Thursday, March 30, 2006

SKYYE RIPS OFF A DIRTY LIMERICK

ME (after visiting the library): here, lemmie read you this really cool poem by Richard Brautigan ::flips pages::

MINE GOODWIFE (in a grating, half-drunken voice at the wheel of the van):

Hickory dickory dock!
the Bitch sat on my cock!
...around she did go
'till I blew my load!
Hickory dickory dock!!
ME (after pause): That's going on Poor Man's, you know...

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Sense of Obligation

Let me open this entry with a quote from someone else. That seemed to stir up a lot of feelings the last time and why pass up the chance to do a little stirring this time.

In my recent reading I came across this piece that struck me profoundly. I know nothing about it, but perhaps some of you do. Just from reading it, I get the impression, that it is part of a much larger piece but I could not be troubled to research it. It reads:

Carrying Capacity
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
-Stephen Crane, 1899.

With this in mind, I humbly submit these two pieces.

In Defense of the Old C.B.

I am the one you see picking up a lone penny in the parking lot
I wear the same boots day in and day out
They are all I have.

I fix an old thing
And don’t buy the new,
If I can help it.

I hate wasted food
And move from room to room
Turning off lights as I go.

When I warmed myself by the fire
I was thankful for junk mail
It was heat I didn’t have to buy.

I wash my clothes
When they need it
Washing them too much wears them out

I buy a lot of army surplus
The stuff lasts forever and
I’m found of pockets and khaki + green are my favorite colors.

Don’t get me wrong
I am free with my money
I might be referred to as an “Easy Touch”

I am a heavy tipper
I buy leather jackets
Because I know, with care, my grandchildren can wear them.

I have no problem with buying the best
And ponying up plenty of cash,
If I know it will last.

I have been cold
I have been hungry
I would wish it on no one

Paul Newman once said
“You ever been hungry?
Not just ready for supper,

But really hungry?
To where your belly swells?
You’d eat dog and fight for the bones.”

I find hunger to be
A powerful teacher
Make no mistake.

I count my blessings
And pray at every meal
It might be a long time ‘til I eat again.

My wife tells me I have a depression-era mind
That bothers me none,
If I pay my bills on time.

So here’s to the Cheap Bastards
Ignoring Borders, Breeds and Birth
Scrimping to the last,

Though they come from the Ends of the Earth.


This is of recent musings and was only committed to paper for the sake of this forum. I make no claim of being even slightly profound. This is just one of those things that Big Orange and I have been tossing back and forth for some time.

This next piece is something that I have been contemplating since High School.
This, like most of the stuff I write, is of no redeeming value, at all.


Ode to a Well-Timed Piss

There should be songs, poems, and sonnets
Dedicated to me: a well-timed Piss.

A Blessing
From Pope to Pauper.

No inclination is more universal.

Some crave for love,
Some crave for food,

But all are familiar with Me.

I strike all Drinkers
From water to beer to tea

But when the time comes around,
And the place can be found,

All have unspoken praise for Me.



Please, Dear Reader, treat these humble submissions in the spirit that they were presented and if you find that you have any true taste at all, Please, Please, write something better.

Blue Imp with a Fairy Tail

He buzzes around my head
Whacking me with his wand
Trying to get me to laugh, to cry
To weep, to snort.

He swats my butt with his forked tail
He trips me as I take the stairs
He reaches up my nose
And pulls out all the hairs

He gives me noogies
And Indian burns
He cracks my knuckles
And kicks my shins

He spins me 'round and 'round
And sends me toward a ditch
And laughs and laughs
When I fall on my ass....in the mud.

He tells me sad stories
Of how tough he had it growing up
He makes me cry
And then calls me a chump

He pulls the threads on my new sweater
While endlessly talking about the weather
And giving me wet willies
And wedgies.

He farts in my bed
And traps me under the covers
Forcing me to breathe
The stench of his fairy ass

He grasps my back fat
And says, "looky looky!"
He hikes my stretchmarks
Like the Appalachian Trail

He tells my friends I snore
He tells my boss she's a bore
He tells my neighbor I'm a theif
He tells my parents I hate their roast beef

I dare not nap when he's around
He'll write "penis" on my forehead
He'll dunk my hand in warm water
And freeze my bra.

He knocks my drink off the counter
He leaves rakes lay around my yard
I know he wants me to step on them
And whack my forehead very hard.

One day I'll get lucky
And step on him.

