled the following morning. The prosecuting team returned with a new strategy, bringing in a radical lawyer from Mississippi, Jog Pamma, a specialist in dealing with hard-to-manage defendants, to level the field of communication. Pamma approached the defendant. "Mrs. Yolk, could it be said, be it brown or divine, that mushrooms are antelopes wrapped up in twine?” Mrs. Yolk, taken back by the words of her kind, retorted with controlled hysteria "I see your plums, and I know you game, yet it is I who is you, and you who is he, he being the bagel that sits in the bin, too hard to be eaten, to cruel to ever win. I adore your integrity, but you're playing the fool".
Macaroni Lover
You slipped out of my nose into my spaghetti, and how cute I found you to be, getting tangled in the noodles as you laughed hysterically. I picked you up and gave you a kiss and pushed you back up my nose. I love you
Erotic, Erotic, plant your eggs all over my body
The chemicals of trust sniff tiny potatoes, please, and then nothing, it seemed. Gosh, and how I'm so perfectly rinsed in olives, I pondered, vexed pink. Each direction failed my test, with a left positively deranging any chance for ballerina fashion, albeit none of your business, through an antelope corridor she Tipp toed like a duck, hardly. Consider less what means most to the smart camels, he laughed, and how curious these words set him free, stubbornly.
School Days
Old schoolhouse I recall you clear
Bloody knees, on cruel afternoons
Kickball wisdom, a touch of fear
Automatic double, the violin girl swoons
Fastest kid, once I was ever
New boy Jeff changed that all in 83'
Relay race, large breasted Heather
In 84' I ceased to be
Time Bent Through a Tuna Casserole
Dr. Gumbo illustrates his theory by using his own personal experience as the "Model for Unfound Goodness and Subsequent Sadness". As a young man Dr. Gumbo had lost his dog while walking him just around midnight. Through extensive research and scrutinization over the sequence of events he has discovered that his dog had in fact gone to the Bank that evening to take out his life savings and catch a train to Detroit, where he would later became a Crash Test Conductor for General Motors. At this time Dr. Gumbo was operating under the notion that the day was 24 hours, conditioned by society and several Timex watches. Dogs, as you may already know, do not follow, or even understand the logic of time, which is evident in their desire to sniff shoes and ass. It seems there may be a kink or two in the Dr's theory, though I remain hopeful.
While I was immediately sold on Dr Gumbo's theory (kinks aside), I was not convinced that his theory had become widely accepted as he suggested. I never really understood how it was that he considered himself a Philanthropist, as further investigation revealed he hadn't left his house between the ages of 7 and 68. I felt it was in my best interest to hold off on my plans to investigate the disappearing salami and provolone sandwich that went missing while I was sleeping on a turtle the night of February 7th 2003
Two weeks later I received a phone call from FBI field agent Kenny Elopofinulee, asking me if I knew the whereabouts of Dr.Gumbo, and if he mentioned any plans to go to London. I told him that "No, I don't even know if Dr. Gumbo has had his lunch yet, it's rather early". Agent Elopofinulee asked me if I had been using any illegal narcotics "No, and I'm not even sure if I'm ready to answer any more questions until I speak to my gardener", at which point he hung of the phone. I placed the phone down on the receiver and turned on the television to document channel 4's news coverage, something I had been doing since I came down with Tuberculosis yesterday. Anchorman Todd Blouter interrupted the commercial break with Urgent News Flash that Big Ben, the very large clock in England, had gone missing sometime after midnight, and that police had very little go on. I noted the report in my journal then poured myself a glass of Penicillin.
The doorbell rang and I opened the door and saw four very small mules waiting impatiently, as if the ten seconds it took me to get to the door was something of an inconvenience. I asked the tallest of the very small mules if he was looking for someone, or perhaps if he has got the wrong address, as I haven't ordered any small mules since I came down with Pneumonia last Wednesday. The mule asked me if he could come in. I told him that would be fine, and asked if the other mules intended to come in too. He nodded and then climbed over my shoe and headed directly towards my bedroom. The other mules waited by the fireplace quietly, as I followed the tallest mule into my bedroom where I found him disconnecting my alarm clock with a puny butcher knife. I thought it would best to let him finish, as I know how testy these small mules can get when you distract them from what they are doing (something I learned last Wednesday during my bout of pneumonia). When the mule was through with disconnecting my clock I asked him why he was doing this. The elder mule nodded and headed for the kitchen where he finished my cup of penicillin before walking out the front door with his fellow mules following in single file. I took a nap next to the refrigerator.
Later that evening I got another call from Agent Elopofinulee, asking me if it would be okay if he checked my cupboards for any small mules. I was hesitant to say yes, but since the mules had been gone for 4 hours now, I told him it would be okay. Two hours later Agent Elopofinulee knocked on my door. I was quite surprised to see that he was an octopus. I thought this was unusual, as the last FBI agent that visited me during my Mononucleosis bout was a lobster. I felt I was in no position to question his credentials, so I invited him in. When I closed the door I turned around and Agent Elopofinulee was nowhere to be seen. I called out to him "Agent Elopofinulee, oh Agent Elopofinulee, where are you?” He did not respond, so I called my Uncle Oyt to ask what he would do in a situation like this. Uncle Oyt told me to put all of my clocks in the oven and to open all of the windows in the house until he called back with more information. I hung up the phone and noticed that my bedroom wall was covered from floor to ceiling with a variety of clocks. I thought to myself that there was no way I was going to fit all of these clocks in my oven. I quickly ran to the phone to call my Uncle again. When Uncle Oyt answered the phone he said "Welcome to McDonalds, may I have your pants please". I took off my pants and soon realized that Uncle Oyt would have to come over and collect them from me. Knowing that his condition prevented him from driving, and that 6 miles was a long walk when you have a nephew with ears, I decided that it would be best if I buried the phone below the oak tree, so that my Uncle would not feel rejected. I thought about Burt Reynolds for a few moments then went to sleep in the sink.
