oh, go fuck yourself.
i wrote you a haiku. 08/26/2010
iofur and moppet 08/13/2010
“the night is young,” chirped the gale
“& i am tenderized by lovely thoughts.”
i recall some silent squall, long forgot,
which renders my palate quite pale.
who amongst us dares to dally
those who rise to the occasion,
who live to love, lack hesitation,
in the well-sunned verdant valley?
not I, said the dog, whose conscience cried,
in his paw one emperor’s stiff white thorn
a close shave exposed a ewe to be shorn
a panserbjorne fit to spit on his rag-doll Bride:
“if you don’t ask me to eat, I forget my dinner
make haste, love, before I waste away thinner-“
extra brut 08/07/2010
ah, so civilization secedes to heed, “MOAR WINE,”
the one with the bubbles, you know the kind.
heathen law hardly dictates his hedonist creed
so i did what i did out of want and not need.
listen! i am a tender thing, a browbeaten wick
in a puddle of wax. i’d melt if you held a candle
to anything like the vast chasm of what i might imagine you to be.
don’t overthink things, don’t lemon it, now! pull it out!
a miss! the crowd goes hisssss. i might be naive, too eager to please,
silent in transit- my hands are older than they seem.
how shall i break the law then?
as i do now, stupidly, en masse,
through a friend of a friend of a friend.
i’ll escape the midwest, the moldfest,
though i was reared in the mire
i’ll only listen to music from the shire
ethereal and retro kind of cool woodsy
like sung tongs era animal collective
two girls rode on totoro, and i was mei:
a panther mountain a giant lion.
though i was her supplicant, of cats
Artemis sorely disapproved. she arched her arrow:
so like, why ears on fire in a cornfield?
don’t tell me how to tend my flames
or i’ll flare right up again! shoot,
even the soot-sprites carry fragments
avian bones, forked tongues, feathers,
& wasn’t i good? [shudder] such terrified eyes.
exit stage right. backtrack to the innocence game.
let’s play thistle-in-the-down. sneaky half-twin!
molten intuition, demi-gemini made magma,
marred a bruised dawn. could have sworn
i’d been clenching my jaw, but no- a maiden voyage.
elsewhere, butterflies and banjos chimed on.
a motif unfurled- ivy curled round his wrought iron words,
worn, so plebeian. on record, $10 words rarely occurred-
usually misheard, like Anne’s, faintly blurred:
a watercolor surely slurred. at best, tenuously obscured…
zapp brannigan 08/03/2010
all sugared up, yet tart as a lime
smooth, pedestrian, terribly sub-prime
neat, pert, shampoo matte blue
yet somehow pearlescent, too.
hung up on a hook- a bleating ass
is soundly made of Prince Rabadash
though twice as stricken i’m sure-
the shameful girl who loved the boor.
and for you miss? 08/01/2010
the rest rolled right off of the best
some great weight compressed my chest,
a shadow about eight feet long.
my hestitance which never quits
subtle and grey as a silenced prolonged
by six sleepless nights, one conglomerate day
packed full of wistful sunsets and rises-
engulfed by the bull, its raging kept at bay
by those tentative, sticky compromises.