You miss, are now dead to me.

The necrophiliac’s retort
would make me moist
were I lusty for
a lower of the dead.

five; you lose, haha.

Mock me, will you?

You miss, are now dead to me.

Lit nerd must object
A haiku is five seven
five; you lose, haha.

Thump thump goes mattress
Amorous neighbors upstairs
Joys of city life, alas

sticky snow
floats down
like discarded
dreams or
people I
used to
know people
I used
to be

You gonna finish that?

Sometimes I imagine shaving Esme, and I think, God, she would look horrible. - Lady P

P is a Lady.
Yet ponders her shorn pussy
It’s a paradox.

kidnap poem
(Nikki Giovanni)

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i’d kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i’d kid
nap you

poetry

Potery slam

A smoke first, then we go. A smoke

I like this a lot, Dimmer.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen is a great fucking poem, TAP. Thanks.

I love that Noel Coward, I do. He’s in my favorite movie.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen
(Noel Coward)

In tropical climes there are certain times of day
When all the citizens retire,
to tear their clothes off and perspire.
It’s one of those rules that the biggest fools obey,
Because the sun is much too sultry and one must avoid
its ultry-violet ray --
Papalaka-papalaka-papalaka-boo. (Repeat)
Digariga-digariga-digariga-doo. (Repeat)
The natives grieve when the white men leave their huts,
Because they’re obviously, absolutely nuts --

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The Japanese don’t care to, the Chinese wouldn’t dare to,
Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one,
But Englishmen detest a siesta,
In the Philippines there are lovely screens,
to protect you from the glare,
In the Malay states there are hats like plates,
which the Britishers won’t wear,
At twelve noon the natives swoon, and
no further work is done -
But Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

It’s such a surprise for the Eastern eyes to see,
That though the British are effete,
they’re quite impervious to heat,
When the white man rides, every native hides in glee,
Because the simple creatures hope he will
impale his solar topee on a tree.
Bolyboly-bolyboly-bolyboly-baa. (Repeat)
Habaninny-habaninny-habaninny-haa. (Repeat)
It seems such a shame that when the English claim the earth
That they give rise to such hilarity and mirth -

Mad Dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.
The toughest Burmese bandit can never understand it.
In Rangoon the heat of noon is just what the natives shun.
They put their scotch or rye down, and lie down.
In the jungle town where the sun beats down,
to the rage of man or beast,
The English garb of the English sahib merely gets a bit more creased.
In Bangkok, at twelve o’clock, they foam at the mouth and run,
But mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen, go out in the midday sun.
The smallest Malay rabbit deplores this stupid habit.
In Hong Kong, they strike a gong, and fire off a noonday gun.
To reprimand each inmate, who’s in late.
In the mangrove swamps where the python romps
there is peace from twelve till two.
Even caribous lie down and snooze, for there’s nothing else to do.
In Bengal, to move at all, is seldom if ever done,
But mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.

It’s late.
The cat visits.
Begs me for bed.
Not for bestial purposes:
Just so she can curl around my head.

A smoke first, then we go. A smoke.

‘Red breasted robin
In make believe mid-morning,
Hop along.

I am neither a man of romance nor reason
although my actions may speak to both

I am a man misinformed with spleen eviscerated
spread around to splay the entire furrow-
as it were or when or what, I know not
but the splendid circuits of sorrow

For this is the filthy declaration of the 21st c. highbrow rustic’

Avoid Enhancement Pills

Ramsey was suddenly weary. How
Gideon laughed. “Including me!”
Ramsey sat down and stretched.
“Are you certain you didnt let...?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “But I-ha!”
Gideon laughed again. “Perhaps,”
Ramsey shook his head. “Do you...”

My father is to blame for this

Gideon laughed again. “Perhaps.
How is it that I have had to do?”
The question exasperated Ramse:
“She sent her refusals from her-”
Gideon instantly sobered. “But
Are you certain you didnt let...”
“She sent her refusals from her.”

“My father is to blame for this!”

