Monday, December 9, 2002
You can take your poetry class
grind it into a meatball
and cram it up your ass
Mr. Costenoble,
you fruity pebble prick.

And Health teacher,
I’m warning you
to mind your own girth
I could out-eat you
since long before birth
I had a twin brother
way back in the womb
“I ain’t hoggin’ the food tube,
get the hell out my room!”
He ain’t around no longer, you want to be next?
Then use me one more time to illustrate the text.

Go on, girls, keep on giggling
about the time I got kicked out of the cafeteria
for sneaking a second helping.
That’s a good way to get your tits kicked in.

Eating lunch alone is my prerogative
they give me all the pudding they by law can give
“Yoohoo, bitch, it’s chocolate milk!
I didn’t come here for no soyburgers and Silk.”
Who said I ate all the cookies my mom made for the class?
Damn, you must be aching for a Ked up your ass.

Denny McFarlaine needed to get all up in my biz?
Saying my ass was fat and my brownie was his?
Though I wanted to snap the nuts off this fine fellow
and shout and scream and holler and bellow
I decided to just play it mellow.

And when I was done with lunch,
with a bone-shattering crunch
I kicked his ass into Jell-o,
just as a way to say hello.
So much for playing it mellow.

Or at least I will the next time he plays it like that.

Spastic Gastric Function
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.

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.