Archive for the ‘Musing’ Category

. . .and these s(t)ick fucks don`t have nothing to do with it!

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Happy Belated Birthday BoySlut!

 

6 feet from sobriety

perhaps, bitches

when the sun

has risen

6 feet

from our

sobriety &the

bottle

of

whiskey

has been emptied

into

the “essential“

of norm …

 

like i said,

perhaps

until then,

where the fuck

is my mask?

 

a man and his pizza

 

you visit again

6 feet apart

from my balcony

to yours

bitching again

about the pandemic

about how you need

genuine and emotional

physical contact,

bars

to pick up women in,

friends

to take road trips

and head trips with,

places

to lounge, drink coffee

and plug`in to

and how

you`re liable

to cut off your own arm

just to hear

yourself scream;

your cell pings

dominos pizza is sitting

outside your door

you light up

with giddiness

‘cause even you realized

that things

weren’t really that bad

so long as

no one fucks

with pizza

Choosing Nicknames

 

My name’s Nicholas Romanov. I give myself the nickname, “tsar.” I print it on cards for my piano school. Nicholas “Tsar” Romanov, Instructor.

 

     Pupils question me. Who gave you that right? Nicknames are earned, they proclaim with righteousness. Nicknames are predicated on allergies. Tics. Quirks.

 

     I tell them people ought to assign their own nicknames. It’s demeaning to have others label on an arbitrary basis. They used to nickname me freak and nerd because I preferred Tchaikovsky over pogs.

 

     I print up more cards, TSAR emblazoned in largest letters.

 

     I lose business, stand firm. I dispense more cards.

 

     I’m a tsar.

regret&sometimes loathing

 

he wasn`t much

for my emotions, `cause

he`d spew insults like

`your poetry

is a prison

with your verses

on death row`

 

and

 

`your insecurities

are like

temporary flowers    

wilting  

in white padded rooms

with black curtains

and no windows`

 

personally, i think

he just missed

partying with strippers

named barbie

and quoting bukowski

to his cat   

 

 

11 a.m.

 

he said

he awoke

with phlegm

in his throat

and

a dirty brunette

fucking with

the sid vicious`ness

of his mind

 

so, he said

he kicked her

off his bed

and she rolled under

and disappeared

like those non`nancy`s

his liver picks up

outside the hollywood liquor

at 11 a.m.

the same liver

that suffers daily

from binge psychosis

and

bullshit poetry

misses Saturday night

 

she closed the        gap

on their

relationship

 

at the bottom of a bourbon glass     

with a 6 pack of

blue ribbon Pabst

and

a toothbrush

once belonging

to johnny cash

Lipstick

 

this is

a

down

on

my luck

poem

 

it doesn`t want

your sympathy

or pity

 

it just wants you

to believe

that it`s

fucking

happy

 

that its

got

its shit

together

 

that it

still

can afford

to pay

for lipstick

dizzying in her daylight

 

the girlfriend left me ’round noon
packed her tampons, her Sex Pistols
and her Jimmy Choos ’cause she couldn’t choose between
me & her narcissistic cat;

I was glad she was gone      got tired of her hairballs

on to week 2 of being single and sexless in a city
populated by pussies & strays;
can’t hold a steady job
but I’m workin’ at a truck stop
binging on porn mags & 5¢ bubble gum
my subscription to YouTube is gettin’ ready to expire

met this lot lizard named something something
she said I was better than the scum prowling for prowl
said she wanted to become a nun
and start a coalition of ‘nuns with benefits’
for the priests the pope and the bishops
but she shunned on the idea when she realized
that she probably couldn’t wear lipstick

said she was a woman
who didn’t like working hard for her money
said that Donna Summer could kiss her ass
and wondered if she was still alive?

I thought the lizard lived in a trailer park
but she just wanted to swing by
and listen to the Gibbs with the squatters; she thought
Travolta was a Bee Gee & the dance floor an alien ship

she was such a fucking ditz, I was missing my ex
and her head trips

but she spun me dizzy, stuck a joint in my mouth
while she chewed birth control pills and spilled
every detail of her life on my lap – I had to tap out at 10
lights out at 12 but she started cleaning my house;
she was a trainwreck in a beehive hairdo
and I wondered if she was a product of a B52;
a love child from the love shack?

then we had sex, rug burn across the kitchen floor
her cunt felt like a good catch on a sunny day …

subscription renewed

Postscript

It was Marty McBride. However, this was no ordinary Marty. This was non-representational, abstract Marty and he began with his expressionism. He turned blue and, as Yves Klein, dove upon Akimbo. Akimbo, flustered, admired the monochrome; he was a fan of Klein.

Pity he died so young!” Akimbo yelled as he dropped the ax. Akimbo threw the blue imitation Klein-creature off. Marty as Klein and blue was getting his chance. He’d stop the big murderous opinionated poseur bastard Akimbo. He’d do it to save the combination color scheme challenged and color-blind in the Culvert of Altaloona. No longer would Akimbo and his compatriots those minions of the Artistic Standards Board wreak havoc on artistic invention. Let freedom ring!

Creature Marty Klein morphed. Marty remained determined to stop Akimbo but now he wore a Jimi Hendrix face. What’s more, from somewhere, somehow, he’d acquired a large potato and was using it as his body. He was propelling this potato body with uncooked spaghetti stick legs stuck into manzanilla pimiento stuffed “feet.” Indeed, this Marty potato spaghetti leg olive foot creature wore a golden silver dollar pancake head. Emblazoned and mugging upon one side of this golden pancake was the animated likeness of Jimi Hendrix!

Akimbo, seeing Jimi Hendrix’ pancake head, clutched his chest. He tried to grab the frisky potato and came away with potato Marty’s Hendrix pancake head! Immediately, Akimbo stuffed Marty’s Hendrix head into his mouth and swallowed. Marty was trapped. His head was gone. He was a potato with hard Durham egg spaghetti legs and green red pimiento stuffed olive feet. Cooked he’d be a tasty. But raw he was nothing. Headlessness made matters worse.