some more old stuff.
...........
Puff Piece:
I love it when you shape my meat patties. I love the way you pick the drowned moths out of my coffee. I love the way you stare at my ashtray without speaking. I love the way you taunt the elderly. I love the way you say Massachussetts when you cant think of anything else to say. I love the way you quote Baudelaire while stomping around the garden in your clunky boots. I love the way you can get drunk on vegetable oil. I love it when you scream my name, I just wish that you wouldnt do it during the arraignment. I love the way your kisses taste like soy sauce. I love the way that your left eye twitches when you are making up something concerning higher mathematics. I love every gastric gurgle that you have ever made, or are likely to ever make. I love how you can look sexy, even wearing you aqualung. I love that groovy thing you can do with your toes. I love the wa that you break down & utilize proteins, when we are kissing on the sofa. I love the way that you defy any anatomical precedents. I love the papercut on your thumb, & how you go on & on about it, even when Im trying to sleep with a pillow wrapped around my head. I love what youve done with your hair, I just wish that you wouldnt keep it in a drawer where nobody can see it. I love the way that you alphabetized my Fleetwood Mac albums while I was out executing dissidents. I love the enigmatic little notes that you hide in my sandwiches. I love the spaces between your toes. I love the way that you cunningly veil your threats. I love the way you track game, even though the lifetime ban from the zoo has hindered my plans for next weekend considerably. I love the way you can dial a telephone without using your fingers. I love your prehensile nipples. Oh God, I love your prehensile nipples!
Most of all, I love that shy smile that plays across your lips whenever someone mentions Adlai Stevens.
...........
Dreams of pig-faced puppets attacking all of my aunties...
Why? I dont know why, but I think that its time I stop injecting antihistamines DIRECTLY INTO MY BRAIN right before bedtime. And I should definitely get my hammock fixed, knowing how suceptible to jungle rot the damn thing is.
The repossessed my toothbrush again for late payments, those bastards.
I think that Ill go find some orange juice.
What I do with it when I find it is nobodys business but my own.
Then Im going to Ohio to visit an old lover.
Then Im going to write a book about hammock repair. (Ill just copy all the information out of a different book about hammock repair, changing all of the personal pronouns. Or Ill rewrite a book about sheep repair, replacing the word sheep with the word hammock & the word testicles with grommets.)
I think that theres a lot of money to be made from the vagaries of the International Copyright Laws, & Im just the heartless son-of-a-bitch to do it, but I just dont feel like getting out of bed right now & my typewriter is in Ohio, under a pile of soggy mattresses. THAT WAS ONE HELL OF A PARTY.
I agree, Now get off my porch.
(Youre scaring my cat. She hasnt been feeling at all herself since the doctor told her that she was a cat & very like, in the near future, to give live birth to more cats..)
If I ever get my toothbrush back from the repo men (piggy little men with piggy little eyes), Il show you what passion is all about, you saucy little department store manequin, you, but until then could you spot me a ten until the organ-buyer comes back to town? Hes promised me twenty for the back of my skull, & Im not really using it for anything right now--& rents coming due. Ive been bartering for the last couple of months & I think that the landlady is sick & tired of seeing me come around every month with my arms loaded down with live chickens...
.......
A hollow sound.
A rambunctious sound.
A noise that fizzles in the blood.
A noise that squeezes the brain.
A seditious sound.
The sound of a liver failing.
The sound of a thunderstorm giving up & going home.
The noise of a monkey staring hard.
All the tones of an imminent erection.
A foolish sound.
The sound of a battery dying.
Listening to the wallpaper peel.
The sound of a mermaids hair.
The rustle of pale clothing bathed in a flash.
The hiss of steam escaping my earholes.
The sound of a pair of silver scissors lodging into a dartboard.
The noise of ten ticks in a shotglass.
The sound a tatoo makes rubbing against burlap.
A wonderful abundance of noise.
The scream of a hairline receding.
The collective shriek buried in a pile of newspapers.
A muffled anthology.
A murmur of eyes.
A black howl of paint.
A whisper of papercuts on both hands.
Too many matchsticks making too much noise.
A whimper of sentences.
The sound of an eardrum operating.
A noise that makes the blood go to Mexico.
The stifled sob of a poorly translated French Novel.
The shriek of lukewarm pasts, flung through the air.
A declaration of badly prepared coffee.
A sound that whirls the brain like a gyroscope.