Agent Elopofinulee tapped on my nose with his tentacle, standing above me in the sink with his gun aimed directly at my face. I knew something was wrong because his shirt buttons were lopsided; the top button clung to the second button hole. I asked him if we would like some waffles. He responded with a swift smack across my chin. I cried for a few minutes then proceeded to make the waffles. As I reached for the maple syrup he lashed at me again, this time using all eight tentacles, which sent me flying through the window and straight into my neighbor Sally Pugg's bedroom. Oddly enough Dr. Gumbo was there in her bedroom making wonderful wool lasagna. They asked me to join them, to which I obliged. Dr. Gumbo assured me that things were going to make a turn for the good. He asked me to follow him into the cellar, so I did. Much to my dismay, and confusion, the basement staircase lead us to London. I knew this could not be possible, simply because London was 5 hours ahead of us and it was clearly morning time. Dr. Brown told me that his "Model For Unfound Goodness and Subsequent Sadness" theory had a few kinks, and that Big Ben was it fact responsible for his missing dog. I told him that this was absurd, that Big Ben was nothing more than an unusually large clock, and there was no way that he was going to get another lunch out of me (Dr Brown required a free lunch each visit, for his troubles). Dr. Brown looked at me with great disappointment then faced their staircase and called out to Sally "Sally dear, give me a holler when the lasagna is ready would'ja love". It was at this point that I realized that Dr. Brown was a fraud, and I a fool. I left the Sally's in a hurry and rushed inside my house. Agent Elopofinulee was still there, and still very much an octopus. He told me that he would not be returning, and that while I was still in grave danger, that he felt I was strong enough to get through it. He left a few hours later, and it was at this point that I began feeling the early stage symptoms of Spinal Meningitis. I crawled back up in the sink and took a long nap.
I awoke to the sound of my mother calling me "Reggie...Reggie...where the hell are ya kid. Mr. Belevedo called. He said you skipped school again today". "I'm up here ma. I don't feel good". You better pray to God that you're sick. If I find out that you've gone and done one of your crazy episodes again I think I'll kick you in the pants so hard that you'll cry in Japanese". I walked over to my mother and told her that "I washed my wide legs in German potions of inconsequential spider lethargy", which doesn't really make sense unless you're perched upon a hot salad machine, you see. Mom had a great way of showing love, even when she was mad. We turned on the TV and ate jelly covered frogs and talked about all the wonderful illnesses that have plagued us this year. My mother was my best friend.
"Ma"
"yes Reggie"
"Can you tell me a funny story before we go to bed"
"Sure sweety. Let me go get my canoe. I'll be right back. Get under the covers"
Mom returned with her canoe and placed it next to my bed. I told Mom that I loved her. She smiled and began her story.
One man's lunch is another man's disaster, which only makes sense when you consider how lonely we become when lobsters stop swimming and start playing the violin as though Burt Reynolds was there, in his underwear curling Eskimos between his toes, never once losing the connection between hot virus and Curly Lester.
I took out my canoe from the shed, layed down inside and drifted out into the canal. The swell of the water put me fast asleep as I dreamt of fruity rivers of lactate depositories filled with charming soft ballerinas bouncing on tangerine marshes. Silver wet flies buzzing through the meadows filling the air with sounds of cheer, as Lucy and I held hands, skipping through the grass with laughter, vowing to our vision, curiously testing the limits of our lunacy. A smart horse galloped passed us in the fields of wheat, giving us the nod of arrival
Robotic Sofa - A Fleeting Bout of Good Trauma
His nose was a prison for well-behaved children, a far cry from wisdom, or it would be Yoma, the not-so kind aroma who said it would be best if we could all let it rest. Gee, all of this and a $10.00 allowance, such boys should not live so well, with a nose full of do-goods with "too good" printed on smiles, and a child to house them up noses of sin, as gin pours down drains of winos in pain, a shame, but who cares when your nose is a prison and your prison is on fire, boiling do-good children, this is all that I desire
Sample- Disco Yahtzee (UnderGod Movement in Dance)
Fizzed up on nitrate and Robitussin extract, the Cons and the Small Bishops put aside the war and got down with a Disco Yahtzee Empire. Comedy bubbled from the tricked-out cocktails, sliced up for pneumonic fever, puddled yomma built erotic, hence dew-eyed rabbits fixed to the seats, it kicked off proper like a soft helicopter sitting on a snowflake. "All of these things", he whimpered, "break my eyes with bombs". †
P-O-C-K-E-T-S
A virus dropped from the cloud of which I stood under.
I caught the virus and placed it in my small subpocket
of the pocket of my Levi's, which was essentially a
large pocket, it a
Harnk
08-03-2006, 10:20 AM
P-O-C-K-E-T-S
A virus dropped from the cloud of which I stood under.
I caught the virus and placed it in my small subpocket
of the pocket of my Levi's, which was essentially a
large pocket, it also covered my penis from public
ridicule, but essentially it was a $47.00 pocket for
all intent and purpose. I was a pocket man, and Lady
Maroo knew this before she decided to form a courtship
with me. I was open to her being in my life, and I did
note from the very start that my first priority will
be, and always be, my pockets.
Our love grew from mild amusement to a hostile romance
in a matter of weeks. In the meantime I was busy
working on a new type of pocket that would allow me to
pocket my pockets within this pocket. The project came
to a screeching halt when I realized that although
this pocket would pocket my other pockets, I would
indeed need a pocket to pocket the pocket that
pocketed my other pockets. Six weeks later I was
toppled in confusion over my ever-growing pocket
dilemma. I couldn't stop myself from creating that
next pocket. Madness ensued and Lady Maroo left me for
another man, a rope collector, who she claimed had
more passion and integrity that a 'narrow-minded
pocket obsessive', which as you could imagine hurt,
but it did not prevent me from my work.
