Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Poetries. You know you like poetries, f***face.

And poetries you shall have........

"You can lead a horse to water,
but if you try to have sex with him,
he will fuck you up"
- Michael Frissore, 03/01/2011

Untitled, or It Smells Like Old People Up In This Muthaf**ka

I have more money than you, he said
I’ve had more money than you, she said.
Once I took an entire steak and just threw it away, he said.
Once, she said, I crashed a Mercedes and just walked away to go buy another one.
Each of them was wearing a blue, sequin suit, performing a puppet show for the elderly with their bare hands.
When the show concluded they each produced a pair of scissors and began snip snipping the clothes of the old people.
An orange-haired woman drank from the glass her teeth sat in.
He made up a dirty limerick about the woman.
They kept making up limericks until the woman cried.
An orderly pushed the orange-haired woman out of the room, but turned her around so she could spit upon her tormenters.
They laughed hard at this one.
My stars, did they chortle. They guffawed and snorted. When the laughter ended, he said, knock-knock jokes. Light bulb jokes, she said. What’s the difference between jokes, he said. Puns, she said.
They told them, punctuating each with, Get in the coffin!
An old man sitting in the corner yelled, Show us your tits!
I’ll have you know, he said, that she has breast cancer.
The old man said he was sorry.
Ha! he shouted, spraying the old man with a bottle of seltzer. She doesn’t have cancer.
One the way home they argued over which old lady was probably sexier in her prime. They walked along the street discussing in detail what old lady vagina must look like. They laughed at each other’s comments until she said something about his grandmother’s cooter. He punched her in the face. She fell, held her mouth, and adjusted her beret. He apologized and they agreed to add some domestic violence humor to their act.

The Alphabet

Think you can slip out the back door
Make a parable of tortoise, shell, soup
And you will be prepared for Seinfeld, sweetie
Love is the capturing of compressed gas
Pretend you’re heavily petting a salamander
Poets flap their arms and crash into churches
You’ll live to rue this day. I’ll make sure of it.

She was just tap dancing on the Equator
How did your pants explode, sugar
Did you enjoy a six-foot hoagie with me
Towards the back of the magic bus
She could see what was coming – a cake
We all got hit with the same club
The tortoise is shelled in the soup

I imagine the top of the mountain is fantastic
You have perplexed her; thou doth hath leprosy
These itty bitty crumbs, giving her mouth to mouth
She really wanted to don a luchador mask
The tortoise circled the soup stuffing shells
She’s been whistling Dixie since college
We all just shook our head and said what the hell

It was venomous, hot on a biscuit
Brothers assisted sisters in loading the dishwasher
I accidently made sixty copies of the same photo
The shell for a soup of tortoise
The spinal paste, the cookie sheet in quarantine
She punched a paparazzo right in the mouth
Cookies crumble; that is because the reaper jiggled

Fuck this.

Funky Like a Monkey

I saw a guy in beer goggles
and a pink Members Only jacket
with beady eyes and a chinchilla coat
with a rainbow painted on it
screaming at the leaves.

I had to punch him I couldn’t help it
I gritted my teeth and closed my fist
I rolled my hands like Dusty Rhodes
He went down, selling like a champion

And for my showmanship the parking meter
whispered to me in a soft gentle voice:
and A is for arctophile.

Well, I screamed, A is for
abattoir, abortion, abiotrophy, anomphalous,
and act like a man—
and if I had been an autocoprophagist
I would have given him a taste as well.

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