The sound a mapmaker make making maps.
An unclean sound, in a spotless room.
An accusing look that whistles through the air, lodging three inches deep in my skull.
The music of polished lampshades.
A sound that sidles into the brain & squats there.
A worn photographic noise.
An eloquent lurch of sound.
A transplanted sound.
A chilled glass of noise, being swirled most inelegantly.
A whining pair of shoes, pushing their luck.
The shriek of a star falling, hitting the ground, & bouncing twice.
A funkier noise than you have ever been funked by before.
The hollow clunk of an obvious sonnet.
A warble of perfume, clenching her clavicle with little blue fingers.
A symphony of carpet remnants, frightening the children.
The chuckling of a badly set elbow, keeping me awake at night.
The babble of accountants, muffled by a cloud of carbon monoxide...
...........
In coffee there is truth. Its usually not very interesting, but there it is. Theere is no reason that a buffalo cannot be Prime Minister. I wish that a horse or, failing that, some sort of cow. I have the worlds largest collection of little plastic gears & screws & I want you to have them after I die. Theres no good reason for dipping birds into vats of dye or, if there is one, I havent heard it yet. I dont get around much anymore, not since they confiscated my plastic eye. Fudge can be fun, but it should never be taken for granted. The Smurfs were all Freemasons, except for Lazy Smurf, who could never get the secret handshake down properly. Cottage cheese is a notoriously risky contraceptive, or so she says. The next time that we make love, under the stars, lets try to find a place with fewer landmines. Im going to kick your ass, & when Im done kicking your ass, lets go to that new spaghetti resteraunt that Ive been hearing about. The Fifth orseman of the Apocalypse shall be called Skippy, & he will ride a chunky horse. I might not be able to balance a checkbook, but that doesnt mean that Im not going to kick your ass. She has the taste & texture of a Muppet, but I just dont feel comfortable telling her that.When will the peoples of the world learn that Crayola Crayons are non-toxic. While were on the subject, I dont think that Pretty Boy Floyd was all that pretty. A violent eruption of the sun has fucked up my day, once again. I would kill for an episode of the Incredible Hulk right now, or at least maim someone. Thats a mighty cute wound youve got there, maam. There were tears in her eyes, but whether they were from sadness, joy, or a purely physical reaction to my gangrenous leg, Ill never know. I wish that you would stop burning my letters before I get around to writing them. I just love the way that you say Im a Ninja assassin from the land of angry ghosts& I have come to rend your soul with my razor-sharp nails & then chew off your genitals with that coy look in your bloodshot eyes...
...............
It is Valentines Day, my dearest...
I brung you a box of choklits.
I brung you an autorgraphed copy of the Karma Sutra.
I brung you some pretty posies that smell just as nice as flowers.
I brung you a pony with a pretty bow round his neck, but I would advise you not to ride him, as he hasnt been feeling at all well lately & might die.
I brung you a bottle of Worchesterschire sauce, for erotic purposes.
I brung you a Gatlin Gun, & only you know why.
I brung you a painting I did of myself, but I want it back when youre done with it.
I brung you some food.
I brung you a big ole Polska Keilbasa, marinated in gin.
I brung you gourds, beautiful gourds, all the colors of the rainbow.
I brung you a tape of that Italian Opera crap that the movie stars are listening to all the time.
Because I love you. Because I adore. Because I would stalk you if I could only find the time. Who can find the time to properly stalk nowadays, what with all the unrest in the Middle East? Answer me that.
And you know that I just dont have the stealth to stalk, not with these big ole clunky shoes that I have to wear for orthepedic reasons, & these bells that I wear on my head, because I want to be in fashion.
And my binoculars are in the shop because I dropped them square in the middle of a mosh pit, & thats no good for binoculars.
There are lots of other good reasons why Im not stalking you right now, but I wont bore you with them, partly because thees somebody at the door, & partly because my brain has been ravaged by syphilis.
But I do love you.
I love you more than a francophile loves his Gilbert & Sullivan records.
I love you more than a blue whale loves whatever it ests. Its called krill or kelp or klogs or something like that. Anyway, they cant get enough of the stuff, &, like the blue whale, I cant get enough of you. It is my dearest wish that when you are old, when you are dying, the words on your lips as you expire are : There was a time when he loved me more than a blue whale whatever it is that a blue whale... And then you will die with a playful smile playing across your lips & the doctors will be all confused....
.................
...........
