Tricolore.

true story cut
from bolts of what

was once whole cloth,
okay? this one time
how it happened: I

met this latinate
senorita, and
I was like "hun, hey 
how's that hot
-blooded stereotypical
temperament
treatin' ya? GOOD!"

I paused
like a champ

"looks like?" I shyly 
averred, if averred 
is the word: it is.

(second sense)
and she
laughed, laughed! because
she had a good and better sense
of humor the further in my dumb ass
line of bulbous, drupelike words
struck her
deep,
but
a little off!
so. pity laugh! 

cool. I can ken it. part
scots, don't cha know and we
were like chi chi chi
and cha cha cha but

it didn't end! up working out,
somehow, her in the front 
burning my cool enchilada, 
dumping so called hot stuff 
on it vigorously pounding it 
in my face and down my throat 
so, yeah.

pathetic 
kind of so
then one time,
with this irish lass,
real irish! None of your
false irish, not this one
time I arched a brow and

"said"

something to the effect
of "kiss me you're irish!"

only far, far more fetching
and clever somehow

(there was drink involved)

and she tasted of Becks
not Guinness which was fine

but I had to draw the line at Bushmills
that's for protestants

then this brit, well
she sure did have a thing
for that thing that the british
have things for, all 
hanging out covering 
their mouths with fetching 
milkwhite angel hands 

because there's all this shit in her teeth! 
no 

no 

oh ye gods 

it's dental work! good job 
ye gods oh I'm so sorry but
she and I
kidded her about
that a bit, you can be sure

she had the most adorable
mouth in every way, so that
I almost hated for to see that
tight, lipped, self conscious

smile

hiding something for breakfast
we had bangers and cheerios

which went together, well,
about as well as 
as you'd suppose

when that other bitch 
her husband showed up
the cur! The cur who had 

made his wife 
bolt and then laugh 
so hard a breakfast best 

left for the italians to mop
and cleanse like 

you 

know

servile dogs! bolting 
and wolving their own 

"dog's breakfast" 

off a French licked 
flag we all know 
was merely on 
deck to tie 

the world
together

once. 

To Poe: Fuck You

Poetry is.

It is intended to be read
aloud. Not silently.
Not "this poem."
All poems.

Anyone

who wrote a poem intended
to be read not aloud is no

Poet by definition. Look up, 
chief. It's innate in each syllable 
and inherent in one term: the 

word. "Poet"! 

COOL

That's what! 
The ancients called it
"prosody" and they were right, too.

They had a point, then.
Doesn't matter now, of course!
Unless you read it out loud, in
good voice ringing softly, off the rafters, rattling
only literally every other window in the clerestory, then
not one word of the thing (let alone "prosody") will be!

The same.
Let alone read the same: it
cannot mean a single thing
intended, then. 

Try
me. Better
yet: try your
own. Voice what
it is you read, and
you shall discover
what poetry not

only is like, but what it is for. Please!

Do. Do, do!

Or do not: go! Go 
the way of the Dodo, 
you meaningless, voiceless 
coquette of cocksucking egg! Or
...worse yet?

Cur! A surly or cowardly "fellow"
YOU are, cur! Not even to ever have
guts, sack, bag, gall, balls, nerve and all
(includes ovaries under "balls" as needed,
pouncing and jostling askew, or better yet! 
Ask her) ALOUD! 

TO PUT A VOICE 
TO WHAT IS 

intended, asshole! Why not? 

X why not.
X it up its X'ing paragrab. 

"stereotypical god"

She wants to know
What good it's going 
To "do me."

With all of this un
-happiness around me?
When all it seems
To do is make me happy...

I said I don't know. 
Wondering how she knows.

She said "How can you
Pray
To that
Stereo!
-Typical! 
God!

How can you
Say that you 
Can't do what
Ever! You! Want?

How can you pray to that stereotypical god?" 
But it gets me through.You know it gets 

me 

Through. 

Me and God! We got an understanding.
Said me and God? We got an understanding. 
God just gives me every thing I ask for.
And I don't ask for much!

Just, a little
Touch.