I called my friend Wence, who had a passing interest
in pocketry, and while I did appreciated his musings
in the past I did not trust him as much as I needed
to, but I was desperate this time so I called. Wence
said he had some brave ideas that would revolutionize
the pocket industry. I told him I was eager to hear
what he had to say and that I would make a meatloaf.
Wence arrived at 5 on the button, armed with his bib
that was custom designed with 11 pockets, 7 on the
front and 4 backups on the reverse. Part of me was
envious of Wence's part-time status as a Pocketician,
as he seemed to float through life with semi-curious
grin, a grin that screamed "God I fucking love
pockets, but I can also dance like nobody's business",
which made me feel like he was having his cake and
eating it to, even though I never really understood
that expression, after all, if you had a cake why in
the name of pockets would you not eat it.
Wence devoured the meatloaf and suggested we remove
our pants before we discussed his ideas. I obliged,
regretfully, as Wence unleashed an odor so ungodly
that with each ripple of fat unfolded came a
phosphorous cloud of stink that could make all of the
World's birds drop from the sky. Wence starred at me
until it made me uncomfortable. I asked him what was
on his mind and he simply stated that he wanted me to
take a good look at him. I saw a very fat man with a
dirty bib and a serious gas problem. Wence smiled. I
curled my brow and questioned his intent. "Look at me
Oyt, take a good hard look at me and tell me what
you see'". I told him I saw a man who seemed rather
content, even though he was without a comfortable
assortment of pockets. Wence bellowed out a deep
German laugh and said "exactly, you see a happy man
free from the burden of a fruitless pocket obsession".
I remember thinking to myself that yes, he has got a
good point there, and that never did I find any joy
through my tireless search for the better pocket
system.
That next day I returned to my life, the way it was
before I became America's number one Pocketician. I
laughed at the notion that I once cared not about the
fact that there was no number 2 Pocketician in
America, and that I was fighting for a cause that was
only recognized my myself, and that somehow Wence was
someone just dabbling in the scene for women. I
returned to a life where love and friendship was what
really mattered. Lady Maroo agreed to see me again,
which was great because I thought she would be a great
partner, and that she would help me get back to my
first love. Wallets.
Beef Cloud Nose Pinch- A Colonial Salute
George,
The tides of your gas weaken me to the point of nausea, yet I embrace the breeze which carries it so well from your pants. Each way of me whimpers in your soiled dust, bowing to your throne, desperately seeking the glow of you kindness, my Georgey. Your stench fuels the engine that revs deep in my loins, viciously parading in my nose with complete conviction. Milky fires cast a aura of curry beneath my robe, and how you mock me, casually pushing out delicate winds of sweet pungent glory, as if to say "Peasant, my casual gas rains hell upon your best storm". I pray before thee with open wounds and inferior wisdom. Allow me, my King, one close whiff of your majestic derričre. One cheek-squeezed huff to take me out blissfully into eternal sleep. One damp nugget of greatness to calm the boils of my blood. One last gust of exuberant supremacy to keep you in my heart forever.
Yours graciously and eternally,
Martha
Heart Kebabs
excerpts from a love letter Abe Lincoln sent to a girl named Bloyt from Kentucky
We got together, and precious. It was all about, and I called it love. Buried in sweaters, the bite of Winter, and that train station, quaint. I smelled the rabbits, all together and blue skies. And eyes, emeralds, the scarf, winded in tassels. Undone over and never repeated, you were the fun that burned wet through my ears. Harlots and orchids, cafes in the alley, and a mindful of memories, your still heart, my tears, a banana tree and sand
Headlog Updo For Pneumonia Mania
As a reaction against the discriminating coupon section, and other seemingly blatant strikes against my advancement as a Hopscotch Wizard, I began peeling back the bark of my apple tree. Some people would call this pneumonia. I called it Bob Dylan, as you would imagine, healdlogged for radical updo formulas present under pizza catalogue requests. So here it is, and there I am, swamped in a confusion sponsored by Hasbro, for reasons that still remain to be seen, albeit that I'm ridiculous for hotdogs, subsequently belched up sideways in God's realm, proper. If this was a algorithm to mark my disabilities, and to further deteriorate what was set to be the bravest path towards an avocado-free State, then it would stand to reason that both Snoy and Thomoose are treading in the backwaters of my integrity, plotting undone aromas formulated to bleach the minds of my friends and enemies alike, pardoned in the wake of gas plumes bubbled under hot corduroys, I sat soiled and content. This wasn't a dream. This was Headlog Updo For Phneumonia Mania in full effect.
