"This budget is to budgeting what Frankenstein is to humanity - a frightening approximation."
-hilarious line in an otherwise boring story on municipal politics
1/31/2006
1/29/2006
esoteric insults for the stressed out reader
(your friends will be shocked; your enemies will be puzzled)
(FIAC: on the cutting edge of phrase-coinage since 2004)
- Quit crackin mirrors, you nose-necked fishgurgler!
- Your ass-crevice is canyonesque.
- You put the dope in dopamine. The pinhead in ePINephrine. The tone-deaf in seroTONEin.
- Hey, I need nincompoops for blender-play - and you look just the type.
- Drop the attitude or no one will fertilize your ovaries.
- Wipe that clown grin, putznerd.
- Yo featherhead - methinks you got roosters driving your cockpit.
- Is Elvis alive? Hell no! He thought of you - and killed himself again.
- You bloody box of earwax; you make me puke out snotrags of shit.
- If you were a musician, you'd have a 'worst of' album. And it would be called 'Greatest Hitlers'.
(FIAC: on the cutting edge of phrase-coinage since 2004)
1/25/2006
Things that feel like glonk
aka Things that Feel like Glonk, the Explanation:
First off, what is glonk?
In terms of numerology, glonk lies halfway between flazz and jasswald. It is a measure of crunk, at least it was when crunk was the currency used in Hogfoom, before the Depression.
Efficiency-wise, glonk could out-wamble a gaspatcho blarney, for glonk is neither goffal nor vax. Indeed, glonk is terribly straightforward for most japesters but I’ll elaborate for the uninitiated nonetheless.
Glonk was the original hoo-ha pucknugget, the first ever droning noise recorded with a manx-magnet amplifier. Glonk was in fashion with spandex but fell into disfavour with S Club 7 and the whole “Should I Sleep with my Friends, Just Because I’m lazy?” trend. Glonk’s influence on our times has been wiggling and yellow, and the dictionary has never been the same.
So then, things that feel like glonk:
1) the frustration you get when trying to wrap up an extension cord.
- now some would say that’s the only thing that feels like glonk. Some glonkish-conservatives would limit glonkery to the realm of household appliances and AC adaptors. But have those people ever urped in a doon crank? Likely not. So yah, whatever…
Other things that feel like glonk:
2) Fighter-pilot buzzcuts
3) Jellied curry (and curried jelly)
4) The unburnable lightness of bee stings
finally
5) Counting to 1,000,000 but forgetting to include 456,209, but only realizing that sad fact at #789,203, and then having to start again and wasting an entire year of your life. Dang - that’s some pretty harsh glonk!
Anyway I'd love to write more but my 60 GB iPod is all buzzing and glonky.
(ps this post is not an allegory for the balkanization of our language on the internet. I only thought of that just now, to be an asshole - I swear)
First off, what is glonk?
In terms of numerology, glonk lies halfway between flazz and jasswald. It is a measure of crunk, at least it was when crunk was the currency used in Hogfoom, before the Depression.
Efficiency-wise, glonk could out-wamble a gaspatcho blarney, for glonk is neither goffal nor vax. Indeed, glonk is terribly straightforward for most japesters but I’ll elaborate for the uninitiated nonetheless.
Glonk was the original hoo-ha pucknugget, the first ever droning noise recorded with a manx-magnet amplifier. Glonk was in fashion with spandex but fell into disfavour with S Club 7 and the whole “Should I Sleep with my Friends, Just Because I’m lazy?” trend. Glonk’s influence on our times has been wiggling and yellow, and the dictionary has never been the same.
So then, things that feel like glonk:
1) the frustration you get when trying to wrap up an extension cord.
- now some would say that’s the only thing that feels like glonk. Some glonkish-conservatives would limit glonkery to the realm of household appliances and AC adaptors. But have those people ever urped in a doon crank? Likely not. So yah, whatever…
Other things that feel like glonk:
2) Fighter-pilot buzzcuts
3) Jellied curry (and curried jelly)
4) The unburnable lightness of bee stings
finally
5) Counting to 1,000,000 but forgetting to include 456,209, but only realizing that sad fact at #789,203, and then having to start again and wasting an entire year of your life. Dang - that’s some pretty harsh glonk!
