Monday, October 28, 2002

Fat patterns pulsing
in stitches of static
erratic and plastic,
the spastic display.
With a bang and a kick
and a "cheap motherfucker!"
an emergency side-slapping
repair is performed.
The picture then jittered
and shimmied and quivered
then twisted all sideways,
the image deformed.
With a hearty "hiya!"
like the best fake karate
pissed off fists of fury
rained down on the set.
A homemade remedy
for that TV set voodoo,
a righteous exorcism
time-tested and true.
But with one kick too many
the screen split like a prism
and with an ass-rattling blurt
that cheap cocksucker died.

Now, most would be ready
to cash in the towel.
To blow a foul "Taps"
into a snot rag, goodnight.
But not on my watch!
No, I cannot abide it.
You will not go gently,
you green plastic hunk of Taiwanese shit.

So I break out my tool box,
and with saw in hand,
I proceed to gut it,
this department store brand.
And oh what wonders
pour forth from its cavernous womb!
All transistors and vacuum-sucked tubes.
Delightful chrome marvels
mysterious in hue.

And though I could not save it
this shitbox complex,
the labyrinth of doodads
built only to vex,
I have other plans
for this flat-lining set.
These parts could prove handy,
and I'm one to bet
they could be glued together
to make a grand UFO
that might scare the brown vittles
out of Clem down the road.

Claw
We walk, hand in hand, and one more hand like the hand of love, a third-wheel who won’t take a hint, we sit in sand, sand in my shorts, ass crack!

Invent It!
I will invent it! An alarm for when your milk expires or there’s a nail in your tires or when you’re sleeping with liars.

Mrs. The Pope
I’ll elope with the Pope on a Sunday in Spain, and I hope that the dope won’t pick a day when it rains. For though the walrus and crow might find it refreshing, the sugar-drop people would melt right through the chairs’ meshing.