Saturday, February 26, 2011

More Nonsensical Poetry

I've said it before, but I'm giving up poetry.



Dan Fielding’s Blow-Up Doll Expands



There is a circus clown frozen in volcanic ash
in the bedroom next to my wrestling magazines.

Behind him they found an old peanut butter and
jelly sandwich and a half-smoked cigar.

They are here. They have arrived.
(Lance Goodthrust’s heart stops.)

Someone swings at the mailbox with a baseball bat.

Aristocracy.

It’s Jesus, King of Kings.

There goes the neighborhood.





Sipping Iced Tea in Ashland, Massachusetts


They were made for each other, these crazy kids,
even though they were siblings.

She was three feet tall and never bragged about it.
He appreciated that, but secretly hated it.

A pterodactyl flew into the porch and she fainted.

She fainted a lot this sister of mine, he thought.
I’m sitting here brandishing only this fly swatter
and she’s out cold.

Our insurance doesn’t cover attacks from extinct creatures.
What if I just ran away and let the bird eat her?




Inebriation

From his bedroom in the attic
he kills the dog
because
he thought it was Mohammed Atta.





The Tall, Elegant Chest of Drawers



I left the computer game I was playing on the beanbag chair.
You identified a hole in the middle of my chest.
Kicking German around the living room,
I fell asleep in my chiffonier.

And now a poem

This is a poem destined for rejection by the majority of the poofy literary journals around. Especially since this poem is a parody of one of the poems I read on one of those poofy literary journals. Thus, here 'tis. You bastards.



Boston Brewer


He veers from the Dude Who Calls Him Fonzie,
a kind of weird, snowflake like treat – a pizzelle
perhaps (mmmmm!). She’s half-miming, and dizzy
on Girl Scout Cookies and a teaspoon of crack cocaine

His essence
is a monsoon in July – call him Mr. Tibbs, or Christ.
He had a hell of a time of late on her belly in
the balcony of a theater, or yanking at glittery
nipples in the Framingham Best Western.

She promises that she will do some kind of dance
(safety or Humpty).
Many, many god-awful things: throwing tomatoes
at her ransom notes to the Amadeus Institute,
gratuitous hankerings, spitting Valvoline into a paper cup.

and belly dancers looking for sock puppets
who can take a punch, right on the chin or
in the bread basket, or square in the nuts.
He’ll get the Prince Albert prank call he’s asking for.

If you must know the earth is melting. This is hard to admit
when my lips look like Dali clocks and my tongue has hung itself .
They throw buttons and paper clips at the calves,
promising veal parmigiana.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

New Writing

Some of my obscure writings have popped up on the Internets this week.





The true story of my clash with Obi Wan Kenobi is detailed at the wonderful science fiction writing site Antipodean SF.







Amid the plethora of Iambic Ixplosions at Hobo Pancakes is my Beatles tribute "A Shitty Day in the Life." Look for it. I will be performing the song at bars all spring and summer long.







And the oddly-named "JED: The Tony Doone Fictions" has settled in the debut issue of Diagonal Proof in pdf form. You might ask where such writing comes from, but I'll never tell.