Anyway I'd love to write more but my 60 GB iPod is all buzzing and glonky.
(ps this post is not an allegory for the balkanization of our language on the internet. I only thought of that just now, to be an asshole - I swear)
1/24/2006
August 11 2005
I got better this year.
It was a mixed message, a contradiction, a confusion between intention and intension, a philosophical quibble that blew the latch off the universe. Johnny Cash unleashed the hordes, and cracked me open with a ragged chord, the man came around, knocking on every door in town, the man came around, get your knees on the ground. There's no reason to cower under a burlap sack, but there is also no cure for a heart attack. Wishing well parables, the vacancy of fame, the mundanity of reality, the adoration by hypocrites is all we can count on. This was morose, corroded your mind, asking the trees for a ledge, to climb, Zacchaeus on the edge; an invitation to the masked ball, rip down the decorations and charge drunken through the hall.
Lou conjures lyrics, raw as a teenager.
Why do we assume truth is good? Lies are more easily understood.
The mat upon which I sit in the gym, provides clarity of thought at a strange angle, prostrate I contemplate the moments of my day, I see futures pasts and conversations overheard as premonitions. When I lay down a chorus in surreal raucous chaos is so sweet my eyes rush close to join the Sandman. I can't repeat that sweetness; is no one else touched by that sweet madness; of course I'm not the only one; don’t you think you are the only, Roy Orbison touched a nerve singing ‘you're the only one with a broken heart’ for what is a broken heart but a vicious certainty that loneliness is permanent, no hope for connection with Supreme things in the sky. Let's draw useful wires from this cotton-candy-spinner-kaleidoscope of consciousness mixed intentions and unfinished nirvanas, half-built skyscrapers monuments to cognition ie please stop and think, face facts I could run over a buffalo with I could turn you inside out like Stipe I could unravel this whole week and lay the blame at your door.
What words are prohibited; why is the writer the only one who wants truth, but the speaker is silent and ashamed, trying to put humpty together again, Richard III the humpback in me, so sly and cunning and shy?
I tumbled from a glass, a rag in the sink, I had a bit of soap on me, was a telephone receiver left too long off a hook, beeping uncontrollably, so many noises it irritates, and the desert in the heart needs irrigation lush growth in explosive blooms after a storm. My pathetic fallacy's an Achilles heel, my metaphor's a crutch.
It was a mixed message, a contradiction, a confusion between intention and intension, a philosophical quibble that blew the latch off the universe. Johnny Cash unleashed the hordes, and cracked me open with a ragged chord, the man came around, knocking on every door in town, the man came around, get your knees on the ground. There's no reason to cower under a burlap sack, but there is also no cure for a heart attack. Wishing well parables, the vacancy of fame, the mundanity of reality, the adoration by hypocrites is all we can count on. This was morose, corroded your mind, asking the trees for a ledge, to climb, Zacchaeus on the edge; an invitation to the masked ball, rip down the decorations and charge drunken through the hall.
Lou conjures lyrics, raw as a teenager.
Why do we assume truth is good? Lies are more easily understood.
The mat upon which I sit in the gym, provides clarity of thought at a strange angle, prostrate I contemplate the moments of my day, I see futures pasts and conversations overheard as premonitions. When I lay down a chorus in surreal raucous chaos is so sweet my eyes rush close to join the Sandman. I can't repeat that sweetness; is no one else touched by that sweet madness; of course I'm not the only one; don’t you think you are the only, Roy Orbison touched a nerve singing ‘you're the only one with a broken heart’ for what is a broken heart but a vicious certainty that loneliness is permanent, no hope for connection with Supreme things in the sky. Let's draw useful wires from this cotton-candy-spinner-kaleidoscope of consciousness mixed intentions and unfinished nirvanas, half-built skyscrapers monuments to cognition ie please stop and think, face facts I could run over a buffalo with I could turn you inside out like Stipe I could unravel this whole week and lay the blame at your door.
What words are prohibited; why is the writer the only one who wants truth, but the speaker is silent and ashamed, trying to put humpty together again, Richard III the humpback in me, so sly and cunning and shy?
