Saturday, April 14, 2012

A Twitter Love Poem

Oh, @julianahatfield,
you hath been my
Twitter crush since 1990.
Wherefore, will you not
reply whenst I court
you with witticisms.
Twitticisms, if you will.

Won't you?

For I hath penned thee poems
hath even met thou,
crumbling, swooning
at the sight.
Yet @ me you doth not.

If Dreyfuss and Stamos,
Steven Weber, Debbie Gibson,
Chyna Phillips
will all @ me,
wherefore not you, my love?

Oh, please, tell me wherefore!

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Remnants of the elimae parodies

I used to parody the poems this one journal elimae published because to me the really short ones were usually vapid and just ridiculous. And I only ever read the short ones. There was this one writer who was in the 'zine every month whose work I felt was particularly bleh. I haven't done this in a while, and may not again. So I figured I would post some of what I have left.

Now I don't remember what poems these are parodies of. I do think they aren't all from elimae. What they are: all parodies of that one dude. 

Anyhoo and whatever.


He plucks his nose hairs, falling like Swedes. Her face the albatross underneath a New York Jets pillow. A tumbler containing her teeth on the bedside table. He pushes on the pillow. He pushes harder.

I began explaining

that a great, big, fat person can’t live inside an exclamation point; the loneliness and lack of food would be torture.

The tenant upstairs banged a kipper on the table. She placed her heart like a telephone receiver onto my shoulder. The valve spat chalk dust. He likes playing drums with fish, she said. He grabbed another kipper and played Wipeout.

Three Way
It laughed. She threw up. He dropped dead.
She played air guitar to There’s Only One Way to Rock and buried the corpse.
Old Lace
Tea time is something special. Arsenic, strychnine. She dons the skull and crossbones like a wedding gown. They come prepared to drink.


She reels him in like a giant catfish. His hands are see-through and bark like newborn dachshunds. They’re as big as file cabinets, eating the skin tags under her armpits like Snausages. That one ring finger dances like Stimpy. He can’t reach to scratch his back. She helps him with a steak knife.

I Fell Off the Elliptical

Trying to impress a woman who answers to my uncle’s nickname. It’s all rotted cheese and beer nuts after that. I’ll sniff your toes and learn the piano. You’re a filthy liar, but I can’t handle the truth. I Hi-Lite Don’t forget my balls.

Not titled

Be truthful about kickboxing: it’s more fun with a lead pipe. We make pork chops out of the litter box. You ain’t over ‘til you’re a fat lady. The pig’s done Sylvia Plathed himself. White bread cooks like a Golden Retriever in the Ukraine.

Without a Title

And now I will eat off the table and the floor without using my mouth. Use my mouth. My eyes will be watching Mad About You.

Still No Title, Motherfucker

I’m eating a Snickers because I’m greater than or equal to. I’m Rocktober, so let’s count down the top five: I was mugged, out cold, married to my cousin, dead, my cousin was a widow. The theme is chickens flying an airplane. It’s serious when you perform it on the radio.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Poetries, Poetries! Ra, ra, ra!

Whenst I write what I call "the poetry" I think of rivers and waterfalls and starving children...

If’n You Come Over Yonder

Someone I desire pretends
she is the Vegetable Lamb of Tartary.
It might be Yeti,
but it could also
be a magical rainbow.

I’ve been eaten by a trickster,
shit off a cliff, and
punched around by
nineteenth century
bare-knuckle prizefighters. 

We make out in the kitchen and
I pleasure her with a leaf blower.
It’s her kitchen because
I live in a Post Office box.

Full of Bananas and Yolk

I collect cocktail monkeys.
They are capricious like waffles.
When they’re not I do too.

There is lots of secreting,
forsaking and shaving.
They talk to Costa Rica
on bananas.

I write their names on
Beech tree leaves then
jump in the pile.

The universe is a shattered
duck egg with a
side of corned beef hash.


I am an eight point five
sans a chicken.

A stop sign and
a toaster oven are
fantastic weapons
in the war.

How does a fat man
get into a wetsuit?

Let’s not lie without
a fire extinguisher handy.


You’re in the chimney
singing Twinkle, Twinkle.
I’m making sweet love
to the vacuum cleaner,
bleeding all over the couch.

What makes a stapler
an excellent back scratcher?

I believe in
autoerotic asphyxiation
exactly twenty-seven times.

There is cat shit on
your swim fins.
Your toes in the litterbox.

Bottom’s Up

We spread sweat
on wheat bread
and throw fingers
at a dart board.

“The” is half the name
of the group in the picture
to which I pleasure myself.

I have chosen insomnia.

The other half is not
Who or Beatles,
but Banana Splits.
So that’s a third. Damnit.