Aw, no she said 
she said "How! 
Can you pray? 
To that stereotypical 

'G*D'"?

How can you 
Say that you can't 
Do whatever 
You 
Want...? Awe, how
Can you pray to that 
Stereo! Typical! 

God? 

But It gets me through
You know, It gets me 
Through? 

I hate to think of how I must 
Just hurt her. She says she
Likes it rough, and hard
To work for. I think

She's got a complex 

From her
Mother.

I'm simplicity. 
Relative and free.
'Bout as fair as life.
Every thing to me.

"Aw, no awe, no way no how, oh 
Please," she said: "How can you
Pray to that stereotypical god?" 
"How can you say that you can't
Do whatever you want?"

"How? Can you pray to that stereo-

Typical

God?" 

Did it get you through? 
You know. 

It gets me through

And through and through,
And

to. 

Circus Lights From Back, Afar

The smoke and circling
spots dance foully vile
in memory a while
but

Just-so, too-too kiddie
stuff.

I beat their meat and métier,
then circled triply-back about
to force their foible with my
bluffing rapier and foil forte
combo, easy as killing

pie.

Yet note! But soft: what’s been
awry since ’twixt this Post-Submission’s
Blues? Formatting issue! Here, is one

a hunnert-’cent intended. None.
Not dealt deliberate, mind you: intended.

Sit and Listen True, for you’d be only Fool
to find untrue where term hath skewered
each: Deliberate means “going in.”

Intended is at one stroke: forever in
consequence. Try aim. It’s way, weigh
and deep-away more focus and drive
than “try” e’re was,

or could be, ‘cuz. 

With no note of apology for the rank and evident

"...theft," 

"Oh, you."

"Dear two." 

"This is just to say I met the plums so icy and delicious in the past in my tummy NOW ADMIT IT: those were never your plumbs, 'bebe' "..." .

"Favorites"

To a man
beauty is
not a competition:
we love you all
And I think
I could speak
for a lot of guys, but
I think I won't.
Let me say in this cold,
sexist world we live in
it would not be right
to pretend to ignore
all the opposites that
attract the likes

of all of the beautiful girls
all of the beautiful girls
of all of the beautiful girls
I play favorites just with her

I met her
at a pond
with a million fish when
we both fell in
then we saved
both our lives, it
was kind of fun and
it has not worn thin
I see girls, lovely girls,
all around me but I
just don't compare
I mean they don't compare, but
then neither do I - think that's fair

oh all of the beautiful girls
all of the beautiful girls
of all of the beautiful girls
I play favorites just with her

all of the beautiful birds
all of the beautiful bees
of all of the beautiful boys,
she plays favorites just with me

you can say you've got eyes just for only the one
you call your own
but strike me blind if it's wrong to appreciate all
God's creation
just pretend if you can that we live in a world
where love is free
then come back to this world, and
keep your hands off my girl
'cause she's with me.

oh all of the beautiful girls
all of the beautiful girls
of all of the beautiful girls
I play favorites just with her

all of the beautiful birds
all of the beautiful bees
of all of the beautiful boys,
she plays favorites,

just
with me.

Erratard dah duh

Retitlement is a progress in-process, one to which I am dearly entitled and pretty- privileged to put off forever, or a day, or less than three! <3 (to infinity) Probably I'll just pull the hot, hoary, ass-cowardly "no name" convention of intimating, in a winky-English fashion, "Oh, just use Use the 1st line or, so -mething, biird -heel..." !? oo OK!

Not Of Lyme Disease

1. Damn tick. I think I

   killed it

   with unclean or unpotable (not intended
   as) BOOZE. No lodging of head in wound,
   though!

   No burn other than
   sting, no itch so far.
   I'm starting to think

   maybe Lyme Disease explains some
   Of my present symptoms,
   though. TOUGH. I got tick-bit! As a lil' kid, I remember
   dad drawing a "magic circle" (magic MARKER circle: don't
   get all het up in the retreaded sci-fiinfantsasty! No such THING
   as magic

   has ever been, save alchemy
   {originally} and prestidigitation
   in any universe!) around the big,

   itchy,

   spreading

   welt.

