Mixed Bag:
See, I liked Dimmer’s
Blank verse, although its so not
Nearly bad enough.

Like somebody at
Karaoke who’s belting
Pretty arias.

It goads us lesser
Talents to try the same but
It’s still nice to hear.

What I lack in talent I make up for in belligerence.

Lets have more haikus/
up in this fucking shithole/
now, motherfuckers.

About Last Night
Blank Verse Written in 10 Minutes
While Waiting for A Daily Checkin that Started Late
posted on behalf of Dimmer

After a good day,
We started a mediocre night:

Room cleaning
inspections
fault finding

But that had its good parts:

Working together
active
producing results.

Bad points:

A piss soaked towel to launder
I picked it out of the basket with
another towel but still felt dirty.

An asshole at the cross-addiction meeting.
Drug (undecipherable single character) Me:

I go in, I sit
Confusion.
A noisy laughing visitor comes in
Another visitor - music blares
A third visitor
Noise, confusion, anxious
I apologize & leave
“Be back later"

I wait. I return. We fix the drugs.

Later the drug gals argue.
My door is open, I hear it all.
Just a bad night.

Spiderman, your poems
Rock. Thanks for resurrecting
The poetry nook.

My church is not part
of the angry fundie horde,
yet sees, does nothing.

Before Breakfast
Feet stink, so does breath
Scratching my ass to wake up
Wife: “We need more milk”

Bad Hair Day makes me
want to take a scythe to all
those flowy haired bitch’s

my bosoms heave like
pomegranates when I think
of dimmer’s hot rut.

I could give
a ruts
ass. Penny.

I would reply but
I’ve got Stubby
Stuck in my butt.

You are in a rut.

I would reply but
I’ve got Stubby
Stuck in my butt.

Beat THAT!

BACK AT YOU THEN
Hai-ku!
It too
says, “Fuck you.”

I can’t haiku
it’s too
hard
to do.
A haiku.

NOTE THAT A HAIKU IS 5 SYLLABLES, THEN 7, THEN 5
Easted? Feebie? Ha!
Silly. You are even more
Dimmer than I am.

"was was”? ha! retard!

If I had to pick a ‘friend’
To fuck until all time would end
I’d do Monica, Feebie,
Chandler then Joe
the others?
They can just go.

BECAUSE IT WAS WHAT RHYMED:

There was was a man named Dimmer
Who lusted for David Schwimmer
He easted his paste
And loved the taste
It set his cockles on “simmer.”

"east”? Damminit…

The hate I ate
is not modern
like paste
which you might
east some of
yourself.

Modern poets do not
all suck
- just most.

Old poets sucked too.
But they are dead:
Ergo no need
to kick them in the rythmic head.

Why does Dimmer dislike
Modern Poetry? The eggs he ate just
this morning: little rivers of cold
bird paste. It can’t help
the churning innards to introduce
new bacterial parties.
Salmonella, I’ve met you,
friend. Last week after my own
ova binge. Poland!

Where is Bevets?

An urban (as much as Chapel Hill can be) Haiku:

Late summer moon
Man sleeping in trash
Blows snot from one nostril

For Christmas, my wife got a boob job.
(I thought it’d help with my cock knob.)
On Springer, Cletis said
his libido’d done fled
But now I just feel I’ve been robbed.

I wear black on the outside
Because black is how I feel on the inside
You jive-ass muthaFUCKA

Back from the bathroom
I announce my conclusion:
I need a face lift.

altoids

round powdered soldiers
with minty little taste bombs
colonize my mouth

Lumpy Heads (Group Think Grope)

Some lean to the left
Some to the right
Some part in the middle
Some are high and tight

All of them lumpy
None perfectly round
All beautiful in some way
Or ugly, let’s propound

It a matter of perspective
A discourse everlasting
To determine the superior heads
From ones that need recasting

Or which is the worst head?
Who knows? Who can tell?
To me, this one’s ugly,
To you, it’s kind of swell

Let’s jam them all together
Make one great big head
Take the good with the bad,
The quick, and the dead

Doesn’t matter which you grab
Just grab every one
Squeeze them all together
Until you are done

Left with one gigantic head
That we all can share
Then we’ll be able to agree:
It’s perfect, beyond compare

WHAT YOUR CAT IS THINKING

Oh no he didn’t!

by Donna

Oh no he didn’t!
put in the the no-kitty eating allowed space
pan-fried gizzard, drippings
I’ll run past as if in a race
And meow with throaty discontent
this taste divine, he cannot trace
me to find that I’m eating these foul innards
on his linen pillow, IN YOUR FACE!