Monday, March 27, 2006

WHEN THE PUKE FAIRY CAME TO VISIT

The Puke Fairy came to visit last night at 12 AM
She found both my children and crept up to both of them

She grinned an evil grin, cracked her knuckles and blew a fart
Then she waved her magic wand and my kid’s eyelids flew apart

The air around my kids was filled with nasty brown pixie-puke dust
And in their sleep my children’s tummies did a flip-flop of disgust

They sat bolt upright in bed and gave a low, unhappy groan
Then from their mouths in a hot, nasty spray their cookies were all blown

In my deepest sleep I heard a nasty liquid splatter
Then I shot up in the bed myself ‘cuz I knew what was the matter

Oh, the moans! Oh the howls! Oh the nasty puke-stink fug!
Then my toddler turned and leaned and blew chunks upon the rug!

I poked my sleeping spouse and cried, “arouse yourself, my dear!
We have much work to do tonight, for the Puke Fairy has been here!”

She jumped out from the bed without a moment’s hesitations
And we set to strip the bed and kids, making shallow respirations

She plunked the screaming kids in the tub and gently washed a booty
While I to the washer went and set it “HEAVY DUTY”

The kids were cleaned and dressed, and the beds were then remade
The washer chugged, we gently whispered calming words to the children where they laid

It took almost an hour to get them back to sleep
And when we saw the clock reading 2:15 AM it made us want to weep

I guess it’s all part of parenting, and though we’d never switch,
If we ever catch that Puke Fairy, we’re gonna shoot that bitch!

Thursday, March 23, 2006

THE EGGMAN AND THE WALRUS

the sun beat down hot that day
on the Eggman and the Walrus
so ventured they out to play
the Eggman and the Walrus
.
they spied the ruins of the Coda Pool
hid beneath Old Winter's leaves
water deep and blue and cool
the Eggman doffed his sleeves
.
into the Pool the Walrus waded
ice water bit his feet
his visions of bathing swiftly faded
and he beat a quick retreat
.
But the Eggman was within his shell
and feeling world-bold
and from his smile one could tell
that he would not mind the cold
.
The Eggman toured the water's shore
splashing around the rim
the Walrus sighed, he knew the score
the Eggman would wish to swim
.
the Walrus blew through his moustache
he tightly grit his teeth
hitting the water with a generous splash
he disappeared beneath
.
the water was like the Artic Sea
the cold snapped open his eyes
he bellowed a submariene "IIEEEEE!!"
felt his flesh crystalize
.
he shot to the surface, gasping air
he felt his lips turn blue
he almost levitated right out of there
but the Eggman held him true
.
the Eggman came forth from his shell
looked into Walrus eyes
he jumped and bid the shore farewell
and recieved a cold surprise
.
the shock rendered the Eggman dumb
cold tore his breath away
as his body began to numb
he gave a cry of "yaaaaay!"
.
the water fit them like a second skin
round the Coda Pool did they gyre
until gloaming fell and they went within
to warm themselves beside the fire
.
and so goes the tale of how the day was won
by the Eggman and the Walrus
'till both asleep fell, Father and Son
the Eggman and the Walrus

On the fence

I like it here on this perch,
I examine the grass on both sides
Debate their merits with old Tom
Who mews his song

It's just this: my butt starts to get sore
I get the urge to jump
I get the urge to gag old Tom
Who's not much help, really.

But having jumped, I regret quickly
I miss old Tom
I miss the view
I start looking for another perch

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

I Know How the Moon Must Feel

this is taken from Thomas and the Magic Railroad. It's actually a song and quite beautifully sung by a light n' airy soprano. I include it here because it's delightful and worth sharing for those who haven't heard it.

.

I KNOW HOW THE MOON MUST FEEL
I know how the moon must feel
Looking down from the heavens
Smiling at the silly things things
We put ourselves through
Missing magic each day
And not seeing the wonder
That’s how the moon must feel

I know how the moon must feel
When he makes someone happy
That’s a feeling I would feel
When you smile at me
I’ll be floating on air
I’ll be beaming with wonder
That’s how the moon must feel


--Don Black & Hummie Mann

Parody Answering Machine Songs for ACRHPWSRN, PART I

The Princess and I have a mutual "friend" (she would use the term much more loosely than I, I fancy), A Certain Red-Haired Person Who Shall Remain Nameless (ACRHPWSRN) who we used to be close to but whom we never hear from these days, despite multiple calls, postcards and whatnot. I've begun making up parody songs to sing on his answering machine. here's the first, sung sometime after Christmas:


SOMEDAY MAYBE
(sung to the tune of "Someday Lady You'll Accompany Me" by Bob Seeger)
A Southern wind is blowing warm tonight
I've dialed the number and I've got it right
but there's no answer so I've got to go
but before I do there's something you should know
...something you should know...
Someday maybe I'll hear from my Palsberry
I'm calling from the shores of the Atlantic Sea
he's up there next to Lake Erie
Oh, someday maybe I'll hear from my Palsberry
someday maybe I'll hear from my Palsberry...