   This was a full decade or
   more before Lyme Disease made the news, but
   it'd be just my Jersey Luck to get bit on the selfsame ass

   who stood up dressed
   EXACTLY as he was about to suggest
   in college Public Speaking 101: For Dummies!

   That'd be back in oh...ninety? Ninety one?
   Seventy? Fifty-four forty or FIGHT? I mean,
   come on me I was serious with that speech!

   I just didn't want to walk in with a lot of props,
   or make a joke out of showing them all off in
   sequence so I walked in like that, very basically.

   Then-People said "it was fun to pay attention to," but

   that

   it was supposed to be strict
   quick in-and-out action: a hot hard
   fresh act of speech! Right there, in

   front of us all! I went,

   *dayum* like 90 seconds
   over and over, getting a huge
   wet "F" from the student assistant

   lecturer for fucking up so
   easy.
   

   I sure
   enough learned her
   NOT to give me so hard an F!

   Grade-wise though, she was like, OH
   OH, OH OK OK YOU CAN GO FOR
   IT, but strictly as "bonus credit"!

   We laughed at our little
   joke and walked off in separate
   times, by disparate roads until

   (tragically, as always),

   she died

   Not of Lyme Disease

With inspiration (original draft, bad)

With inspiration you

take in a long and
veiny/bulbous breath, and
I inspire you to cough!

it feels so weird

you have to laugh

With inspiration.

With inspiration we take 
in a spirit shared, while you 
exhaled, and I
inspired you 

to gasp 

!
Just
one last wish 
don't go too fast. 

The Neversense of 11th May.

Never sense a bad murmur, which makes
zero sense, I find. It's as if to believe in
doing things sideways abrupt, never
bought us a dime. But it's best to be
brought far farther than we could buy.

And it's always as if we don't need the
excuses to cry, or the light to try, or

the fire to fly .

Prop 65 Warning Novelty Tee (Draft 2)

WARNING: 

THIS HUMAN 
contains chemicals known 
to the State of California 
to cause CANCER. 

So too this t-shirt! 

Funny? 

You think that's fu-
caccia dip? NO! IT'S

CANCER UP AND DOWN
THE WAZOO TRACT without
its consent! Cancer loves you! 

Just Say No to This T-Shirt 
Than/If You Can,

Puh
-lease.

Unsubtle Jape.

I'm kind of glad, or relieved at least
to find you are not a bot or thief. There’s

something reassuring
about reaffirming
one’s faith in a thing 
as a human being, 

somehow especially at the cost
of our good opinion of the thing.

The thing being being, here

naturally

"The Stamp"

(An ode upon how not to swim, or rock on waves best kept within) I rejoice at the sound of your voice. I repair at the scent of your hair.

If I fall undersea, your curls
can't rapture me. So I still
take lessons in life's unfair.
You can teach me at lunch
what I could not ken. You
and only you could be at
me, than IF/Then I were
stupid enough to love, I
would sign my stamp by
the beak of a dove.

"Knockout Figure"

What I do is, I say no necessary word.
Futility (in-prospect) is forte and foible
in one brazier-keen penstroke to me. It
helps!
Overall,
 anyhow.
On so-called 'line and in person, it has helped me
help, guard and guido others. Big time. Testosterone is,
tragically: only half the problem.
Adrenaline! Oxytocin! Pepsi Cola!

These make up the other half, plus,
naturally: estrogen.

Figures.
Figures. 
Figures. 
Figures. 
Figures. 

"Don't Call Her"

Don't call Her 
No more. She's 
In Her Command.
You know who I speak 
of, and She

Has a name. It isn't 
'brief candle,' nor She'Easga! 
She wasn't of French-Irish seed 
in some bra, or some bar 
or some door to nocturnal 
regime. Don't call her name
sleeping, awake in day-dreams,
do not call her up crying, your wires
alight. She once was velitas, too 

True for this fight.  