I tumbled from a glass, a rag in the sink, I had a bit of soap on me, was a telephone receiver left too long off a hook, beeping uncontrollably, so many noises it irritates, and the desert in the heart needs irrigation lush growth in explosive blooms after a storm. My pathetic fallacy's an Achilles heel, my metaphor's a crutch.
1/23/2006
blooby
Do not give in to temptation, it’s late and you are alone, but someone is always watching. This is a lesson, about discipline, about waiting for your moment, waiting waiting you have learned a great deal of patience. Oh boy you tickle those thoughts and flirt with lightning; everything leads to your private crescendo. Now open up those eyes and look 360 degrees, what is a chicken butt, how is now - why made obsolete by a newborn baby’s cry. Nothing better than dinner for two with a hazel-eyed angel; she speaks in silence and oozes grace, her lipstick on my cheek - so I refuse to wash my face.
O lady, quiet in the park; love bites or frostbite? I can’t tell in this dark.
I keep her perfume on a shelf; I sniff it every month, reminds me of Niagara Falls, of strawberries and mangos and jet-screams at airshows. I want her to knit me a scarf; I wanna ask her about silk. She took me to a movie once – it was fun, yeah but I’m still cookie-crumbs in her kitchen and I’m about to spill the milk. I'm fine fettle with a mop, and I'll mix it up with filth; I can't keep clean forever though, I need a signal; need to draw up the will.
O lady, quiet in the park; love bites or frostbite? I can’t tell in this dark.
I keep her perfume on a shelf; I sniff it every month, reminds me of Niagara Falls, of strawberries and mangos and jet-screams at airshows. I want her to knit me a scarf; I wanna ask her about silk. She took me to a movie once – it was fun, yeah but I’m still cookie-crumbs in her kitchen and I’m about to spill the milk. I'm fine fettle with a mop, and I'll mix it up with filth; I can't keep clean forever though, I need a signal; need to draw up the will.
1/21/2006
Discredit to the gender
(put your stereotypes in a can and shake)
I was stuck in the gaze of the great gorgon mother, all love-me and smother and did she feed me extra dessert and did I get that blanket for my feet? False promises, I was a young man in need of affection, she a directionless vortex, daughter of divorce sucking in all sympathy guilt and feeling to feed her inferiority, to make her mammoth all attention-sponge and no product, no space to breathe air in her conversations, all complaint and no inquiry, nothing left for the universe and when war broke out, she cared only for mirrors from her roofless foundation-cracked house, her diaries and anecdotes heedless of objects worshipping her as a subject, the devil in melodramatic details, deadening drill of ‘your day? Lemme tell you about mine.' Was she self-absorbed, feeling this and feeling that, not “I’m just a girl” but “I’m every woman” she said but coyness a lack of politics and is this feminism? Fashion mags at checkout aisles is this feminism? She scrapped civilization ate the cosmos and bought Cosmo and I’m getting stupider just thinking about - not feeling - her.
I was stuck in the gaze of the great gorgon mother, all love-me and smother and did she feed me extra dessert and did I get that blanket for my feet? False promises, I was a young man in need of affection, she a directionless vortex, daughter of divorce sucking in all sympathy guilt and feeling to feed her inferiority, to make her mammoth all attention-sponge and no product, no space to breathe air in her conversations, all complaint and no inquiry, nothing left for the universe and when war broke out, she cared only for mirrors from her roofless foundation-cracked house, her diaries and anecdotes heedless of objects worshipping her as a subject, the devil in melodramatic details, deadening drill of ‘your day? Lemme tell you about mine.' Was she self-absorbed, feeling this and feeling that, not “I’m just a girl” but “I’m every woman” she said but coyness a lack of politics and is this feminism? Fashion mags at checkout aisles is this feminism? She scrapped civilization ate the cosmos and bought Cosmo and I’m getting stupider just thinking about - not feeling - her.
1/09/2006
Got work to do
Due to outside pressures I'm taking a wee break from my dear dearest. Otherwise she consumes my thoughts.
Back in a bit.
See total delights, a new cupcake sidelink, for thought-provoking posts on blogworld and other relevantia*.
*ie stuff that is relevant, an original FIAC word
Back in a bit.