Rock the Boat

Was The Hues Corporation on to something? Is this song relevant to your life? Discuss...

So I'd like to know where, you got the notion
said I'd like to know where, you got the notion
to rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat, don't tip the boat over
rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat-t-t-t-t

Ever since our voyage of love began
your touch has thrilled me like the rush of the wind
and your arms have held me safe from a rolling sea
there's always been a quiet place to harbor you and me
Our love is like a ship on the ocean
we've been sailing with a cargo full of, love and devotion

So I'd like to know where, you got the notion
said I'd like to know where, you got the notion
To rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat, don't tip the boat over
rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby
rock the boat-t-t-t-t

Up to now we sailed through every storm
and I've always had your tender lips to keep me warm
oh I need to have the strength that flows from you
don't let me drift away my dear, when love can see me through
Our love is like a ship ..........

Sunday, March 19, 2006

My Cousin Fred

this lil' ditty came to me fully formed this morning at 3:30 when my wide-awake and stripped down son came bouncing into my bed.

MY COUSIN FRED HAS WET THE BED

My cousin Fred has wet the bed
He whizzed 2 quarts of pee
His mattress is a swimming pool
It’s damper than the sea

My cousin Fred has wet the bed
He drank too much iced tea
Normally I wouldn’t mind
But Fred’s in bed with ME!

Friday, March 17, 2006

Untitled

I have been trying for about three WEEKS to write some poetry for a contest thru the Jax Public Li'berry. I have failed and failed over and over again until yesterdiddy, when my Muse, Frank, buzzed up and whispered two words in my ear. Then he shoved his cigar back in his mouth and flew off on his lil' faerie wings. Here's what I think he wanted me to write:


the old fisherman
searched the vast storm torn shoreline
seeking what he lost

wind plaiting his beard
water rims his ice-blue eyes
as thoughts crash like waves

from the sea she came
brilliant, shining like birdsong
stepping through the tide

she stripped off her coat
let her hair flow down her back
and stretched up her arms

seeing her fay face
he felt breath within him catch
dreamed of what could be

she did not spy him
steal up to her dropped wrapping
carried off to hide

he called her Jenny
placed gold ‘round her finger
held her to his heart
she was to be his
though a wistful wife she made
looking to the sea

when she found her pelt
hidden deep in his sea chest
she felt her heart rise

returned to the sea
he was left to watch the waves
take his selkie bride

Saturday, March 11, 2006

My Pirate School (a parody)

this actually swam up to me at 3 am on monday when i was trying to get solenbum back to sleep. sing it to the tune of the wiggles 'my pirate school'

thumb up my nose, what is that dear?
that is my nose pick-er, give me some beer!
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

hand down my pants, what is that dear?
that is my ass scratch-er, give me some beer!
ass scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

glass to my lips, what is that dear?
that is my rum swill-er, give me some beer!
rum swill-er
ass scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

blind in my eye, what is that dear?
that is my patch wear-er, give me some beer!
patch wear-er
rum swill-er
ass scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

your treasure chest, what is that dear?
that is my chest pinch-er, give me some beer!
chest pinch-er
patch wear-er
rum swill-er
ass scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

filth from my mouth, what is that dear?
that is my swear word-er, give me some beer!
swear word-er
chest pinch-er
patch wear-er
rum swill-er
ass scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

wench on my knee, what is that dear?
that is my tit grab-er, give me some beer!
tit grab-er
swear word-er
chest pinch-er
patch wear-er
rum swill-er
butt scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

blade at your guts, what is that dear?
that is my sword poke-er, lets end it here!
sword poke-er
tit grab-er
swear word-er
chest pinch-er
patch wear-er
rum swill-er
butt scratch-er
nose pick-er
rink-a-dink-a doo, that's what they teach me at my pirate school!

Friday, March 10, 2006

Ode on a Requisition Form

--from Keats "Ode on a Grecian Urn"

Thou blank, crisp face with blanks to inscribe,
Thou three part NCR form; pink, yellow, white.
I tremble with anticipation and sweat with fear.
Will I complete you correctly? Will you flow through
The twists and turns of approvals and eyes?
Will you become the purchase order I desire?

Your fields, unscrutable, I check my codes.
The codes, byzantine and nearly uncrackable.
Is software an office supply? Or does it have its own code?
These answers I cannot divine, only uncover
With the help of the toughest teacher: experience
As you sail back and forth from clerk to clerk.

Still, a part of you stays with me, the pink part.
You rest in my file, chronologically side by side
With your brothers in sequential order. I protect you.
I bring out the pale copy of the original that you leave behind
To defend my word and work against those who stand against me
Tyrants in a teacup, holding their rules close to the vest.

