Plane rides
to Clownland
If your next stop is Tampa
you're fucked
We are going to the center of the obvious
to find the idiots
who parade as geniuses
and the geniuses
who are swine
In this zoo full of clowns, the bow-tie
is essential -
tied tight around your adrenal glands
denying your every orgasm
**
SONGS MY MOTHER HATED:
SHORT FICTION SET TO MUSIC
I and iamsick are putting together a book of short stories - called Songs My Mother Hated: Short Fiction set to Music - all containing a single favorite song lyric. Publication is planned in the Spring of 2005.
For more information email cdgetz@hotmail.com and rainermaria@hotmail.com.
Mike Hammer
New Orleans, LA
rainermaria@hotmail.com
504.232.3729
**
to Clownland
If your next stop is Tampa
you're fucked
We are going to the center of the obvious
to find the idiots
who parade as geniuses
and the geniuses
who are swine
In this zoo full of clowns, the bow-tie
is essential -
tied tight around your adrenal glands
denying your every orgasm
**
SONGS MY MOTHER HATED:
SHORT FICTION SET TO MUSIC
I and iamsick are putting together a book of short stories - called Songs My Mother Hated: Short Fiction set to Music - all containing a single favorite song lyric. Publication is planned in the Spring of 2005.
For more information email cdgetz@hotmail.com and rainermaria@hotmail.com.
Mike Hammer
New Orleans, LA
rainermaria@hotmail.com
504.232.3729
**
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
God... I am thinin of going to a workshop, but my ego is fering the inevitable worse of metric hobbling doggerel generating 'anyone cn do it', my boyfriend sucks, im sad poets!!! yikes!!!
Comunique.
Et ce fut toujours vindage pour ange.
-Artaud.
My Existence, in birth throes,
restlessly spat from the
Mouth of God. What a Shame,
Ours. A god who wanted
nothing more to do with it.
Here lies, all my histories, forward;
The foul taste in creation's mouth.
Spring has Lilacs, but, still,
Snow falls some day, if not this
and then another way.
I don't need to concern myself,
with that tired, fey boredom,
I've got those slags, those sculptured girls
drawn down upon St. Peters Street;
trading it in, what it? Whose it? Life? for
A Just mortgaged exorcism.
An excorcism of a purity.
We bought it, and we built it,
We sold it to them, and how foul!
What a taste, a non-state; upon
these blistered fringes of
Gods mouth; Je Suis
Only made only
(not for the Halelujeah); yet---
Only for the speaking, of a gospel
to
the non-moment
the non-existence
the non-death
A chain letter you've left unread, and well,
It only ever was made to...
Your future boy, pick up the Oblique
God-Card, Hanging Man, King
Word of god in epitaph,
A future, a horizon, a means, to...
tell you of your very own future,
You own it boy! It's yours, will you
Go quietly, do not otherwise,
Follow the letters, it's yours boy,
one thousand notorious histories
laid out, down as one--- and;
quite simply it reads:
here lies.