Let us banish us, 
and depend from 
just 'we.' It takes 
one to know this: 
fire or flee. It took 
Flea's blood, sugar and 
mate's magic ship: to 
comfort us each, once 
and set wax adrip. No 
lullaby, pain, no no 
clarion call. No apostle 
you'd name is prepared 
for next fall. No disciple 
I'd follow or utter one plea 
to compares to her answer:

Just 'no.' Never seize her 
nor try to make do, nor 
try to give in by an influenced 
way we'd call Mocking. No 
sin ever touched Brandon 
Lee in his revenant pic. 

He just wanted daddy 

to look down, a bit.  
Let us not conspire.
It's not between you. 
It's not between me, 
nor with someone 
you knew. You knew 
her name too, only 
once. Just enough. 

It isn't just promises, 
lies, it's no bluff  - but 

if you sleep apace, and
at peace, in the clear for 
one night breath abated 
with a conscience unclear? 

Then: it is no big 'If'
that good Doctors pre
-scribe. Please wake to

some 
rainbow,
exclaiming 
(and not without 
Pride, no not like 
a cat, no not like 
a fire, with balls 
and one bat!)

'Oh, dear.'

Let that anti-pro 
lullaby sleep. We've 
all gotten paid in 
this life. No? 

Let's weep.

Let us pray, or prey not. 
Let us soar without wing, 
Call it Left, Right or snot! 

We shall never be King.

"Just Fools"

It's been almost an hour since you made your choice, and you still haven't told no one. It's been almost a day since you got home, and you still haven't called no one. Well you can call me, and tell me everything you need to hear. And I'll come over, and faithfully repeat it back into your ear.

But we aren't lying to each other, 'cause we both know it isn't true. No we aren't fooled.
No we aren't fooled.

We're just fools.

It's been almost forever since I figured out the tradeoff that it's going to take. And it's been almost never since that fateful day that I haven't found you, right in my way. Well I can move you, like you've moved me --encircling ourselves in a dance. And we could lean into the centrifugal sway, and let our hands stray, and whisper commands, but we ain't lying to each other.

'Cause we both know it isn't true. No we aren't fooled, no we aren't fooled.

We're just fools.

I'm finding ways to delay all the things I have to say, to you. 'Cause I don't know what they are any more than you do but we both know they won't be true.

It's been almost an instant since my heart went right, after infinite stretches of wrong. It's been almost consistent how certainly fail follows certainty, certain and strong. Well, you could help me and I'd help you, to see where life has had us deceived,
and we can both pitch in with mortar and brick, strengthening the lie that we lead. But we aren't lying to each other, 'cause we both know it isn't true. No we aren't fooled. No we aren't fooled, we're just fools.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VfSrJAuwnRY

"Starfish Aim (Do, Do, Do)"

Stepped out the house.
Same old shit. 
Walked out aloud,
in to it. Woke up!
About: half-way 'round 
the spiral my perfect-straight street 
goes down, and I knew it 

then: it's not my part. 

The exact thing, I had from the start. 
True, in a dream of stinging sand. 
You reach down, pick up one, 
where does it land? 

I had to do, do, do 
a little good, can't 
do all the good, got 
to leave a little good for you 
To do, do, do a little good. 
Can't make all the good, 
even if it's only for us two 
there'll still be: 

Way too much good

in this world 

to do. 

Out in the street, it's so damn bad 
Bloody, and sweet, in each damn flag 
we fly overhead, look out below! 

And that's just what she said: 
while cleaning the beaches, stoop 
down not to conquer, just don't trust 
the leeches to do, do, do a little good 

Can't do all the good!
Got to leave a little good for you, to 
Do, Do, Do a little good, just a little 
good, every day, just between us two 

there'll still be. 

Way too much good 
in this world 
to do. 

HEY, there's another one, hey! 
Awe, look at how bad, and ohh there's 
too many laid out in the sand, so 
why even bend a bit? Makes

no 

difference. 

But if it matters 

to this one, and
it matters to this one,
and it matters to this one...

