How many playgrounds
will you give me for this tank?
I’ve got a helicopter with cannons
for a school on a river bank.
We’ve got a lot of bullets
and a bunch of useless bombs;
Can I trade these in
to help out some single moms?
I can’t really think
of a time that I’d need
a machine gun to kill
a thousand, indeed.
perhaps you could take
all this extra stuff,
and instead give the homeless
a life less gruff.
perhaps we could send
130,000 troops
into New York to feed
the hungry on their stoops.
With this much extra,
why stop there?
We could be feeding
everyone, everywhere!
And imagine all the children
playing with their toys,
rather than them screaming
from the bombing’s noise.
If all of that is not enough,
I’ve got a nuclear submarine
to put up to auction
for the American Dream.
Poetry
Nothing is what it Says
I read Economic reports on Iraq.I read the constitution.Nothing is what it says.(These are lies being written)I read Workplace Handbooks.I read Investor Prospectus’.Nothing is what it says.(There’s an old hat on my head)I read history books.I read poetry.Nothing is what it says.(my heart has never broken)I read instructions for my vaccuummee.I read the lease agreement.Nothing … Read moreNothing is what it Says
Drunken Fools
The Red Sox lost for 86 years in a row,But still they showed up to Fenway.It made for a comfortable hometo all of Boston’s drunks.New York can have their World Series,I just want $7 bleacher seatsand $2 beers.That’s really winning.
New World Sex Orders
Just a quick warning – this poem has caused people to: get up and walk out of readings, threaten me with severe injury, yell equally obscene things, etc. In short, this poem often offends people. If you are offended by anything you’ve seen so far, I’d suggest you not read this. If you are not so easily offended, then by all means, read on. If you’re under thirteen, I hope you have learned to think for yourself, otherwise, you may not want to read on. If you’re over thirteen, that’s your own damn fault; quit your whining and move on already.
But to give it the proper intro, I wrote this bit of prose that I think of as free form poetry without a page big enough to hold each line, shortly after I got off the phone with my mother. At the time, we were discussing the frame that defines the debate on pornography; me on the side of “it liberates women, is cool, etc.” and my mother on the other side. But I’d been discussing how so often in porn, the “money shot” is a load on the face, and I wondered at the implications. Then I came across some wretched Bush thing and this was the culmination of the two.
Jerk my cock and stroke my nipples until I cum
gallons of cum washing down the mountain of my head
stripe the lanes of this little road we walk with it.
Isn’t it what we want; Cum inside our eyes and our noses and our mouths and our ears, and our asses?
Isn’t this what we’ve all been waiting for, the next scene will only be the credits, are we all there?
Cum all over the windshield as I drive. It’s coating everything. Everything is under its dominion.
I have fallen subject to the pornographic wishes of an ever so noticeable idiot where I now have a gun and a ruck sack, not a fuck sack. Can I have a drink?
Can I drink my sorrows away after I’ve killed all that I can kill today? It’s just a prick, a small needle in my back where the penises are put, tiny penis shaped transmitters sending out the details of my movements.
Daddy is a cunt and he anxiously awaits my return, cock, balls, deep drawls, and everything TEXAS! We’re big here in this new order where the fries can chase you down and we will have a hydrogen car! We will have that thing in our asses that makes us walk far, on patrol, in a country we never learned about in school. Was that stick-it-up-our-ass-a-stan, or did we just take over Rhode Island?
I know, I know, it’s a need to know basis, but shouldn’t the executioners be convinced of the crimes of the condemned? Is it just my job to flip a switch without consequence or conscience? Is my job just to fluff the stars cock? Should I stop?
What if I bite down? Will the show go on? Or is that civil disobedience?
Pixie Notes
Nearly 70 out here. thawing out my fingers, my toes, my eyes. I can taste chocolate in the wind tonight – it’s melting off of the stars. i’ve been tube-traveling with silence as a constant companion – you? Sometimes the silence roars up like the flowers in a field of blood. War has been on … Read morePixie Notes
Ode to Modernity & Dylan
it’s all over now, queen jane. it’s down tubes and through grinders (teeth, chew, teeth, chew) it’s the life of regret revisited in death camps for the old, on prison cots waiting for life. it’s all over now, queen jane.
Journeys Ends
A new Journey is what I need a horse to replace this one that’s been my trusty steed; elegance in eloquence I’ve arrived to turn over my deeds to these homes where I never sleep, to these fields that I never keep, to this love that has not made a peep, to this world that … Read moreJourneys Ends
the Only Thing Left
(we should just go get it over in the bathroom – I know of a bar where the stall door locks.) Everyone on a train has a nice ass. everyone on a train is waiting for a lover that they’ve never met – only they’ve got to be faithful to the one they have. they … Read morethe Only Thing Left
the pope is dead
The pope is dead.dot.damn.dot.dead.dot.dead holy.dot.dead. well fed pigs at a trough, sleeping jerks dream cream colored screams. dot.dead. … dot . dead. not dead not dead not dead no offense no defense, no slips to trip undressing in pleasing essence of lives in doubt, in grace periods between payments for pavements of ripped up screaming … Read morethe pope is dead