Byrthed Erotic For Heart Attack Bob
Just beyond the hills somewhere between her heart and a can of hammock seeds, she guarded soft spleens for erotica franchise. All this and a Queen, splayed open and obscene - the good smell of home. Henry was beautiful. Like a nocturnal Sun, he curled it upright for panoramic ogling as though Byrle, the Ambassador of Amish Armoire's, never bathed at all. Noticing the parade of crabs gathering at her ankles and that his face was paved in cornflake mosaic, it was suggested that they not join the others. "Spread your legs, and wings to the wiser, and knock down the castle that locks up the Kaiser", to a empty jar of spiders she shouted, unsure if the jar was missing spiders or simply a jar not meant for spiders, she sat vexed ridiculous. By design she assembled a fleet of disenchanted commuters to offset the motorcade of mechanical bulls that she felt threatened her stability, if not the survival of all those who opted for the Kosher meal on chartered flights to New Zealand, or even Brazil
Frantic Nausea
A face spilled over my plate and left through the pencil that opened the garage door into a field of balloons under the Sun that was over the sky below the weather he sat thinking of his life with no lies that would lie in piles of garbage that filled up his closets with gardens of words that left through the yoghurt under the table where everyone laughed at the giraffe with the apple that shined like a glove singing truckstop bravado where men ate hotdogs and dogs ran circles that circled the hotdogs that sat in the pockets of denim potatoes on plates of spilled faces where pencils loitered over the table where parties of giraffes sat under the raisins that once were grapes that begged to be jelly with Jesus for lanterns that lit up the hallways between the darkness and the clouds that pretended to rain on the soil that flew like an aeroplane driving on boulevards through the overalls of farmers sat on the hoods of American pickups with German hubcaps that never said hello when the corn said goodnight
Puce Broyd Nonza
Mechanical barnacles bleed nautical spoils that violate fish and leave them to boil. The soil birthed earth under the smile of Mars, with wars fronting, perched ready for punting, sat Max, the last of the Wons. Too strange to notice, the satirical walrus, who mocked every turn of the page. He blessed his best and left for West, where panthers and robins engage. I sent her my love in a basket of Dutch, in turn she shat in my cage. Today, I will rest in the begonias and ponder the joy of pneumonia
Minds of Me (An Apology to What)
A stranger's mind passed through mine on a stroll through Panther's Lime. Fractured patterns of cryptic prose coded in algebra, then further disguised with optical rye, on a horrible day for us. It was a letter she sent, meant for Kogg Panda, and the words so familiar, I was certain something was askew. Her script was a treat, curled sweetly in Qs, even on a G, with a pulse of its own, almost. And pages of mentions, with no mention of I, though each mention bathed in a lie, just out of reach of my comprehension. And so blurred lines, cleared of my history, thoughts placed beneath one another, living in time, as equals, I found space in time, and reversed it to gather some love. Her scent, something similar to a pear wrench, was intricate, passing through stages of beautiful aroma. I found it hard to read her, much like a TV manual-with not so much as a welcome before the analysis, hence the lethargy and smugness, I instead allowed for a state of nothing. I later placed the letter in between a box of Kosher salt and a jar of paprika, to keep any rational developments from emerging, which is why I would later remove the letter and mail it to myself. I did this 9 times. I liked it, I thought, and wow so deliciously unexpected that I almost rejected any plans to break the pattern. I was touched by my own sanity, so much that I began writing accpetance speechs for many glamorous awards, which I began mailing to myself bi weekly, spaced so that each day I would be summoned to appear before an astute and otherwise dull audience, to pontificate upon myself, the great geometry of my memoirs, which were thoughts, even daydreams, not a single one true to what I lived. To have memories of thought and not of the living, it allowed for me to live outside of myself, in many places and minds-to this I sadly regret. Kogg Panda, you see, was me, and she, the one who wrote the letter, was I, so you see. I'm much more than my mind. I am my all, with a blade of arrogance to feather off any notion of humility, thus you, the reader of my past, and again me, you are.
I often find it hard so express myself when everyone I know is me. In time I will find, that it is indeed I, Oyt Lethargene, Cosmic Tongue Spy for International Robotics Commitee, who is steering this big planet towards something more true. A world of worlds living softly within each of us, spanning endlessly through a void of proverbial lunacy.
I regretfully deny this award of achievement today, ladies and gentlemen. As I am a fraud, a callous monster with a penchance for deception. It would be wrong that I walk home tonight a winner of this prestigious acknowledgment. I know others are more worthy of such merit. You see, it was never my intention to share my work. I knew all along that it would one day catch up with me, this lie. That I was passing forth the great words of Kogg Panda, as those of my own, I would do this as Kogg suffered in silence. Most literally I may add, as he hasn't uttered a peep since I fed him a can of pond nutrients last autumn. The poor man couldn' stop me if I tried. So my people, as you sit here before me. Let it be known that Kogg Panda is your man. He is the one that should be standing here. Not I. So with that, I say goodnight and beg for your pardon. Goodnight.
Abe Lincoln Envy
I've been sat thinking about the face of Abe Lincoln
A microscopic mustache and a beard of precision
A curious grin that was neither here or there
A big fucking tophat and long john underwear
If I was Abe Lincoln I would have done it right
A handlebar mustache waxed curly and so tight
Now his face is on a penny and a five dollar bill
And my envy turned to madness so I set out for the kill
Never one for the theatre, I never saw the fun
So I stood behind the curtain with my favorite little gun
He called out for an encore and I shot him in the head
I killed Abe Lincoln then I went home to bed
Flight of The Celestial Bee
Kites spring to mind, so kind in the belly, we suffer each turn of the style
Bull wigs of horror swing through the parlor, court jesters and cherubs align
Breeze through the weeds, brick birds drop a tweet, in tumble we fall to the sky
Pig stains and bullets fill hearts up with mucus, she pardoned herself to the night
In bloom too soon she stood to the moon and swooned to celestial chimes
Through trees and knees of small Japanese, this night was Clempt O' Devine
Case Study- Domestic Challenges in Parenting
"Gosh, you've really done it this time haven't you dad. Now all of the flowers will need adjustments"
"Don, your mother and I think it's time you've gone out on your own"
'And just who do you think is going to tend to the lamps, Dad!"
"We have on lamp, Donny. And to honest, we stopped using it after you set it up in the garden, along with your milk catalogs"
"That's just like you, Dad. You never appreciated my work"
"Donny, you're 46 years old. You haven't worked since they fired you from your paper route for inserting milk catalogs and your ridiculous Socialist Algorithm Identification formulas. Beyond that, you've managed to burn through our entire retirement fund buying disinfectants and hair brushes. You don't even have hair."