See total delights, a new cupcake sidelink, for thought-provoking posts on blogworld and other relevantia*.
*ie stuff that is relevant, an original FIAC word
1/08/2006
like crap
is how I
feel right now.
but
by the time you read this
I will probably be better
so don't feel obliged
to comment,
or, better yet,
congratulate me on
navigating another pesky
mood swing.
see?
i'm better already
really it's your eyes
that heal me
too bad google
remembers everything;
my next
poem
will be a thousand pages long in a
dead language and be
called
The Emoticon.
feel right now.
but
by the time you read this
I will probably be better
so don't feel obliged
to comment,
or, better yet,
congratulate me on
navigating another pesky
mood swing.
see?
i'm better already
really it's your eyes
that heal me
too bad google
remembers everything;
my next
poem
will be a thousand pages long in a
dead language and be
called
The Emoticon.
1/07/2006
What she was
Fertile fields she plowed, her talent bore fruit. Cosmetics? No. Production values? No – she meant what she said; she led. I talked her over to my place, for a cup of peppermint tea. I concealed my true intentions, made no mention of her eyes, lips, smile, hips. She was green but full of spring, fascinated with chicken wings. I loaned her my heart, said ‘keep the change’ but then everything changed and I'm splattered, puddled and mixed up like a swizzlestick. I wasn't infatuated, I was bewitched, she was obtuse or innocent, grinned when I hinted about getting hitched. She talked in shy syllables, popped gumballs to Benny Goodman, talked about cannonballs and fat men with cast-iron stomachs; I must have been in a rut cuz this was a pickmeup. She didn't laugh so much as tolerate, something icy, something hesitant; but I have this thing for punctuality and she was never - ever - late.
('absolute rubbish' factor: 7)
('absolute rubbish' factor: 7)
1/05/2006
vaguely squeamish
(disturbing images factor: 8)
fridge pigs squeal when the door opens, so many lights illuminate a porkish priggishness. el porko mucks it up in the butter dish, squeezing nubs on a batch of green onions. onions sue for harrassment.
catch me under the fitzwiggin tree, I'll be slurping snails from a spoon.
yoghurt mould grows into a mask, I cake it on my face. beauty only in bacteria.
pumpkin seeds leftover from hallowe'en commence a messy tumour, multiplying mitotically. jack o' lantern o' cancer. yikes.
fridge pigs squeal when the door opens, so many lights illuminate a porkish priggishness. el porko mucks it up in the butter dish, squeezing nubs on a batch of green onions. onions sue for harrassment.
catch me under the fitzwiggin tree, I'll be slurping snails from a spoon.
yoghurt mould grows into a mask, I cake it on my face. beauty only in bacteria.
pumpkin seeds leftover from hallowe'en commence a messy tumour, multiplying mitotically. jack o' lantern o' cancer. yikes.
1/04/2006
Angela the waitress
(I love tresses and waitresses and angels)
Angela the waitress
Got a tattoo
between her blades
splotchy green wings of an eagle
I never knew you cared to
dare
sometimes shoot by my house, you
so upright
were borderline uptight
-what is this new
posture?
sometimes I
wander from the
Dominion to the
café where you work and where
I try to work too
but I just wonder
sometimes you put your hair down.
Angela the waitress
Got a tattoo
between her blades
splotchy green wings of an eagle
I never knew you cared to
dare
sometimes shoot by my house, you
so upright
were borderline uptight
-what is this new
posture?
sometimes I
wander from the
Dominion to the
café where you work and where
I try to work too
but I just wonder
sometimes you put your hair down.
1/02/2006
Mirage #99
(just like following a script)
One day straight hair
the next so curly
yeah so what if I'm short
-sighted
at first glance
I thought you were my girly
although you don’t eat meat, at least your clothes are neat
a fastidious vegetarian?
whatever, I’m smitten by
your folksy expression
where I’m from we don’t say ‘golly’
or decorate for Christmas on the second date.
something resonates, your earnestness
you wanna be a stage temptress
milady it’s not too late.
could I call you (date) number 2?