Puff Piece:
I love it when you shape my meat patties. I love the way you pick the drowned moths out of my coffee. I love the way you stare at my ashtray without speaking. I love the way you taunt the elderly. I love the way you say Massachussetts when you cant think of anything else to say. I love the way you quote Baudelaire while stomping around the garden in your clunky boots. I love the way you can get drunk on vegetable oil. I love it when you scream my name, I just wish that you wouldnt do it during the arraignment. I love the way your kisses taste like soy sauce. I love the way that your left eye twitches when you are making up something concerning higher mathematics. I love every gastric gurgle that you have ever made, or are likely to ever make. I love how you can look sexy, even wearing you aqualung. I love that groovy thing you can do with your toes. I love the wa that you break down & utilize proteins, when we are kissing on the sofa. I love the way that you defy any anatomical precedents. I love the papercut on your thumb, & how you go on & on about it, even when Im trying to sleep with a pillow wrapped around my head. I love what youve done with your hair, I just wish that you wouldnt keep it in a drawer where nobody can see it. I love the way that you alphabetized my Fleetwood Mac albums while I was out executing dissidents. I love the enigmatic little notes that you hide in my sandwiches. I love the spaces between your toes. I love the way that you cunningly veil your threats. I love the way you track game, even though the lifetime ban from the zoo has hindered my plans for next weekend considerably. I love the way you can dial a telephone without using your fingers. I love your prehensile nipples. Oh God, I love your prehensile nipples!
Most of all, I love that shy smile that plays across your lips whenever someone mentions Adlai Stevens.
...........
Dreams of pig-faced puppets attacking all of my aunties...
Why? I dont know why, but I think that its time I stop injecting antihistamines DIRECTLY INTO MY BRAIN right before bedtime. And I should definitely get my hammock fixed, knowing how suceptible to jungle rot the damn thing is.
The repossessed my toothbrush again for late payments, those bastards.
I think that Ill go find some orange juice.
What I do with it when I find it is nobodys business but my own.
Then Im going to Ohio to visit an old lover.
Then Im going to write a book about hammock repair. (Ill just copy all the information out of a different book about hammock repair, changing all of the personal pronouns. Or Ill rewrite a book about sheep repair, replacing the word sheep with the word hammock & the word testicles with grommets.)
I think that theres a lot of money to be made from the vagaries of the International Copyright Laws, & Im just the heartless son-of-a-bitch to do it, but I just dont feel like getting out of bed right now & my typewriter is in Ohio, under a pile of soggy mattresses. THAT WAS ONE HELL OF A PARTY.
I agree, Now get off my porch.
(Youre scaring my cat. She hasnt been feeling at all herself since the doctor told her that she was a cat & very like, in the near future, to give live birth to more cats..)
If I ever get my toothbrush back from the repo men (piggy little men with piggy little eyes), Il show you what passion is all about, you saucy little department store manequin, you, but until then could you spot me a ten until the organ-buyer comes back to town? Hes promised me twenty for the back of my skull, & Im not really using it for anything right now--& rents coming due. Ive been bartering for the last couple of months & I think that the landlady is sick & tired of seeing me come around every month with my arms loaded down with live chickens...
.......
A hollow sound.
A rambunctious sound.
A noise that fizzles in the blood.
A noise that squeezes the brain.
A seditious sound.
The sound of a liver failing.
The sound of a thunderstorm giving up & going home.
The noise of a monkey staring hard.
All the tones of an imminent erection.
A foolish sound.
The sound of a battery dying.
Listening to the wallpaper peel.
The sound of a mermaids hair.
The rustle of pale clothing bathed in a flash.
The hiss of steam escaping my earholes.
The sound of a pair of silver scissors lodging into a dartboard.
The noise of ten ticks in a shotglass.
The sound a tatoo makes rubbing against burlap.
A wonderful abundance of noise.
The scream of a hairline receding.
The collective shriek buried in a pile of newspapers.
A muffled anthology.
A murmur of eyes.
A black howl of paint.
A whisper of papercuts on both hands.
Too many matchsticks making too much noise.
A whimper of sentences.
The sound of an eardrum operating.
A noise that makes the blood go to Mexico.
The stifled sob of a poorly translated French Novel.
The shriek of lukewarm pasts, flung through the air.
A declaration of badly prepared coffee.
A sound that whirls the brain like a gyroscope.
The sound a mapmaker make making maps.
An unclean sound, in a spotless room.