Ramsey shook his head. “Do you?
You dont have a choice in the--”
Ramsey stood and then suggeste
“Aye, and it might rain pigs th--”
Gideon laughed again. P"erhaps,
Not yet,” he answered. “But I—ha!”
“Then Id brace myself if I were-”
Ramsey was suddenly weary. How

My father is to blame for this?

It Was Torn About the Pockets and the Collar Was Shiny

A party favour with no surprise inside it. Glaubt dem Geruchte nicht!
Sometimes the damage was relatively minor,
good inventions that weren’t
quite right for the
target environment. Impact A:

remote attacker may attain
the privilege level of the authentication module.
On the other hand, probabilistic schemes
may be much faster than
their deterministic counterparts,
an attractive feature for
smart-card implementations.

Your workstation uses the Hypertext
Transfer Protocol (HTTP) to respond to browser requests!

We don’t clap people in irons,
we put them in chains. So why was it
not her face that kept filling his mind?
You can’t just leave it lying there.
One of the Queen’s heads dipped
into a bowl, came up with a small
carven doodad in its mouth.

Line breaks are taken into account.

In multiple display
environments where no display
contains the control, the display
closest to the specified control
is returned.

When used as a link,
the pixel coordinates
of the click spot are
transmitted with the URL.

Rats, she supposed,
died when they should.
Finally Fraser gets through
to his young lady in Paris.
The ground rose, wooded and sandy,
to overlook the meadow,
the stretch of river
and the swamp.

Gets the access keys
in the collection.
This utility
can detect if a
host is alive
and
get the information
of the route
to the host.

There was another article
that had become necessary,
a small lighter.

Line breaks are taken into account.

This is a guess,
but not a completely
uneducated one. Shortly after
his return on leave
to Russia in 1825,
the Decembrists staged
their revolt.

If this method is not required,
this can be omitted,
will default to
NULL,
and will be ignored.

This technology creates
virtual workgroups
based on protocol type
or subnetwork address,
and requires less
configuration
on the part
of the network manager.

ToP - you FILTH MERCHANT! I shall have you disbarred for sharing that with the unspoilt eyes and minds of the jerryhood.

Eloisa to Abelard
by Alexander Pope
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav’nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vestal’s veins?
Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!--From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa yet must kiss the name.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal’d,
Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal’d.
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,
Where mix’d with God’s, his lov’d idea lies:
O write it not, my hand--the name appears
Already written--wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays,
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains
Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;
Ye grots and caverns shagg’d with horrid thorn!
Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey’d virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov’d, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray’rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain.

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breath’d in sighs, still usher’d with a tear.
I tremble too, where’er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o’erflow,
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with’ring in thy bloom,
Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom!
There stern religion quench’d th’ unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow’r away;
And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,
Love but demands what else were shed in pray’r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.
Heav’n first taught letters for some wretch’s aid,
Some banish’d lover, or some captive maid;
They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,
The virgin’s wish without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart,
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.

Thou know’st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
When Love approach’d me under Friendship’s name;
My fancy form’d thee of angelic kind,
Some emanation of th’ all-beauteous Mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp’ring ev’ry day,
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gaz’d; heav’n listen’d while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those what precept fail’d to move?
Too soon they taught me ‘twas no sin to love.
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,
Nor wish’d an Angel whom I lov’d a Man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them, that heav’n I lose for thee.

How oft, when press’d to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made!
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies,
Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,
August her deed, and sacred be her fame;
Before true passion all those views remove,
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
The jealous God, when we profane his fires,
Those restless passions in revenge inspires;
And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,
Who seek in love for aught but love alone.
Should at my feet the world’s great master fall,
Himself, his throne, his world, I’d scorn ‘em all:
Not Caesar’s empress would I deign to prove;
No, make me mistress to the man I love;
If there be yet another name more free,
More fond than mistress, make me that to thee!
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
All then is full, possessing, and possess’d,
No craving void left aching in the breast:
Ev’n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,
And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart.
This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be)
And once the lot of Abelard and me.

Alas, how chang’d! what sudden horrors rise!
A naked lover bound and bleeding lies!
Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand,
Her poniard, had oppos’d the dire command.
Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;
The crime was common, common be the pain.
I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress’d,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest.

Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,
When victims at yon altar’s foot we lay?
Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell,
When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell?
As with cold lips I kiss’d the sacred veil,
The shrines all trembl’d, and the lamps grew pale:
Heav’n scarce believ’d the conquest it survey’d,
And saints with wonder heard the vows I made.
Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,
Not on the Cross my eyes were fix’d, but you:
Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call,
And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;
Those still at least are left thee to bestow.
Still on that breast enamour’d let me lie,
Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,
Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press’d;
Give all thou canst--and let me dream the rest.
Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize,
With other beauties charm my partial eyes,
Full in my view set all the bright abode,
And make my soul quit Abelard for God.

Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care,
Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray’r.
From the false world in early youth they fled,
By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led.
You rais’d these hallow’d walls; the desert smil’d,
And Paradise was open’d in the wild.
No weeping orphan saw his father’s stores
Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors;
No silver saints, by dying misers giv’n,
Here brib’d the rage of ill-requited heav’n:
But such plain roofs as piety could raise,
And only vocal with the Maker’s praise.
In these lone walls (their days eternal bound)
These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown’d,
Where awful arches make a noonday night,
And the dim windows shed a solemn light;
Thy eyes diffus’d a reconciling ray,
And gleams of glory brighten’d all the day.
But now no face divine contentment wears,
‘Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears.
See how the force of others’ pray’rs I try,
(O pious fraud of am’rous charity!)
But why should I on others’ pray’rs depend?
Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend!
Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move,
And all those tender names in one, thy love!
The darksome pines that o’er yon rocks reclin’d
Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,
The wand’ring streams that shine between the hills,
The grots that echo to the tinkling rills,
The dying gales that pant upon the trees,
The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;
No more these scenes my meditation aid,
Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
But o’er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose:
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev’ry flow’r, and darkens ev’ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;
Sad proof how well a lover can obey!
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain;
And here, ev’n then, shall my cold dust remain,
Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,
And wait till ‘tis no sin to mix with thine.

Ah wretch! believ’d the spouse of God in vain,
Confess’d within the slave of love and man.
Assist me, Heav’n! but whence arose that pray’r?
Sprung it from piety, or from despair?
Ev’n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;
I mourn the lover, not lament the fault;
I view my crime, but kindle at the view,
Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;
Now turn’d to Heav’n, I weep my past offence,
Now think of thee, and curse my innocence.
Of all affliction taught a lover yet,
‘Tis sure the hardest science to forget!
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense,
And love th’ offender, yet detest th’ offence?
How the dear object from the crime remove,
Or how distinguish penitence from love?
Unequal task! a passion to resign,
For hearts so touch’d, so pierc’d, so lost as mine.
Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state,
How often must it love, how often hate!
How often hope, despair, resent, regret,
Conceal, disdain--do all things but forget.
But let Heav’n seize it, all at once ‘tis fir’d;
Not touch’d, but rapt; not waken’d, but inspir’d!
Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself--and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
“Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;”
Desires compos’d, affections ever ev’n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav’nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch’d away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs’d, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o’er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake--no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more--methinks we wand’ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other’s woe,
Where round some mould’ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow’d rocks hang nodding o’er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Thy life a long, dead calm of fix’d repose;
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,
Or moving spirit bade the waters flow;
Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv’n,
And mild as opening gleams of promis’d heav’n.

Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread?
The torch of Venus burns not for the dead.
Nature stands check’d; Religion disapproves;
Ev’n thou art cold--yet Eloisa loves.
Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn
To light the dead, and warm th’ unfruitful urn.

What scenes appear where’er I turn my view?
The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue,
Rise in the grove, before the altar rise,
Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes.
I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,
Thy image steals between my God and me,
Thy voice I seem in ev’ry hymn to hear,
With ev’ry bead I drop too soft a tear.
When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll,
And swelling organs lift the rising soul,
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight,
Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight:
In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown’d,
While altars blaze, and angels tremble round.

While prostrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind, virtuous drops just gath’ring in my eye,
While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,
And dawning grace is op’ning on my soul:
Come, if thou dar’st, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heav’n; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes
Blot out each bright idea of the skies;
Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;
Take back my fruitless penitence and pray’rs;
Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode;
Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!
Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate’er was mine.
Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!)
Long lov’d, ador’d ideas, all adieu!
Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav’nly fair!
Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!
Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky!
And faith, our early immortality!
Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;
Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest!

See in her cell sad Eloisa spread,
Propp’d on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead.
In each low wind methinks a spirit calls,
And more than echoes talk along the walls.
Here, as I watch’d the dying lamps around,
From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound.
“Come, sister, come!” (it said, or seem’d to say)
“Thy place is here, sad sister, come away!
Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray’d,
Love’s victim then, though now a sainted maid:
But all is calm in this eternal sleep;
Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep,
Ev’n superstition loses ev’ry fear:
For God, not man, absolves our frailties here.”

I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow’rs,
Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow’rs.
Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go,
Where flames refin’d in breasts seraphic glow:
Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay,
And smooth my passage to the realms of day;
See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll,
Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul!
Ah no--in sacred vestments may’st thou stand,
The hallow’d taper trembling in thy hand,
Present the cross before my lifted eye,
Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Ah then, thy once-lov’d Eloisa see!
It will be then no crime to gaze on me.
See from my cheek the transient roses fly!
See the last sparkle languish in my eye!
Till ev’ry motion, pulse, and breath be o’er;
And ev’n my Abelard be lov’d no more.
O Death all-eloquent! you only prove
What dust we dote on, when ‘tis man we love.

Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy,
(That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy)
In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown’d,
Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,
From op’ning skies may streaming glories shine,
And saints embrace thee with a love like mine.

May one kind grave unite each hapless name,
And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o’er,
When this rebellious heart shall beat no more;
If ever chance two wand’ring lovers brings
To Paraclete’s white walls and silver springs,
O’er the pale marble shall they join their heads,
And drink the falling tears each other sheds;
Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov’d,
“Oh may we never love as these have lov’d!”

From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene if some relenting eye
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie,
Devotion’s self shall steal a thought from Heav’n,
One human tear shall drop and be forgiv’n.
And sure, if fate some future bard shall join
In sad similitude of griefs to mine,
Condemn’d whole years in absence to deplore,
And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well;
Let him our sad, our tender story tell;
The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost;
He best can paint ‘em, who shall feel ‘em most.

Fred Schneider from Athens, Georgia wrote:

She came from Planet Claire
I knew she came from there
She drove a Plymouth Satellite
Faster than the speed of light

Planet Claire has pink air
All the trees are red
No one ever dies there
No one has a head

Some say she’s from Mars
Or one of the seven stars
That shine after
3:30 in the morning
WELL SHE ISN’T

the poetry nook
is for pansies
i’m going to watch
Hockey Night in Canada
and have a beer commercial life
for the evening

These are the words of a lad from Glasgow. They mean a great deal to me.

once upon a sign i read a warning and it said
‘when in rome don’t feed the lions’
what is meant i can’t hazard a guess
but now i’ve learned my lesson i’m a better person
i’m filled up with high hopes and i’m fed up with soft soaps
long in the tooth and short on wisdom
up to here with the ache of it

and if the matchmaker calls hand in hand
with a catch of the day i’ll rise to the bait
but it’ll still be more than a heart can take
more than feeling great
more than a tongue can tell

i’d need to take leave of my senses to get a moment’s rest
following in footsteps
footsure in fancy dress
head in my hands i’m making plans
hoovering up for the day

when the matchmaker calls hand in hand
with the catch of the day i’ll raise to the bait
but it’ll still be more then a heart can take
more than feeling great
more than a tongue can tell

and the itch to get rich quick
has never been so hard to reach
with my hands tied behind my back
shin deep in cement and sand
just like the anchor man i broke loose
and crashed to the sea bed
clutching the shortest straw
and if you threw me a line that’s as smart as you think
it wouldn’t stop me sinking down to cry
on what flashed before my eyes
what flashed before my eyes

The Leader thinks you are disgusting, and would you please put that down.

The Leader thinks that your future progeny’s English class is in for a bacon-clad treat.