you said I could call you anytime
but I can’t, really, I won’t
another snuffed siren in a long line
weary of these false alarms
‘where there’s no spark, there’s no fire’
you and I and the rest of us afraid to death of harm
One day straight hair
the next so curly
yeah so what if I'm short
-sighted
at first glance
I thought you were my girly
although you don’t eat meat, at least your clothes are neat
a fastidious vegetarian?
whatever, I’m smitten by
your folksy expression
where I’m from we don’t say ‘golly’
or decorate for Christmas on the second date.
something resonates, your earnestness
you wanna be a stage temptress
milady it’s not too late.
could I call you (date) number 2?
you said I could call you anytime
but I can’t, really, I won’t
another snuffed siren in a long line
weary of these false alarms
‘where there’s no spark, there’s no fire’
you and I and the rest of us afraid to death of harm
12/30/2005
Today's confession: controllable urges
Every so often I am tempted to chop up this blog into several dozen smaller blogs, with each category or 'flavour' of post as its own blog. Have the 'half-assed short story blog', the 'spooky rhyming ramble' blog, and the 'poems about girls' blog etc etc. I think it would make my writing stronger, provide focus that is sorely lacking, and in general give me a kick in the ass. It's the grammarian in me, or maybe it's the mad scientist trying to tame this multi-headed Frankensteinian hydra of the imagination... The problem is how do I delineate the categories in a way that doesn't peter out all my creative momentum? How much do I give in to structure? I fear that once I got going I wouldn't stop subdividing my output into boxes until there was nothing left of the original pelican man. It could be a colossal waste of time, and probably mean a colossal loss of readership as most folks would just assume I jumped the shark and I couldn't blame them either. But I like things to make sense too. I want to give my stuff an even break, have people ACTUALLY READ IT, and it's not that easy when you intimidate the reader with all these voices, styles, sometimes-big-words-sometimes-small-words spontaneous-to-a-fault proto-blogger satirist-realist-mega-micro-not-a-poet-but-an-omnifauxet everything-in-the-universe-dancing-on-the-head-of-a-pin all-things-to-all-eyeballs ambition. Ag, stop - this analysis is giving me cancer.
Or maybe I've just got that New Year's old-year anxiety. What have I accomplished anyway?
Or maybe I've just got that New Year's old-year anxiety. What have I accomplished anyway?
Pedro Loved the Sheesha
It was an all-encompassing, even throbbing desire. The sheesha was like a man inside who drove him to ruin. It possessed a strawberry silkiness, and Pedro quaffed until the small hours. At least, until 9pm, when CSI went on. Pedro watched the television like a man on drugs, and that drug was the sheesha. He cried out to his housemates, "I am seeing spiders, and they refuse to give up the remote."
Pedro regailed us of his Turkish exploits, of his proclivity for coffee and smoke in the cafes of Istanbul, where he would clutch a half-dozen wenches at his side each night and order each one to sing his favourite bagpipe dirges. "You there, in the brown burkah, your timbre is way off," he would yell one particular night. And "you sound nothing at all like my daddy's bagpipes." Pedro loved to harrass the wenches, and he promised the Western world. But he was about to encounter a culture shock that would make him wet his pants, and scream like a whiny boy with his socks on uncomfortably tight. "Please, someone," he said, "show me to the nearest hosiery outlet store." Pedro was always wanting new socks.
Pedro regailed us of his Turkish exploits, of his proclivity for coffee and smoke in the cafes of Istanbul, where he would clutch a half-dozen wenches at his side each night and order each one to sing his favourite bagpipe dirges. "You there, in the brown burkah, your timbre is way off," he would yell one particular night. And "you sound nothing at all like my daddy's bagpipes." Pedro loved to harrass the wenches, and he promised the Western world. But he was about to encounter a culture shock that would make him wet his pants, and scream like a whiny boy with his socks on uncomfortably tight. "Please, someone," he said, "show me to the nearest hosiery outlet store." Pedro was always wanting new socks.
12/28/2005
I need caffeine
(impenetrability factor: 8)
Smoke sucks souls from the physical solid, burgundy bears squat in woods, so squalid. And humming is insolence; what can I do?
My lady of the lake, her back to the wind and freckled and slim, all hyberbole and seminal vitriol, words flown together like association blots, cordial at gunpoint but acidic in the corridor. She’s drunk on grape, shot in the nape, kissed by a vampire - the lip of his cape - blurring the line between passion and rape.
