Monday, November 25, 2002
“Spastic Gastric Function”
is the social event of the year,
bathe your Clydesdales in lite beer...
Homeo-apathy as a viable career?

Flaccid pansies? I’d eat them gladly.
Anteaters play clarinets,
from the trunks of blue corvettes,
the gentlemen have placed their bets.

Take your chances
on pairs of pantses
that look lovely when they’re nuzzled
between the ass cheeks of male models
who suck the rubber tit of baby bottles.

Terrorists?
Don’t act so pissed,
just because your country’s all full of sand.
Think sand castles all across the land!
Everyone’s a king until the crabs attack.

The earth cries,
the French fries
have eyes and legs.
Holy shit McDonalds on acid!
There’s a tarantula with Velcro knees,
George Bush honking on the Japanese.

Rubbery dumplings
shit out the ass of mumbling somethings,
green are their eyes but they only say one thing:
“Hello can I take your order?”

Ronald please,
no angry cow disease
for me.
I’ll have the salad, plain as Jane,
and please hold the holes in my brain.

The world’s a kaleidoscope
not an Al-Qaidascope
and we all try to hope
we’ll live long enough to elope,
a wedding in mauve and taupe
with incontinents jumping rope.

Or at least a back-seat grope
with some kind of hot-ass guru or something
we met at the Spastic Gastric Function.

The Spell of My Love
T is for the time we spend, each day like a minute going too fast; H is for the heart I give, for the love inside I have gladly amassed.

TV Repair
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.

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!