|
|
 |
| |
| Where's Duncan? |
Jumbled hawks protect the prize
attempting to philosophize
they eat their weight in curly fries
and don't we all admire them?
We catch them on their way to Rome
floating geodesic dome
heart as soft as styrofoam
and don't we miss the mayhem?
Peaches, breaches, hand me downs
they smell like rancid circus clowns
ignorance by leaps and bounds
and don't we want a pony?
Hanging from the window's edge
something they would not allege
while peeping through the neighbor's hedge
and can't we spot a phony? |
| |
| Lethargic Patina |
Savory porcelain diatribe
deep within coarse leather glove.
Heptanal monocle causative
mixing aloof with a shove.
Sorrowful triangle serviette
dangling meat from a string.
Shattering cartilage diagram
anyone mind if I sing? |
| |
| Starch Reality |
How about atomic paint?
Red is mass, and blue is weight
Charley bought a china sink
For which he paid $7.29
Steak is better in the sun
Especially with a slab of meat
Jackson was a poltergeist
Who sacrificed his ranch dressing
I drove my car into the lake
Because I had been snorting nitrogen
A fudge boy asked me if God was real
I told him that he had no esophagus
And in the night a dog would say
I see the wrapping on the chair
Should I go here, should I go there?
Who cares, as long as Happy Days still comes on at 6. |
| |
| Immortal Ceiling |
With a grain of sand, you feel the gush of antennae dancing in the same tiny atmosphere among centuries of chemistry.
The catharsis may become aged, but when will it arrive?
Little can be done about the essence of sailing away.
The motionless writhe, seeming to speak, anticipating dimensionless suspension.
Along the way, the stones of grouped obsolescence pace to the sounds of electricity. |
| |
| Donkey Pontiac |
How would you like to be groomed,
And know that your pants are on fire?
It makes me so infused,
With Bangalore cheese.
How are your parents?
Oh you don’t have any?
Are you married?
No, I’m stupid.
I have a baseball bat behind my desk,
I have a book that tells me how to do things,
I am better than you.
Troy muffins.
If I haven’t honked the horn in 3 minutes and 23 seconds,
Call the accountant. |
| |
| But Wait |
Sometimes I have never unraveled, feebly ahead of
any face, your perceptiveness had the makings of noise:
in the field, your most flimsy jiggle is reverberating with broken glass,
or liquid I cannot unite because it is too institutionalized.
Your refined imperfection can predictably burn holes,
though I seldom tried to see where your hair went,
you clamp down on my nervous system
touching skilfully, plaintively, pretending. depending.
If you pray for fundamental simplicity
my ears will become empty of beautiful captivity,
as when the owner of all things obtainable will
carefully descend toward your emptyness.
Nothing can be turned in this world
with the power of harrowing despair, whose culture
impels me with scorching abandon,
illustrating the futility of boredom.
I know not why it is late, nor dark,
but only that some barely obvious realization that
the sound of my comfort is deeper than any particle.
Nothing, not even a galaxy, can make me silent.
Inspired by e.e.cummings |
| |
| Funky Martini Principle |
Here comes steaming Herbie.
A goon whose face smells like the sky,
crowned with plastic Frito Lay containers.
From the basement of his swimming pool,
my hair is all happy and jittery,
ruining plans to attract tobacco arthritis.
Once the Federal Trade Comission spiders ate his ears off,
wine fired my insipid behavior and my veins swelled with kerosene;
but when the police arrived, a voice descended:
"I smell some well-used sporting equipment" |
| |
| Excited Papaya |
As the only days of a life go by
I dream of you upon a tractor in the shrubbery
and whisper the words of a slow biologist
while garbage men steal a small child's breakfast.
As that tractor carries me swiftly away,
a soggy body held in your auditorium,
away from other canned goods or lucky charms,
you've got the only nostrils to look into.
When I close mine, all I smell is rat poison.
Come sit with me in our shrubbery
together forever, let our maintenance report fade
in the mess that a sweaty garbage man made. |
| |
| Banjo Flax |
Crunchy mice fade after the launch of a thousand gondolas
into the darkness only to emerge as bright shiny omelets,
burning the tips of your earlobes as they weep from
smoke inhalation.
Canned asparagus takes flight, divining the majestic polyethylene
blow-up furniture, showing the real you, the real maggot in the sock drawer.
Kung Pao chicken never had it so good! Sandpaper is just on the horizon,
should we macerate a porcupine? Do you think?
Oh, flaky pastry, why do you torment me so? Are my shoes untied?
Send your eager phone operators to paint my house, do your worst!
The toaster is now virtually unplugged. I have nothing to declare, officer!
Play havoc with the big Greyhound bus. See if I care! |
| |
| Tiny Canned Goods |
His boot go warm desire
if dejected true could fly.
The nude pony knew that
laziness was sophistication!
Next to the furnace
useful hurricane glue discharge.
Have those radicals checked and
don't lie to me, juvenile guy.
Passion and bubble permission
whiz kid hears breezy bacteria,
heavy hanging lopsided.
Go far missing, gorgeous debate!
Get some break up cartridges,
string delicate and burned.
Wishing away evergreen composure.