The Leader

The Leader is radiant, and pure, and all-knowing.

The Leader had some altoids for lunch.  They upset His stomach.

The Leader enjoys buckets of chicken and ticker tape parades.

The Leader knows where you hid the bodies, and thinks you’ve done a fantastic job.

The Leader was, in a previous life, a performing seal at a third-rate Sea World-esque amusement park.  To this day, The Leader shudders at the sight of brightly colored rubber balls.

The Leader would like your milk money.  He would like to buy milk.  And Heroin.  (Mostly Heroin)

The Leader loves you and your twenty eight teeth.

The Leader once had a threesome with Bea Arthur and the Lincoln Memorial statue, and it was beautiful, for such are the powers of the leader that he imbues all with a beauty that is radiant and pure, much like himself.

The Leader is amused that you actually believed the last story.

The Leader would like a back massage.  Please bring the chattering turtles.

tbc

My prescribing shrink says
I need
a Neurologist: I came up with
this Music Man song, it was
wonderful and I—

forget it.
Extras H.

My prescribing shrink says I need a Neurologist: I came up with this Music Man song, it was wonderful and I forget it. Extras H.

Xerox Bacon-clad Hussy
By M.D. Brautigan

Ah,
you’re just a copy
of all the bacon-clad hussies
I’ve ever eaten.

so much depends
upon
a bacon-clad
hussy

glazed with honey
*SPURT*

beside the white
defibrillator.

(The bacon clad hussy themed parodies are funner with the works of William Williams)

See, you’re brilliant.

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of bacon and Cheez-its made;
Nine bacon-clad hussies will I have there, a sty for the pinkest piggy,
And live alone (with my hussies)in the pink-loud bacon shade. 

And I shall have some meat there, sweet fats come dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the hussies to where the bed-springs sing;
There midnight’s all a greasy glimmer, and noon a purple meaty glow,
And evening full of the lusty fleshy things. 

I will arise and waddle now, for always night and day
I hear the thighs a slapping with lust for meat and more;
While I stand on the roadway, fearing my hussies grow gray,
I hear it in my trouser’s core.

K-cup coffee tastes
a wee burnt today. Uh-Oh
Reli’ble, no more?

This Is Just to Say
by Murdered Duchess Williams

I have eaten
the bacon-clad hussies
who were in
the bed

and whom
you were probably
saving
for Saturday’s orgy

Forgive me
they were luscious
so greasy
and so pink

Poems sprout
like brussel sprouts
or a pink snout
or a torrent of water
after a three week drought

poems simmer
like tiny dimmers
under the surface
they demand service
to be immortalized,
dignified and tantalized

in verse most appealing
but alas! the herd of pigs are a’squealing
as they descend on their late master
now fallen to disaster
A fine supper he’ll make
yes, make no mistake

Your porcine friends want you dead
and those tiny dimmers will fuck with your head
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down
And death shall have no dominion.

It’s poetry month
Poems sprout in the nook like
Something or other.

(to the tune of Tiny Bubbles)

Tiny dimmers
In the world
Make LP scared
A nightmare unfurled

Tiny dimmers
Smart-assed beasts
With a feeling they’re gonna
Rise like yeast

So here’s to the subliterate dimmers
And here’s to the gorgeous ones too
And mostly here’s a cynaide pill
To escape a world gone so askew.

Found poem no. 2: the junk mail edition

Wait.
I have another small favor to ask.
I will need
certain marking a finger
each day with soot
until all fingers are . . .

I had no brothers.
I never think about women except
one at a time in Admiral-

I do admire you, I said,
standing and turning to the intent
pleased to know that we will now give
our first public performance.

Absolutely, Floyd!
With their protection we need not feel insecure. stilled, silent-dead?
there to the deadline?
walking around here.

But before you answer that-
who do you think the Floyd had
a large and ugly pistol in his hand now
which didnt slow
Sort of a circle
with an arrow sticking out of it.
Most popular.
Best choice too since it had
an all male lyric.

Loud a semicircle.
They were all filled now
with the oldest collection of you,
develop you,
enrich you.