An accusing look that whistles through the air, lodging three inches deep in my skull.
The music of polished lampshades.
A sound that sidles into the brain & squats there.
A worn photographic noise.
An eloquent lurch of sound.
A transplanted sound.
A chilled glass of noise, being swirled most inelegantly.
A whining pair of shoes, pushing their luck.
The shriek of a star falling, hitting the ground, & bouncing twice.
A funkier noise than you have ever been funked by before.
The hollow clunk of an obvious sonnet.
A warble of perfume, clenching her clavicle with little blue fingers.
A symphony of carpet remnants, frightening the children.
The chuckling of a badly set elbow, keeping me awake at night.
The babble of accountants, muffled by a cloud of carbon monoxide...
...........
In coffee there is truth. Its usually not very interesting, but there it is. Theere is no reason that a buffalo cannot be Prime Minister. I wish that a horse or, failing that, some sort of cow. I have the worlds largest collection of little plastic gears & screws & I want you to have them after I die. Theres no good reason for dipping birds into vats of dye or, if there is one, I havent heard it yet. I dont get around much anymore, not since they confiscated my plastic eye. Fudge can be fun, but it should never be taken for granted. The Smurfs were all Freemasons, except for Lazy Smurf, who could never get the secret handshake down properly. Cottage cheese is a notoriously risky contraceptive, or so she says. The next time that we make love, under the stars, lets try to find a place with fewer landmines. Im going to kick your ass, & when Im done kicking your ass, lets go to that new spaghetti resteraunt that Ive been hearing about. The Fifth orseman of the Apocalypse shall be called Skippy, & he will ride a chunky horse. I might not be able to balance a checkbook, but that doesnt mean that Im not going to kick your ass. She has the taste & texture of a Muppet, but I just dont feel comfortable telling her that.When will the peoples of the world learn that Crayola Crayons are non-toxic. While were on the subject, I dont think that Pretty Boy Floyd was all that pretty. A violent eruption of the sun has fucked up my day, once again. I would kill for an episode of the Incredible Hulk right now, or at least maim someone. Thats a mighty cute wound youve got there, maam. There were tears in her eyes, but whether they were from sadness, joy, or a purely physical reaction to my gangrenous leg, Ill never know. I wish that you would stop burning my letters before I get around to writing them. I just love the way that you say Im a Ninja assassin from the land of angry ghosts& I have come to rend your soul with my razor-sharp nails & then chew off your genitals with that coy look in your bloodshot eyes...
...............
It is Valentines Day, my dearest...
I brung you a box of choklits.
I brung you an autorgraphed copy of the Karma Sutra.
I brung you some pretty posies that smell just as nice as flowers.
I brung you a pony with a pretty bow round his neck, but I would advise you not to ride him, as he hasnt been feeling at all well lately & might die.
I brung you a bottle of Worchesterschire sauce, for erotic purposes.
I brung you a Gatlin Gun, & only you know why.
I brung you a painting I did of myself, but I want it back when youre done with it.
I brung you some food.
I brung you a big ole Polska Keilbasa, marinated in gin.
I brung you gourds, beautiful gourds, all the colors of the rainbow.
I brung you a tape of that Italian Opera crap that the movie stars are listening to all the time.
Because I love you. Because I adore. Because I would stalk you if I could only find the time. Who can find the time to properly stalk nowadays, what with all the unrest in the Middle East? Answer me that.
And you know that I just dont have the stealth to stalk, not with these big ole clunky shoes that I have to wear for orthepedic reasons, & these bells that I wear on my head, because I want to be in fashion.
And my binoculars are in the shop because I dropped them square in the middle of a mosh pit, & thats no good for binoculars.
There are lots of other good reasons why Im not stalking you right now, but I wont bore you with them, partly because thees somebody at the door, & partly because my brain has been ravaged by syphilis.
But I do love you.
I love you more than a francophile loves his Gilbert & Sullivan records.
I love you more than a blue whale loves whatever it ests. Its called krill or kelp or klogs or something like that. Anyway, they cant get enough of the stuff, &, like the blue whale, I cant get enough of you. It is my dearest wish that when you are old, when you are dying, the words on your lips as you expire are : There was a time when he loved me more than a blue whale whatever it is that a blue whale... And then you will die with a playful smile playing across your lips & the doctors will be all confused....
.................
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
I mean, is the job so great, hooker in Minneapolis? see what I mean.