"Well, maybe you and Mom could move in with the Hectors, they seem to like your kind"
"The Hectors moved 6 years ago when they caught you dressed in a wet suit shaving their cats"
"Well, I don't suppose you took notice of the catalog garden, and how well it's been maintained since I removed their hair"
" They were house cats, Donny. You had no business breaking into the Hectors home dressed in that ridiculous wet suit and causing harm to their pets. And to honest, the catalog garden. That's what your mother and I are worried about. The garden is filled with catalogs. Mostly milk catalogs. Your dresser drawers are filled with light bulbs and WD40 cans. You've worn nothing but long johns and that bizarre spider man bathing cap. Your sister moved to Montana just so she wouldn't have to endure another hockey puck inspection, which to this day I still can't even comprehend"
"Dad. I love you. Please, please don't do this. My work is all I have"
"I'm sorry Donny. We've made our decision. You need to leave"
"Dad?"
"Yes Donny"
"Let's talk about you for a bit"
"Well, I don't see why that is necessary, but sure. Go ahead I suppose"
"Okay. What about the time you brought home that VCR"
"What about it?"
"Don't you think that was uncalled for?"
"What does that even mean"
"Or what about that time you took us to the Jersey shore then made us swim in that big blue hole"
"That was a pool, Donny"
"Oh. But what about that time you told me that Uncle Frank was a mechanic you could trust?"
"Well, that's true. He's an honest mechanic"
"That may be but he was the one who was responsible for that hammock that's in our yard, that blatantly mocks my garden. I've had to disinfect each of my catalogs with WD40 and light bulb shavings. You think hat's easy"
"No I don't. I also don't think it's easy to mop your dresser drawers with Robitussin every time you see a Doritos commercial. You're ill, Donny. You need professional help"
"Dad, I thought we were talking about you?"
Foyled Acotts for Thomas - Without Children and Beverage
"How truly absurd you must have guessed, that the birds were rather disguised, with feathers of wheat and beaks on their feet, the worst would sleep in your eyes. And just like that you swallowed the fool, with shallots for sighs and hampers for pools. But again, you dropped your panties in the produce aisle, and smiles peered from parsley, and before you could meep, the lines ran the miles, a holiday pleasure in the cold summer street. Ah and ahhhhh, so yes I felt, no. Let me tug your nipples and play in the snow. The moss hung from your trees, and I below, gnashing my teeth like puppies on cheese, I bet you liked Fonzy too"
Taken from the unpublished journal of Alan Alda (post-North American ping pong championship victory)
Wonn Theatre of Acrobat and Lie
I called upon a gentle mind to shake this gorgeous feeling of nausea that sends me anxious and out, evenly. And of course double-stacked geese mock you silently, which seemed to penetrate deeper this way, and you couldn't recall our sillier situation, bar all visits to Uncle Sponn, naturally. So this is now for a bit, and please disregard the neon lights, I'm sorta into Gabge and Wonn, for the time being, it so happens. All for nothing and so what forever they said, and then my allegiance, magnified and peppered with a touch of irony that kept me upper-handed in this Clempt charade. Barricade your monkeys and soil the season, and let if soak in with the guilt of your treason, Ms. Gllarke. I've written your life with my pants.
-Lyndon B. Johnson
Gary & Mom
"Boy you’re a real creep" he mentioned to his mother, as she cautiously placed 7 slices of pot roast on his lap. "It'd be nice if for once you would just think about someone else." The phone rang. He looked to his mother; she shook her head in refusal. He stood up, rather displeased, and walked over to the phone and picked it up. "Hey Dad. No I’m not wearing the pajamas you bought me. Why? Well, Im 42 years old, that’s why. I see. Yes, Ill tell her. Bye Dad." He hung up the phone, turned to his mother with a crooked smile and said "Mom. That was Dad. He bought another parakeet. He also said that he has no foreseeable plans to come back home." The father, who suspiciously refuses to cite his location, even though he now speaks with a near flawless Glaswegian accent, left home 12 years prior in a fit of happiness. Mother, who in turn, as a reaction against his departure, refused to make anything but pot roast ever since. "I bet you feel pretty sad, huh Ma", "Hardly. And what about you? I suspect you will be resort to your typical antics, as you do each time your father calls. So go ahead. You may as well get on with it. Go empty all of the canned goods and play your stupid Frank Zappa records until you cry yourself into an asthma attack. Then you can pick yourself up and go on a drinking binge, calling every damn news broadcasting station in the metropolitan area and moan and groan about the lack of badminton coverage. It doesn’t matter to me anymore, Gary. Ive seen it so many times before." Gary's face twitched and his ears dropped. "Right Ma, and you can spend the next month trying to convince all of our neighbors that Dad is auditioning for the next James Bond film, and that hell be home any day now. Forget the fact that Dad is black and disabled. Dad left each and every person on the block a letter of disgust and bon voyage, feverishly detailing the woes of being married to a short-minded Wal-mart type who foolishly lives inside her head, which happens to be larger than a fucking water moose." Gary adjusted his tapered jeans and walked out of the kitchen mumbling under his breath something about Robert Plant being a phony.
Parsley Scenes from West Germany and Back
Like how Bob raised his neck in curiosity, as does a petunia, you see, tilting for Sun- he uncovered his clothed lap to showcase a spectacle of mice charading as humans, cautiously even perhaps. So I secretly sold my thought, two shillings, for a pocket of raisins, pure sadness, as you would soon gather. I felt courageous and handsome somehow, as I tip-toed around this moment, practically born again, only not really, I thought out of turn like this, quite often to the lime. Oh and how little I took notice of this seemingly charming mouse, acting as though he was a human in queue, at the butcher shop ordering dead animals disguised as an appetizer. Whispers smelling of irony and hot meals all at once touched my spirit, and then it was soon dinner parties with friendly mice, who at times would suddenly seemed tall. Ventures like these, fabulous moments constructed with nonsense, for a nickel's worth of thoughts without the ego, are without price, but so thrive on the loneliest of thoughts.