Then it matters! 

it matters 

If it matters to this one, 
and it matters to this one, 
and it matters to this one, 

Then it matters to this one, too. 
To-do: a little good 

Can't do all the good 
Gotta leave a little good for you 
to do, Do, DO 

...a little good, just one little good,  
any way! Just between us two 
there'll still be: way too much good 

in this world 

to do.

her nudity was

Her nudity was
absolute, it was 
the first special
effect to pack them
in jammed cheek by
jowl in flickering theatres 

yet.

"Brinksmanship"

"Brinksmanship" or: "Love & War."

________________________________

We've been pushed to the brink,
but it's only the beginning.
I've tried so hard not to think about it.
I tried so hard that it hurt!

We've got a struggle, yeah, and it's endless,
but I'm relentless to enter it.
Because life is colorless
Without a fight

This is love
And this is war.
I can't face it together,
anymore.

Burn the sea
and drown the air.
Just tell me you'll be there.

These patterns
of chaos
are chasing me.

You can't convince me
that they're meaningless.

Show me chance, and I'll show you reasons
I'm reasonably sure that I'll chance your seasons
If you're unsure? I am certainty!

This is love, and this is war.
I can't chase you away, anymore
Burn the sea and drown the air:

Just tell me you'll be there

Who said it would be free?

It's right. It's good. It's enough
to live. To die. To fight for our lives!
To play. To begin. Who said that we
would win?

I did.

Weren't you just listening?

This is love and this is war!
I can't chase it together, anymore.
Burn the sea and drown the air.

Just tell me you'll be there.

Double Dumb Dares

Oh oh under oath. We go 
under oath. We're both 
under oath to the 
thunderous end 

Of the waves on this coast, 
as we wax and crash. 
I love you, and I 
will. Two dollars 
plus tax, 

in cash. 

Intro to "Let's Get."

Poker honour offer bluff: 
it isn't that "everything 
signifies," it's that no
thing does when you 
can't take the fake fake 
cough 

interrupting your very
best bet. Gone to pot,
gone to seed, gone 
wherever you set? 

Go to hell, then, 
pet. Or? 

Better yet, stay right
just where you are okay. 

OK? 

And sing this lay: 

"Have you already missed your shot at one true love? 

Have you quit waiting for your second chance to come...?

Have you already given up the ghost of it...?

Have you already traded in your membership.

Hey, there happy. Glad to see me. We 
were on to some thing. Bad at good 
byes. Worse at white lies. Hey...?

You can't have every thing. 

Let's get it over with.
Let's get it over with.
Let's get it over with.

We're here? 

Have you reached the point where you know that you'll never change?
Have you figured out why every body else is strange...? 
Have you wished for some wah-hunn, to get hit 

By a shooting star...? 

Have you lost 
your illusions of 
how nice, you are? 

Well, I've still got some. Where's the shotgun? You 
can blow them all away. I don't care, really. Seeing 
clearly: truth 

...is better than they say. Let's
get it over with. Let's get it over
with. Let's get it over with! We're

Here!

Wolf in sheep's clothes. 
Bare, beneath, though. 
Set: to howl! And growl, and
bah. 

So sing it, bay-be. Whatever, may
be. 

It's 

O.K. 

sirrah, sirrah. 

Let's get it over with.

Let's get it over with. Let's 

get-

."

Culture-Honor Hit Piece #2: The Greeks!

Originally the Irish

The Irish, even
before any one of them
got slave-or-saint named
Patrick, 

have 
always been
too wholly a people
to regard nature as
capable of being 
"profaned." 

So they say fuck a lot, 
they fuck a lot. Not all 
of them! But enough do, potato
babies rise in rows well ho'ed
and orderly or rude, unruly
rose to squall, bawl justly
and lustily and once

they get up to it,
eventually row with 
others. And so are seized
upon, caught up and taught by
hook and crook, by brook streaming,
meadow rolling or lying like wilde
in some still, wet gutter, haloed
by reflections of stars, beaming 

like an aesthetics expert critiquing 
heavens and finding all wanting.
By such hardest and easiest lying
and well and poorly laid lessons, in
time (and by its nick!) they are given
by nurture

one prettiest, cutest
accent in the world

by which to say fuck, 

or,

without shame 
or stain of hypocrisy! 

Other things. 

