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.

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