- Jimmy Carter
Soft Boiled Blister Banquet
Filed under Meuth, this disassembled tale of treason lingers, partly fleshed in a gelatal cartilage too soft to hold a position long enough to fondle ~~ gestures mute for the quiet parade of droids darting through a morning commute, conditioned by the machine. She reached out for a memory that left before her noon, only to graze her Love's decisive collection of words that kept him unemployed, this kept him in a void, 8 words you should avoid. The banquet of God, and these fields of wheat, the crows of your past, perched on lightning poles under low-hung weather passing in reverse over algebraic solutions for humanity, and the subsequent blister that birthed over your eyelid. Your cocktails, my peace, let's keep us in the past
Kosher Vengeance
He commissioned the High Llama to soak his lawn with urine each day as a sign of his betrayal against the city of Quebec. By design he assembled a fleet of disenchanted commuters to offset the mototcade of mechanical bulls that he felt threatened his stability, if not the survival of all those who opted for the Kosher meal on chartered flights to New Zealand, or even Brazil. He wailed bon voyage to the journeyman as they sailed out into the bay, knowing that the Banquet for Meole would likely be jeopardized by the Milk Titan Navy that that lurked in the wake of their departure.
Broken Family Harvest
Todd coiled his slender penis into G-Cleff note as be prepared his Scunguili Opera in reverse to check for any leaky faucets that could otherwise hinder his performance, ultimately leaving him angered in tears over the 'drip drip' noise that reminded him of his 7th birthday party when Auntie Lajoyna pulled out his penis in front of all of his friends and began to fellate him to sounds of Earth Wind and Fire, only done by a tribute band who chose to sing the songs in Japanese sign language, which ruined the party and essentially his life
Stupid Love
Climb your mind, my Dear, and stop the war. I'm a basket full of boulevards steeped in practical situations, cut with a developing sense of wit, bar all that barber shop wisdom that your lover seems to think fits. It's enough that no one cares, still I believe it matters, and I know you do too. Let's not hold back, these consequences built on conspiracy and mood. I'll take you now, here in your nude play. I will lick your lips with the touch of a young boy on a fruit punch holiday, chasing the cute girls in the fields with a promising erection, arriving too soon on a Monday afternoon. I will cut my heart out with a spoon, to kiss you once. I will break my toes one by one, to catch a glimpse of your smile, the one that opens up the breakfast barn that serves your favorite pancakes, the ones that say "fuck you babe, and eat me like a book". You, me and the grass.
Nyroo
Nylon gorillas harbor your soul to keep your God at bay, it seems. Don't hold me in your cup, Moonkiss, you are not the keeper. You are the World. I'm gentle in this charade of harlots and bulls. Apparitions drop in clouds of dust, only to reassemble when you have gone. My only wish is too shave the spiders before your return, as a sign of my deepest love. If October leaves me without you, in you, I will breathe spirals of wine, teaming through your eyes, reminding you in ways too soft to recall, blank in your mind, your tears will drop pieces of what I never gave you. Your fading thoughts of me soak into the soil, sprouting weeds to be pulled on a Saturday chore. When you remember, years on, you will see me in the grass, patterns of blades blowing in curls, lifting the scent of Spring over your cup of tea. I'm not dead. I'm only waiting. I'm not blind, only sleeping. I'm still be here, raking the leaves in your garden, turning the soil of our arboretum.
A weed to stubborn to smile,
Abe Lincoln's Shadow
Perversions of Scott
He leaned in to smell her breath, taking in notes of pears and hostility. He stepped back to calculate his heart, sorting through algebra and discount shoe store pamphlet formulas faster than few could comprehend, and to a much lesser extent, a nutritious breakfast. As she stood there, bare in her curves, smiling in threes, he began to tremble, the spine of his penis nearly breaking skin. His heart faltered in patterns that cracked the mystery of the Golden Equine, crushing theories and arbitracious speculation in equals, and ultimately disrobing the beautiful woman who at once seemed diabolic, yet now a melting flower in his clammy hand. She lifted her dress and guided his hard cock deep inside, whispering in his ear "It was always you"
Cranberry Jerry
A pinch slapped her neck rotten with cranberry hellos. Crimped tight puppy clouds molest a harvest, soiled in shame, he stumbled to her, garbage bin envy. "Honey, such a planky rode to the milk shop, My only smile is that I'm waxed erotic for a fur stroke". Her legs quimbled in a flesh bounce, her lips tipped North, mascara disaster, she waved to the lawn. Sideways always, remember what we said. I'll feed your heart and you'll feed my head.
Joan
She swatted the bees with her teeth, each side of the parlor reflecting what yesterday promised to forget, the inevitable demise of her legend. She gathered her memoirs and a bottle of scotch and sat beneath the bench that her darling Mort made her from the bones of his Great Aunt Neil. Mort is living across-town at a home for small men with big ideas. They make him pudding to keep him from yelling at the grass.
Snouzer Lends Love To a Dying Moose
The creator sent for her return, symphonic echoes from each corner of her mind, he a soft bullet chasing her memories, she a poetic prawn in a sea of bacteria and God. Never did beauty strike with such horror, blood letting falls trickle down paths of opalescent stone, her dress stained in her birth. Quiet departures dropped through her ears, fallen love massaging her breasts. A carriage for her journey merged through her lenses, in with the old out with the flu. She bit into his heart to say goodbye, his blood cold and blessed with a sun-kissed memories of her in her happiest hour. His life, a beat in one thousand pumps of her dying heart.