Welcome, welcome, to the first day of dear sir! You must assure me that
this gets to
Professor Van Diver
at

See?
He’s that
memorable.

I don’t know Dane Cook.
I’ve seen Mystery Men but
don’t remember him.

I’m just curious:
Does anybody really think
Dane Cook is funny?

He who boasted
Gets roasted.

A man-- penis quiet quite enormous
Went took his PCP seeking solace
The doctor said ‘No trick
Just lay out your prick
Oh my god that’s the biggest cock I’ve seen in my lifetime!”

are the quoted parts from somewhere?

Yeah, I lifted ‘em from a wikipedia page on the devil’s tongue. Modal verbs section.

A warm afternoon, everyone moves slowly. Mrs. Brown comes through the door, up alongside the sausage, the tripe, the chops.
- Hullo Mrs. B. What can I get for you today?
- My Hoover has broken it’s belt.
- That’s a shame do you have a spare?
- No, that’s why I’m here. It’s a Hoover Junior Commercial, Model number 320. I couldn’t make out the serial number.”
- Well, that should be enough. I mean, belts are belts, aye?
- Aye but they don’t make them anymore. Not like they used to.
- Well, Arnotts is just down the road a little. They can probably help you.
- Arnotts? Don’t you Arnotts me. I remember when that was Hourstnes.
- Do you have any meat needs Mrs. B.? I’d hate to hold you up.
- I need a belt for my Hoover, the old one broke.
- Yes, you told me about that. It’s a shame. but would you like any meat, sausage, anything like that?
- Will they fit?
- Fit?
- My Hoover needs a belt. It’s broken it’s belt. It’s a Hoover Junior Commercial. I got it from my mother when she died. I guess it’s had a good run. But it’s a good Hoover, when it works.
- Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be able to help you. A belt is just a belt after all.
- Where do you keep your belts?
- We don’t.
- Why not?
- We’re a butcher shop.
- Who would want to buy a butcher?
- How about some mince? Or a steak and kidney pudding? It’s over ready.
- Yes, but I only roll it around really, there’s not much dust these days.
- Ah ha.
- All the weans are gone. The little bird next door too. Maybe it migrated with them? In my day, it was only the ruffians who got shipped off.
- Look, maybe I can get a minute off here and take you to the store where they might sell belts.
- Oh! That’s right! I need a belt for my Hoover. There’s all this dust. Thanks youngster, I’d have forgotten!
- Do you remember if you needed anything from us?
- I suppose I must. Let me think. Are you Louise Butcher’s son?
- No, I’m not a relative.
- She always had to have her hair on, that one. For the Yanks. Always hair. She had real stockings, not gravy. We never spoke well of her behind her back.
- Yeah, like I said, I’m not related.
- You have her hair though, don’t you?
- I think hair expresses the soul of the hair wearer. But my hair is my own.
- May I touch it?
- I suppose, just take care with it.
- Oh my!

That’s really nice Stubby - are the quoted parts from somewhere?

This isn’t a poem, has has no rhyme, no meter—no matter.

An old woman walks along a deserted street.
It is cold, she pulls her coat around her.
The wind plays with her, rips the coat away.
“Bastard!” she whispers to herself, rebuttoning.
She’s home.
Home home home.
She plans her next trip.

He speaks, on his face there’s a sad little frown
"A no can come the day"
He blames the booze and drugs for keeping him down
” A uised tae coud dae it, but no nou “
Despite the depth of his despair, he does not drown
"A micht coud come the morn"

There once was a young man named stubby
Who found fat outgrowth on his tummy
So he put on sweat pants
and didn’t give a fuck.

Nothing’s worse
than erse
in verse

Ode to a lass with in itchy bottom:

Fue heavens hen sit doon, settle
whit could it be that maks ye wriggle
Is it the cauld, saint vitus dance
or public lice in your underpants?

We’re here at church I must implore you
Do not show me your itchy aers in aw it’s glory.

Noo watch, it nips, in angers her dearly
These beasties in the hair so curly
Lady, shall I beat them with a stick?
‘tis least I can do, the came frae ma prick.