But don’t draw blood like a forensic pathologist. Don’t tell me how it is. You gotta feel it like ya do; 'make the blues hurt' – dripping with sweat from your 4-dollar shirt.
Loosening knots, abandoned cufflinks a clue, do unto others as Scooby did do, snax/relaxation and a month of traction, revisit errors and curse your abstractions, at bottom the well is dissatisfaction, and the Nowhere Man can relate.
Smoke sucks souls from the physical solid, burgundy bears squat in woods, so squalid. And humming is insolence; what can I do?
My lady of the lake, her back to the wind and freckled and slim, all hyberbole and seminal vitriol, words flown together like association blots, cordial at gunpoint but acidic in the corridor. She’s drunk on grape, shot in the nape, kissed by a vampire - the lip of his cape - blurring the line between passion and rape.
But don’t draw blood like a forensic pathologist. Don’t tell me how it is. You gotta feel it like ya do; 'make the blues hurt' – dripping with sweat from your 4-dollar shirt.
Loosening knots, abandoned cufflinks a clue, do unto others as Scooby did do, snax/relaxation and a month of traction, revisit errors and curse your abstractions, at bottom the well is dissatisfaction, and the Nowhere Man can relate.
12/27/2005
Love in the Time of Sheesha
(more apochryphal narrative from west end Toronto)
Love in the Time of Sheesha
The Taps were full of nogoodniks that night, a few Fitty-soaked hockey fans and a three-legged waitress with split ends and a lazy eye. Her name was Bea and she drooled all over the menus. "I had three doses of novacaine," Bea explained, "and I gotta go back tomorrow to finish the root canal." We looked across the table at each other and sighed. The holidays made people do crazy things, like remove all their teeth. Joe complained his own teeth were giving him trouble, and good thing we were in the Portuguese Dentistry District. "Too bad I don't speak a lick o' Portuguese," Joe said. But I reassured him; "let your booty do the talking," I said while gesturing with some crudite. Joe was a belly dancer, the only male dancer in a troupe of sixty Mideastern belly-quivering beauties. That's how he turned me onto the sheesha: I took my first pull of the wacky weed in the garage of one of the dancers, a certain Aliyah Van Snooten, a half-Dutch half-Persian shemale transvestite with knockers up to Tuesday and a sweet falsetto voice. She couldn't dance a hog's darn, but man could she sing. I mean he. Aliyah was also called Frank, he moonlighted as a plumber to pay for his sheesha habit, which ran over five bucks a week...
(yes!)
Love in the Time of Sheesha
The Taps were full of nogoodniks that night, a few Fitty-soaked hockey fans and a three-legged waitress with split ends and a lazy eye. Her name was Bea and she drooled all over the menus. "I had three doses of novacaine," Bea explained, "and I gotta go back tomorrow to finish the root canal." We looked across the table at each other and sighed. The holidays made people do crazy things, like remove all their teeth. Joe complained his own teeth were giving him trouble, and good thing we were in the Portuguese Dentistry District. "Too bad I don't speak a lick o' Portuguese," Joe said. But I reassured him; "let your booty do the talking," I said while gesturing with some crudite. Joe was a belly dancer, the only male dancer in a troupe of sixty Mideastern belly-quivering beauties. That's how he turned me onto the sheesha: I took my first pull of the wacky weed in the garage of one of the dancers, a certain Aliyah Van Snooten, a half-Dutch half-Persian shemale transvestite with knockers up to Tuesday and a sweet falsetto voice. She couldn't dance a hog's darn, but man could she sing. I mean he. Aliyah was also called Frank, he moonlighted as a plumber to pay for his sheesha habit, which ran over five bucks a week...
(yes!)
12/25/2005
Dec 25
Happy back-slapping fistpumping and ‘you old galumph’ing strutting turkey stuffed with pepper chugging nog or sleeping late unwrap Lego/Lincoln logs after breakfast, watch DVDs and cough a lot. Smile at doorbell oh no your distant uncle smirks at little ones smacking robot fists into brains and wait for dinner cooking bacon or baking cookies until lights gleam from drunk drink and coffee ground in sink wiped with a rag oh this winter I’m not so white, bigflake snowmelts and I ride my bike.