A Hard Salmon Fuck
Ventrilqui, to be it, offset by the jury of mimes, and such hate can crawl from wooden mouths, each word a dagger, each heart to dust. Her apron, marred in charred phlegm, metropolitan magazine style, hopped-up casually with an amphetamonius rush, clenched for fire, hell-bent for leather, she makes her pastries with revenge, dark magic trickery in spades. Coiled to the 9th face, devastated with lust, he longed for her neck, draped in sheer, perfume hardon for fuck, he imagined, his throbbing decision hung over denim and style, safe. She bent her position to adjust, bracing for a storm, praying for it to soar high and be gone in a flash, leaving behind nothing but damp laundry and a confusion that could help set her free, memories to fade, end scene. Morning sun, regrets pour through the curtains, killing her spirit with a barrage of pharmaceutical reference points, jarring reminders of illusions and fear, she knelt beside her bed, nude, her bare back drenched in cold hate, her heart slow with dissatisfaction, comedy fractured through tragedy
Welcome Home
The apple tree leaned over me and told me you were coming, so I planted my shoes in the garden and made soup for us. Only I can't find my pants, so I left my car keys in the lamp, feeling mediocre in my plastic ribbed canola trousers, not pants. You arrived on a cow, so I welcomed you with corn fritters and a very large television so that you could kiss me all over my chin and tell me that I don't look like Jimmy Carter as much as you originally thought
Hemlock Goatfly
Crowds of people passed in mute commute, phones in ear, manners in pocket, the Sun offering the only sound audible to Alisdaire. A warm buzz fluttered beneath his feet, as he lumbered along the curb, giving way to the quiet madness that seemed to be moving at light speed to his hare stroll. His last breath near the motorway seemed so long ago, his love still warm from his last thought. Echoes fed transmissions through optical moans, balancing words of of sorrow through his eyes, tears dripping words never said, love never paid. Regret it seemed was eternal.
Mom Forgot To Pick Me Up From Soccer Practice
Plastic cloud left me quiet
Synthetic Bob called to me
Hot dog Saturdays in the park
Soccer practice in the dark
Coach left me behind
A man stared at me
Urine soaked my shin guards
Light tower dimmed
Heavy pants yellow hair
Leave me alone
Nomad from Nowhere
He smelled the history of her existence through the folds of her eyelids, coincidentally tracing the labyrinth of her journeys back to his Kool-Aid party where they shared a moment of notable childhood romance, yet fleeting, to which this memory faded without trace, lost in a pocket of forgotten treasures that blanketed the unused sector of her mind. He did not forget however, thus began his pilgrimage to recapture the one who got away.
He packed his suitcase will provisionals: toothpaste, almonds, sarsaparilla sticks, Uno cards, Captain Crunch and olives pits. Over his shoulder his Donny Osmond iron-on side bag slung, filled to the brim with love letters never sent. Below his navel a lavender polyester pouch stitched with spaghetti yarn wrapped his waist, cinching his oval midsection into an hourglass figure, which he felt accentuated his lofty nipples.....................
Lysergic Sequence for Donald
Sleeping yesterday's dream over and over. Clouds
slip through transparent echoes. Discovering shadows
that follow nothing. Dusting off the womb that
birthed her smile.
Alisdaire Dresden
Minds of Wild
Moss grows on the wall
Textile plant exhaustion
Cinnamon sparks a dream
Mom left a boiled chicken on the stove
Dad left 10 years ago
The chicken is still there
Factory sweat drops
A puddle reminds him
A day dies early
No one bothers to complain
My dad was smart
Clock punch blues
Cherubs and Snakes
The snake screams and the strange parade
These things fade
These things become my shadow
My dying day
Echoes of you and the bloom of Spring
These things stay
These things live and breathe
Our Lady Day
Heavenly Tuna
My heart split open, and worms crawled out, shifting in focus and squirming about. When love is a dream and hearts become soil, we open our minds to aluminum foil, and other fashions, of food preservation, yet inside I knew that love was starvation, and you were the fruit of something I dreamt, when onions and umbrellas were letters never sent. Styled in milk, dripping in threes, you came from above, you came from the trees.
Freeway Yogurt
My car door choked on its window so I stepped out of the car, opened the trunk and climbed inside. I waited there, on the damp resonated mat eating acorns and wondering what you were up to. Did you find someone new? Did you run off with the rabbits from Hectors Bay? Did you find a boy who made better pancakes than I? Did you not know how much I loved you? All of these things haunted my soul. You are a penguin. I know this. It does not matter. I do not care. You are my life soul and divinity. Let me feed you acorns and love. Let me rub your belly in the park. Let me be your life.
Candyland
We fell asleep on the marshmallow fields that blurred the lines between thoughts and dreams, and everything in between seemed less than necessary, yet to the contrary, it all seemed wonderful. You were my cherub, my rubbery delight, and I your knight in shining blue laughter.
Rats
Eroding rodents riddled our brains with ridiculous rodents eroding in pain.
Some Sick Fuck Who Needs A Hug
These still pigeons that phenetically microlingualize the void in breet navigation, herein referred to as "Narn Flew Linguistic Trauma in Modern Prose" will challenge us, the free-living and the not-so-proud Oytsmen, to think before we squeak, and to prance before we leap. In traditional vibrato croon, it stands to reason that birds need us just as much as we need them, only less to the point should it be considered that convenience stores should offer oral sex and catfish. To avoid the inevitable regression in nutritional arrogance, and the little birds who speak out of turn, it should be noted then erased, that freedom lives not in your hand, but in your head. Spread your legs, and wings to to the wiser, and build the castle that locks up the Kaiser. No more rolls for your ham, heathen! No more soup in can, Fascist. No more love in a booth, Maggot !
