Tuesday, August 9, 2011


In these editions of The Unpublishes we seeks surreal motherfuckerdry via the poetries, because poetries is the cures for all that assails us. Except cancer. We seeks to not never take la lucha libre too yahoo serious but we'll punch you in the belly laughs if you look at us funnily.

Three Poems...


Two Poems.

secs ual wyt choc lat )

so you tell me $$ you’d like to have sex
with ProvIdence, Rhode IslaNd +

I keep myself pressed against #@ yo ur leg until
you pun ch me

a dish, being raped by the spoon (Appendix B)

a cow never really jumped over the moon, did she?
Come on,
and a cat playing


I've long since retired, my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind,"
He said, "Fuck you, Dad, I don't have the time.
You see, you're boring as fuck, and we're drunk off our ass,
and no one in your family has class, Dad.
So, please don't call again unless you have something interesting to say, motherfucker."

No comments:

Post a Comment