Woe to the tyrant who questions your authenticity!
For I have copies of quotes and prices!
I've followed those rules I was able to uncover and
I have written them down to pass on to those who come after me.
Oh, yes, tyrant, your empire shall crumble!
Your gates will fall. And work shall be done in half the time!

But this requisition shall sustain me. I will sing your number,
Again and again until your metamophosis is complete
Until your items and services are delivered
Until your invoices are paid.
Thou shalt remain in the midst of other records
Boxed, archived, tallied, charted, reported and closed,
And I shall inform my replacement:
"Documentation is truth, truth documentation"--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need know.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Art is Not a Mirror...


found this when looking for information on Dada... Your thoughts??

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

It has come to my attention that I don't have much of a gift of brevity. It is simply just not on my list of qualities that were supplied at birth. It doesn't keep me up at night; just that I realized I don't have the basic skills to make a better than average poet, so I declined the oppertunity to join this illustriuos gathering initially.

But then, there is only just so long I can sit by and watch this much fun going on!

So, in the spirit of fun and poetry, I offer these few little gems. They are not mine and the original author/s is unknown to me.

There once was a man named McGlass,
Whose Balls were made out of Brass,
When a storm was in the weather,
His Balls clanged togather,
And Lightening shot out of His Ass!

There once was a Bar Maid from Sales,
Who had tattooed on her chest,
All the prices of Ale,
And on Her Behind,
For the sake of the Blind,
was the very same thing,
But in Braille!

A Bear walks into a bar in Boise and orders a beer.
The Bartender tells him he can't serve a beer to a bear in Boise.
It's against the law.
The Bear is beerless and breaks out in a broken barrage of bickering!
Breaking barstools and busting bottles and belts the jukebox a time or two.
Then, to top it all off, Barrels down the Bar to bite off the head of the feminnin Barfly!!
He Bolts it down, Bobbypins and all!
" I DEMAND A BEER!!!" Bellows the Bear.
Belched the Bartender,"It's against the law to sell a bear a beer in Boise, 'specially one on Drugs."
"A Bear on Drugs?!?" Questioned the bothered Bear.
"Yea," said the bucolic Bartender"What about that Bar-Bitch-You-Ate?"
I Don't have the gift of brevity, I can't write a decent poem even if I had a mouthfull of it but I do know a few dirty jokes.

Oh Well...

Ares Rising

We march steadily through the canyons of Tharsis
Red dust choking us, caking our eyes, blocking our CO2 gear.
My lonliness accompanies me, dark as Syrtis Major,
Making my pack feel heavier.

Your letter, though, in my boot drives me forward.
I remember when we parted, teary and proud;
Our girls made unsure by our laughing, our crying,
Flags and lollipops gripped in their sticky hands.

We march to Olympus Mons this time,
Our scout duties of the southern plains complete.
Guard duty at the summit means more time to think,
To watch my home from a distance.

I see you all there spinning on that beautiful blue orb.
I wonder if you can find me in the sky.
Do you show them where Momma serves?
Can you explain why?

We wander through this alien landscape,
Breathing canned air.
There are no sounds of nature
Just the stomp of our boots and the hum of our gear.
We are all hungry, sick of rations.
We long for deep breaths of country air,
For a return to the familiar,
To feel our own weight.

I want to fill myself with your spirit,
Draw your breath into my lungs,
Return to the treasured rut of routine,
And dance under the stars.
For now I will press forward,
Do my job,
And dream of home.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Santana

Okay, I just made this one up. My mind drifted off as I was listening to Santana.


In the yellow room
the mother stands.
Breasts keen and splendid,
kittens purr at her feet.
The sunlight gleams upon her
she is wise to the world.

Come in to my home
welcome, welcome!
Don’t be overwhelmed by the strange beauty
and the warmth of this dwelling.
All through the doors
all through the halls.

See the walls
with the future written on them?!
Caress the wood, smooth to touch
and metal weapons, armor to lust.
His presence apparent, breathing life in to everything good
the spirit here is magnificent.

Enter the garden where the big Buddha smiles
burn the incense and stay all day.
Sip home brewed tea
with magic spices.
The garden’s alive and the pond is mild
sit here in the shade and love for a while.

Bear with me...First time blogger

Poetry is emotion and feeling from the depth of ones heart
It uses both right and left brain
It is the flood of ones being from the start
And it can move you like a freight train

This is my pitiful attempt at poetry with something that I like to think is an explanation. I am probably so off base. Pathetic, I know.

A Haiku Invitation

Do you have the time
To consider the lily
And record its song?

Welcome!

Spurred on by the hypergraphic needs of my dear friend and lodge brother, Big Orange, I have created this place for poetry from the pitiful to the sublime. Please enjoy and comment often.