Bible Belt Pamphlet
Blister canyons open wide to birth the boils of our lives, while spiralling spools of woody wounds spill pools of lumber on dewey ruins, that stand and fall and burn and cry, as curious nobodys canter by. Crane your necks and drop your jaws. This is history at your door.
~ Harynke Abarate` Klishmont
Cerebral Methodist of Brike Temple
Tippy Toe Joe
Her breathe suggested fever, while he, clad in spackled mynthe attire, meticulously tuned with French provisions, struck a pose in Laborkian Manotosh that very much resembled her Father's leg. She winked as she pulled her toes to her lips, french inhaling the cigarette smoke, and a few mosquitoes.
Flinstone Erotica
Quarry bandit stone for lunch
Will you feed our child
Disenchanted pinafore
Explosions of the mild
Boulder power lampshade breeze
Holy rolling thunder
Colonial wig chimpanzee
Vulva shining wonder
Hanged
Dripped in blood, hers
He wrote the World a poem
Blackened heart, scared
He kicked the chair over
Bourbon Bob’s Poem
Piano fog whiskey dreams
Life is never what it seems
Nor is it what you feel
Feelings things that are not real
Tinsel Rinsel Fickle Fee
Soft bomb plumes, shattered in tinsel, drenched in hammers, lost behind the wheel. Synthetic apparitions, lives that never came, feelings that died and left, memories all the same.
The Return of Bob
"Wow, I can't believe it. Is that really you, he said, clad in a stiff denim suit. You look great. Gee I never thought I would ever see you again, ya know, they way we left things". Puzzled and equally annoyed, Jane retorted "This is my home, Bob. You know this, and you have been doing this every day since our first date. Our last date! Just how long do you plan to keep this act up, or are you really that fucking crazy?". Bob dropped his head, walked down the front stoop and crouched himself into a little ball of denim and wailed uncontrollably. As much as Jane loathed this man and all of his daily rituals that seemed to involve her, and her alone, she simply could not watch him fall apart like this. She sat down beside him on the bottom step and patted him on the back, thinking to herself that she never felt denim so stiff. "It's Ok, Bob. C'mon. Come inside and I'll make you a sandwich. I've got your favorite. Liverwurst.
Bones Scones and Telephone Envy
He ran his wet tongue slowly between the lids of her eye. She raised her brow in delight, looking up at him she cooed "It's only you and me, Babe". He stroked her hair and replied "Your softness leaves me goosey and kind. How could I live without you in my mind?". She finished the last of her strawberry jam, removing her sticky fingers from the jar, he in smiles, she thirsty for love. They baked under the sun, dropping rhymes upon each other in Delorpian time. They devoured each other's minds, and they're bodies followed in step, intertwined, becoming one. She marvelled in his charming birth, as he removed his arms and planked a path over the puddle so that she could keep her feet warm and dirty. From a distance they seemed at odds with the World. At a closer look they were the World, only doing what they could to keep themselves from rotting inside. Her plucked a daisy with his big toe and feed it to her, tickling her nose with the grippy stem. She sighed in pleasure, making sure he knew just how much she appreciated his touch. She reached out and slid her hand down the front of his terry cloth trousers, squeezing his rigid temper, letting him know that she was there and that their troubles would subside eternally as long as they had each other. His head dropped between her breasts, pulling her so tightly that she became him, and him her, and each hand lost in the switch, a session of masturbatory omlalade ensued, each stroke foreign, yet clean.
Toilet Though 5-24-05
Today the glass is not half empty. It's half full, of venom and cyanide. I equate this to my inability to separate a bad dream from a living reality, even knowing the difference, yet still allowing their collision. Anne McDinny, reporter for WCBS, suggests a complete absence of weather will follow. Please bring your purchases to the cashier before we stick a fleet of red ants up your ass. Have a great Wednesday and remember that Abe Lincoln did not have a mustache
Shut Up Please
The plymouth dragon choked in smiles while miles of birds sang with rice as the sun, it set, and the sky, it met, yet a softness bladed the ribbon that tied the children under the pond. He glazed our souls with a silver fish flange, which separated us from the glistening vermin who sparked blood-curdling yelps from the Valley of Nancy, Summer swelter heaped juice on our mustaches, and eyelashes chirped while elbows burped, albeit Joan Jett, if not Carol Brady bush envy
Unfinished Monkey Business
Jerry perched himself on soiled bag of trousers, anticipating the return of his brother Macky. Nine minutes had passed since they last spoke and he feared for the worst. Meanwhile Macky was in the kitchen fixing himself a bowl of clam chowder. When Macky returned and saw Jerry perched and perspiring, he asked his brother to clean the fence. Jerry smiled and said "Doh' Ok Macky, I'll clean the fence for you. After, can we play I'm a Salad Monster, like we does all the time after I clean the fence". Macky smiled and said "Maybe Jerry. Maybe we can do that. But in the meantime please clean the fence". Macky left Jerry to his work and took a ride to the pharmacist to pick up Jerry's medication and get some Chibby for the Klaus Parade. Night fell and Jerry became frantic, which was not all that uncommon. He always got upset when the sun set. In fact, he would often retreat to the closet where he would rapidly recite John Jacob Inkelheimer Scmidy until his toes cooled off. This became a tiresome activity and often Jerry would fall sleep in the closet with his hands down his pants petting his little boner. Macky knew in his heart that Jerry needed help. Real help. His fear, however, is that the authorties would learn of Jerry's upbringing, which would likely upset the Chibby community, who had been financially supporting the brothers for the past 17 years. Macky, knowing this, began devising a plan to get his life back without upsetting Jerry and the Chibbies. After weeks of preparation………..
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