Because of this, th'
Irish have one beautiful,
worldwide reputation for
fools to believe, or 

if they go, 
finally

to set foot on firm Eyre
itself, spy out its pots, nooks
and misty rainbows oe'r
all and sundry, 

they know better. 

Or worse for themselves. 

The Irish, o the greatest part 
of them, do not mind your 
fucking slander much. As 
you've just kindly taught 
them the worth of your 
fucking mind! Or some 
of its fucking contents, 
right enough. 

Though
many of them,
kind enough might presume
to conclude as a courtesy,
a charity: you may

have just popped out of it!
For a bit. Sure and all, why

wouldn't you?
Being you and all.

No accent can truly
be faked by anyone
not a professional film, stage
or other screen actor, but 

particular accents

would be even unwiser to try,
lest ye be caught up in the enchantment
of some laughing lass or laddie's 
disenchanted-by-you

eyes. Ire 

knows no particular tongue
when one's Irish is got up. It
knows them all too well - and
none too wise and fair!
Aye, that it isn't,
much.

Keen, sad 
mirthful look.

What was it you'd expect? You 

ass

The Smiths' How Soon Was Then (Not The Best Song In The World, then): a tribute.

"I go about things the wrong way!" S’okay,
I am human and unlike everyone else does,
seemingly I'd stay. Works right so far ’bout

seven times. Well, I’d much rather pull luck than
push weight or sell, or shift my position. Do tell.

From yours to mine? Oh, got a rhyme. "You shut
your mouth?"

How then can you say I am human and need
to be liked, okay? Hell no, I don’t need. And
I shall not want as a matter of pleasing aim
and wont. Yo, I aim from South Dang, N.J. 
Yank-style, oh. Just like anyone else? ERR

ERR, s'okay, go affray awhile,
or leave! Like a forest leaves ash.
Tell you: does it tickle inwardly, or
wrench all askew? Do it Boom 
Crash Opera's "Onion Skin"? Is it
shot hot pus like an abscess from
too-too within, like an operant chord,
like a cat-(Maine Coon)-fought

rhinoceros, scored and gored? Trust us.
Trust

this: trust
you. Any cat that
puffy, fangs and claws all
wigged-out hard is weighed 
too soon, while charging
right-yowl’d and without
No Doubt to bring some barked
hip too-late tune to bounce-dance
at. Go! Only to make friends, true! Well,
Ask any cat just how much they'd like to

make friends,
you.

Only two
make friends,
everthough. Yet that
was some cat. No crew:
solo. His name was

Frank. Now. Isn’t
a fact? 

Yes/No?

Then go. Take the burial, ground
to worm and bone under
tree: go

splat, 

Honcho.

Katful Song

My inner system's all flushed up 
and out, and her I stand surprised.
She's Kat. Full-stop, and I could give 
a fuck for all her caring,wise.
I stand or lay here wondering: why if,
why not, or was she calling mine?

My bluff, I guess it tried. Pull string to knot
some hopes, some all-for-once: 

surprise?  

Her dragonback drawn out in leaves
and twisty roots: no coffee, please.
And no I had no deft designs on her, but
simply slow and dense by grace with ease.
I've let her out, not in, so she can chart her
'course:

Slow dance.
At each one's pace:
no glance, no recompense.
For no damned horse. For if this is
but Love or War? I'll bow my head
to lop it off. Her voice in dulcet boom
bloomed bright: no wash, no chore, no cheer,
no score.

No fruit, no bud.
No weather vane or vain
to scoff at human blood, in anyone
she'd never pain. She calculated night
right hard - but soft! So musical, this lass.

Some wunderkind! Well, it could go
aloft, come all the way to pass, but
better run aground. Go slow ashore,
we've found.

We're found.

Right there. 

In wreck of ships 
and twisted ropes, 
beyond all cares and brinks 
we'd fall to sandy
rest upon us all. 

the burden of breakfast

we just might as well skip
the whole meal, so I'd say:

no. Breakfast is not most
important today. Let's pull
up the covers, and sleep two

more hours. We can always
have brunch if we want it

it's ours. 