Prolonging paper delivery. |
| |
| Red Baby Eyes |
Suddenly, at a plastic beach, my supple bitterness spies a disorderly partner.
Thus, a crowd is gathering for Mister Jeremy, for he is within walking distance.
I shudder at it's doorway; but for such sensation, it seems inferior.
The last word for macrobiotic is danger salvation.
For while you eat, you slide between cracks in silence and trepidation.
The comfort location, as if there, it's speech not next to you, is vibrant.
Drained of the shiny prejudice, we exchange teeth in the food store.
The inside of my exterior compartment is full of breathing spiders.
My ordinary looking vertebrae explains the scent of my costume.
The presence of you when you deteriorate suddenly brings complimentary ointment.
The moment never finishes baking and I'm inclined to later slowly scold you.
Beating on your skeleton, I attempt to deploy blockades of costly softness.
There, it had hung in mid air for a while. |
| |
| Napkin Ranger |
Stickers on a big tool box.
Scars because of chicken pox.
Ketchup on your favorite socks.
All the good things that life has to offer.
Pidgeon with tape on his lips.
Eat a bowl of paper clips.
While going on a subway trip.
Yes, isn't it a lovely picture?
A cat without a soccer ball.
Toothpaste on a paper doll.
Junkies coming down the hall.
My, how quickly the day does go.
Skin flaps. |
| |
| Gumby Hacksaw |
My feet taste like bourbon again tonight
I hope I can still drive a yacht
Are you aware that soil is made from Dynamite?
I wasn't going to say anything, but...
Hip-huggers are now back in style
and good graham crackers will make you smile
Old dead buggers stacked up in a pile
I can hear you cough for a country mile!
Gee, what a fine potato/car you are.
I saw an earth quake sunbathing yesterday
I think it must have killed a lot of people
while waiting for a bus out in Monterey
because it had Colby-Jack on it's tectonic plates
Holy green salad! says the boy with the curls
never should man be asleep with the squirrels
mutton and tripe is best left for the girls
let sadists and congressmen buy you some pearls
Gee, what a fine potato/car you are! |
| |
| Mr. Tedesco(sorry) |
The onerous psyche is firmly detested,
what, with its delicate toilet water.
It's drawback quite delightful
where only the membrane is disaster-prone.
A circus call upon elasticity,
a struggle in the hexagonal cardboard industry.
Much joy for blistering posture it will bring,
then opening fragrant bruises after sewage.
Bluish-purple is a small sensation,
optimistically blemishing the artificial lawn,
prevailing after rotisserie and authority the
cabaret of authentic weakness in happy aftershave.
A bonnet scowls with certainty,
a giant hazard in the field,
standing tall and proud as facial hair
that only Harold can expand.
But nobody can disconnect
the yellow dampness,
for to me it is hemorrhagic;
a stain I can rely on.
That same clobbering I received
showed much precision.
Hatred was to be believed
from that gift of desiccation.
I must shave my weasel till the end
then return it to the bawdy dump truck.
For the catering was prearranged by a true rival:
an unusually trusting, unripe zucchini. |
| |
| Banker Frolicking |
I wonder if a soup tureen
I left at 3rd and Vandersteen
Once belonged to Orson Bean
My credit card is maxed out, Delaney.
Get yourself a rubber face
And glue it to the human race
Don't wipe your feet in outer space
You crazy hallucinating anabolic steroid user!
Over there behind the tree
You'll find some brown insanity
As long as you get done by three
I don't care what you taste like, quite frankly.
Hortense consequently moved to Albania. |
| |
| Samsonite Candy |
Dumpy, stupid man - eyes as flat as a pancake
Pools of festering crushed velvet, when police rush in
Crazy quivering, sub-intellectual, bandaged and swollen
Monkey depths - willing to eat what's out of view, under the couch
Provocation transpired, weapon gusto bought by the piss of imperial donkeys
Society tested and arrogantly certified by currents of naughtiness
Uncontrolled strangling - a beacon fading on the refuge now
Vanishing, your dumpy, stupid eyes have invaded my consciousness
This is where we separate the men from the afterlife |
| |
| My Legs Were Warm |
They're fishing. Eternally fishing. Already she begins to smell wax melting behind the radiator.
She thinks about Sweden again, where all of his old campers are stored.
Slappy hums into a paper bag and waits for a taxi.
Looper stands naked in the parking lot, talking about trolleys and roller skates and their obvious connection to one another.
Jack clanks her face into a ball and goes sculling in the dark; without any tape at all!
She swears that destroying precious metals and alcoholics could stop, if it were later. Say, after 5?
Digeria floats around the room with a male prostitute wearing a black sedan.
Helium is involved, I think.
Kipper tries to fix her BMW with a high quality, generously portioned, NEW, IMPROVED, something or other.
And the Chancellor is in the bottom of this huge, unspeakable trash can.
The spoiled, wealthy and ignorant collect by the handful; he must move to the suburbs soon.
He really must.
Slappy gets up and jogs to Paraguay, throws back a couple of vodka gimlets.
While relaxing, she yanks her chin and it smells just like hot cellophane.
Oh my. |
| |
|
|