Fucker!  I did it
all patterened like that stupid
swan poem from tenth.

(grade)

Taxidermied
Orgasm
Would
A
Great
Name
For
A
Band.

damn I can’t spell for shit today.

damn I can’t spell for shit today.
or for piss,
or any other body product.
damn I can’t spell for shit today.

WHAT YOUR CAT IS THINKING

Water’s tepid still
But in a good hour or so
You’ll make a nice soup.

KATHERINE HARRIS DOES FLORIDA

Rats make good housepets
She wheezed
And she would know
Having stolen the cheese

beast martyred for hag’s
lusts.  Taxidermied orgasm.
Possum will avenge.

densive= defensive

damn I can’t spell for shit today.

Plumply pink
Like a collagened lip
Fringed, self-densive
with pointed tips
You are eager and coy
Pretty as a toy

But dangerous
Like a Freudian vagina.

It’s official: my coworkers think I’m insane.  Why are you people so damn funny?

And not, I say not, plain damn ordinary text.
You silly old moo
I cannot Haiku
Preferring instead a De Stijilist concrete form
for poemetry.

POETRY NOOK CONTEST ENTRY, OTHERWISE UNTITLED

My penis is bigger than a banana
It’s larger than a clarinet.
My penis is the size of the security dude
Who guards the Manets at the Met.

Spazmo and Dimmer
Impotent with fear
could not, could not
rhyme.

But alas!  a ditty
about an ill-fated jesus
or moreso the beast
is more easily grasped
than the proverbial dime.

Spazmo
TV said that was an obsessive scribbling from Nikola Tesla.

Dimmer
You gotta worry about a civilization that lets it’s creator die alone and broke in a seedy hotel. It’s just not right.

Edison, now there was a fuck who needed a punch in the nose.

Need I remind you two daft birds
To save prose for the parlor and consider your words
The nook, for poetry is reserved like a table
At Per Se or Nobu, so unless you are able
To rhyme or to meter, to haiku or to free verse
You’d better buckle up, switch your gears into ree-verse
You can imitate Petrarch or Ginsburg or Keats
Give us doggerel, blank verse, or rap urban beats
But you must answer all in one form or the next
And not, I say not, plain damn ordinary text.

Is there a prize? because I totally love the Second Coming poem. that’s the one I vote for.

Meh, it doesn’t matter.  That was hilarious, bd.

ooh. should I have posted this with it?

[that should be cell’phane]

Jesus came back, but
We thought ‘twas a farce, crowned him
with pudding, cellophane.

My Babies,
my innocent babies,
my 18, 17, no 16
shriveling, one by one
on my horror shrunk teat
at the sight of the
garth brooksian underarm fabric clash
on the fang-ed wombless harridan.
a thousand buicks I have dodged
only to wither, powerless,
beyond playing possom
I am possom

Pink tongue, bathwater
Laps at his toes.  Fungus gone.
Something else rising.

FINE.  I’ll start.  Y’all better play or I’ll pout ALL FREAKING WEEK LONG!!!

(it’s not pretty)

Alas!  The lady holds the beast
His fur quilled, sharp, point’d
Rays of hairy pain
At this injustice doth done to thee.

A beast!  Curv’d like a
diseas’d spine
A question mark
to a question
best left unquestion’d.

Digits spread in desperation
Clutch’d digits, pinch’d waist
A leather mask
of gruesome cruelty and feigned mirth
Hair like fall’n spires
Symptoms of our times

Indeed, ‘twas impossible to say
which man
which beast.