Why you hate music, now

Why hate you, music? Strooth 
it 'tis, fair fine and no feigned fate
or date, set-to to hate, whenupon
YOUR OWN 1st adult knowing,

which lasted all of sixty seconds
naturally, all the old songs turned
soon to camp mockery, torn apart
electrically in the acoustic thrum of

young blood. Then

only
primary grade and high
school level
derivative

shit

"You loved back then"

No-o-o-o, you did not for
if ever you truly loved
you do and shall love

Still. YOUNG YOUR YOUTH
SCHOOL TUNE ROCKS CROCKS, because
but you
BUT YOU!

Remember the old! Then,
future's promises
dying in fast ash
and iced bile, but soft!

'Tis better by far to near to death,
than to stay young only in beefy
lion's loins and swilling the laughs
of new children, young. TOO
YOUNG ---!! WAY TOO

enough.

Disgusting.

If you don't love today's music
kids? It's because you lost your
soul
pretending
back then all the way up to now

to be "original." How

novel
of you to think. Only the music
you heard 1st and ran to go tell
on mom
or dad

sucked.

Nope. ALL your Beatles are belong
to Nazi Germanic ass holds
and disfranchised black large
-ly Americans: for real. Amer
-icans who originated rock

and roll. Trust us: U! S! A!

YOU! ASS! AY your taste in music, stank
then STANK WORSE ON HOT!

Icy, now.

The Monkees
were way fVcking
butterier

"Who Made You?"

The video game said "A$$ H*LE" 
Live it on a seven thirty 
take you every time but 1-on-1. 

Feeling running up your SHORTS. 
Nothing going to save your one (1)
last dime played out on sports. Yeah 

The data bank has your sphincters! 
Cued and keyed in to your blockchain 
password claim all snapped up splintered.

Says you gotta pay 'cause the death man 
tax is tied up in hay. And none of our kids 
man ever gonna tire of rain tents gay 

SO WHAT CHO SAY AWWWWE 

She was cool 
She was cool 
Saw her in a huge Ess Eff Masonic Temple 
With Girlfriend Two (2) 
Cho was cool 
Who made you? Sell a knockoff Che 
Guavava voom lookin' RED SHIRT
MARGIE CHO had it all in spades!

Guitar solo alchol haze! WHO MADE 

Ah, 

choo! 

anchor cast

Reach too far. Grow
too soon. Laugh out
proud and claim the
moon; dance, but
soft. Lean in hard.
We

shall wear out.
Change the guard.

Inamicus

She just missed him a lot, off on his wild crusade. 
And they'd fight in words so hard, sometimes. 

If we all had someone, just to fight with us 
here, we might take a pass on wars fought

blind.

"137 from 113 = -Y"

"137 from 113 = -Y"

Today is day one-three seven,
yes, and I am on 
one-thirteen poems. 

What could I do to catch 
up, next? I should just run, 

outside

on roam
and spot

what sticks cut fine,
spike deep between two
eyes, enough to weep. Then 
I'd be all caught up tout suite!

A sweet deal, 
that, for all toujours. 
I'll go get wet! And
write 

downpours.   

"That Kind-of World"

It rained, today. 
I kind of like the rain. 
But lots of people say 
it gets them down. 

So, just for them, 
I'll feel a little grey. 
Pitch in and spread some 
cloudiness around! 

Sometimes rainbows come 
in shades of gray, sometimes 
colours run into a swirl. Life 
is blind, but it's 

That 
Kind of
World. 

I feel asleep, and 
woke a bit too late. 
It shouldn't irritate 
me but it does. 

I threw on my coat, 
and then I ran outside, 
to tell the day how beautiful 
it was. 

Sometimes life is more 
than you can take. Other 
times it's less than you 
deserve. Change your mind, 
it's just 

That kind of world. 

I used to be dependent 
on my friends. To pick 
me up whenever I was 
low. But now, I see. 
It's best to please your 
self. You can't depend 
on help when you're 

alone. 

Happiness is bright enough 
to find: missing stripes 
in ragged flags unfurled.
You can't hide, it's just. 

That kind 
of world.