12/23/2005
character sketches - monosyllabic
Bill: Sweet and good, yet hates ice cream. Does what he wants. Has bad breath. Pours spit on the page.
Jenn: can draw frogs, not much else. Votes for change, yet won’t dress in new clothes. Likes to watch geese in the park.
Lee: brags to his friends, smirks at the boys; bends the law, scoffs at the cops. Known to hiss like a snake.
Viv: eats cheese from a bag and wears pink hats; drugs her cat with red wine, sings Prince songs in the car. Broke her leg on bad ice and walks on a crutch. Hopes to run free one day soon.
Jenn: can draw frogs, not much else. Votes for change, yet won’t dress in new clothes. Likes to watch geese in the park.
Lee: brags to his friends, smirks at the boys; bends the law, scoffs at the cops. Known to hiss like a snake.
Viv: eats cheese from a bag and wears pink hats; drugs her cat with red wine, sings Prince songs in the car. Broke her leg on bad ice and walks on a crutch. Hopes to run free one day soon.
12/21/2005
diarrhea entry
Sanctified oatmeal
mollified moonwalks
grunting pockets of pith
geranium joy and callous powder
liquor-store vermouth in a paper bag conceals more than addiction
(your fear of getting arrested)
it’s nearly Hogmanay
and I’m still not a Brit
he who smelt it, smelts shit
gamma mocha rays and raisinettes on buttery tubs of rice pudding
this is how we sell our sols-
tice
you who enjoy the short days
the sun’s rays don’t faze
but they’re underground and S.A.D
hooked on fluorescence and antidepressants
but we gab and gab and gab and SING!
And the bells for Christmas RING!
I don’t even own a scarf
Just typing for a larf
Metaphor for barf
I got a shiny new toy in the trunk
By the time it surfaces, covered in gunk
Got that cliché funk.
Me? Dressed in black.
Momma? Smiling through a heart attack.
I had 50 good memories today
Make it 51
I blinked approximately 2000 times.
This is still not sufficiently weird.
You people get spam-mail about lusty virgins teens and peppering your inbox
Yet you don’t bat an eye, right click and forget
But out on the street we all look the same
Shamed about our shameless brains
And the three-legged men and Lewinsky stains
“Oh god not that old chestnut,” I’m
boasting in an open foyer
Gotta find a way to end this ramble.
Thicket thorn, rose bramble
Semantic scramble.
Cannibal ramble
Hannibal the preamble?
Mammal. 32 chromosomes. Has cell phones. Reads in monotone. Make bad jokes, people groan...
Ok
Almost
Finished.
Now.
mollified moonwalks
grunting pockets of pith
geranium joy and callous powder
liquor-store vermouth in a paper bag conceals more than addiction
(your fear of getting arrested)
it’s nearly Hogmanay
and I’m still not a Brit
he who smelt it, smelts shit
gamma mocha rays and raisinettes on buttery tubs of rice pudding
this is how we sell our sols-
tice
you who enjoy the short days
the sun’s rays don’t faze
but they’re underground and S.A.D
hooked on fluorescence and antidepressants
but we gab and gab and gab and SING!
And the bells for Christmas RING!
I don’t even own a scarf
Just typing for a larf
Metaphor for barf
I got a shiny new toy in the trunk
By the time it surfaces, covered in gunk
Got that cliché funk.
Me? Dressed in black.
Momma? Smiling through a heart attack.
I had 50 good memories today
Make it 51
I blinked approximately 2000 times.
This is still not sufficiently weird.
You people get spam-mail about lusty virgins teens and peppering your inbox
Yet you don’t bat an eye, right click and forget
But out on the street we all look the same
Shamed about our shameless brains
And the three-legged men and Lewinsky stains
“Oh god not that old chestnut,” I’m
boasting in an open foyer
Gotta find a way to end this ramble.
Thicket thorn, rose bramble
Semantic scramble.
Cannibal ramble
Hannibal the preamble?
Mammal. 32 chromosomes. Has cell phones. Reads in monotone. Make bad jokes, people groan...
Ok
Almost
Finished.
Now.
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