Though I wrench you off your tree,
‘least I get to feel your flesh…?
No, that’s not the way to treat
sauce that grows right off the stem.
Itch my nose with pepper smells,
spread your veins all over me.
I need sap mo’ than all elms
—I’m the 1 who’s looking green.
Rain just gives you free refreshments,
zephyrs make you dance so festive
—tastes will linger like a fresh mint.
‘Twas lovely wandering summer evening parks.
‘Twas in Gelat’nousboulder1 where I saw
trash all scattered ‘long the vomit lawn, accomp’nied by
globs o’ doggie shit & feel-good posters taped on tree
boughs. ¡How nice o’ nature, serving such important needs!
Surely tacky clip-art betters boring orchids. ¡Phhh!
Luckily I saw the man whose dog improved the park
with its priceless art. Enraptured, I went up to him,
carrying the excrement in question, & I said,
I said to him,
—Hey, buddy, I know both your game & your frame--
& I don’t think either tastes too tangy.
¿Qué es tu puto cuño,
San Buzo?—
& he’s all like,
—¿You like it? I just whipped them up this morning in FrontPage. I think the kitten in the box saying, «Cat in winter box. Pondering meaning of life. ¿What’s it all mean, cat?» is the funniest part—.
I jammed them down the man’s esophagus;
& that’s why I’m in jail for 60 months.
Ha, ha, ha!
I’ve gotten you funky fuckers yet!
I found the loophole.
& you can’t stop me.
I’ve found the 1 place I’m safe,
where you can’t find me–
your kryptonite cavern.
I may not be able to do anything wrong without being punished;
I may not be able to say anything wrong without being punished;
But I can think whatever wrong I want without fear o’ punishment.
That’s right–
try & stop me from thinking my vile thoughts ’bout you.
You can’t.
You don’t even know I’m thinking ’bout you.
You don’t know anything I’m thinking.
I bet that truly drenches your trousers in horror.
Good.
El oscuro octubre y el claro inverno
ambos son gris.
¿Por qué los anuncios de películas
me bombardean a tantas bombásticas citas?
El octubre y el invierno no se enfocan en el ruido;
no, son tranquilo y suave como la crema de cacahuate.
Dark October & bright Winter
both are gray.
Why do movie commercials
bombard me with so many bombastic quotes?
October & Winter don’t focus on such noise;
no, they’re calm & smooth like peanut butter.
Ripples in my glass o’ tea,
how I could forever gaze
& forget society,
live my perfect holidays,
breed my perfect memories,
just to laugh into my face
‘bout the myth eternity.
O, tart tea, give me a break.
I try gathering all your rings,
but they just slip down the sink,
followed soon by mo’ ear rings.
No genre goes unnoticed in this list:
From photos blurred in backdrops flush with filters
To paintings brushed just like impressionists
(Though some I note from other sites are pilfered).
Although I find your watermark distracts
From screaming natural unnat’ral glows,
‘Least you adjusted all their hues & blacks
‘Way from their boring, ordinary tones.
& you know from no search should e’er be stricken
Such fitting pics of figurines & chickens.
In hot sun
ants bring peas home in
computer.
Hey.
I saw what you’re trying to do--
& I can tell you right now,
it won’t work.
You’re trying to sneak into a li’l niche through you infirmities,
¿Sí?
You thought you could ‘scape.
You were wrong.
We found you out like a trout,
flopping flippantly like febrile phalluses,
spraying your jizz all o’er my exquisite slacks.
That’s gross.
You have no class.
Wipe that mucus from your chin,
wipe that droll from your nose,
pee on the carpet, please:
it needs cleaning.
Just look @ your face.
¡Wait!
¿How’d you do that?
Those who can see their own faces
can only do so through craned eyes.
You’re crazy, man.
Stay ‘way from me, man.
But your door’s locked.
I know you’re doors locked ‘cause you’re still such a substantial dumbshit to fucking find it.
So now I’m stuck with you,
caught in curfew,
when profusely I could be drinking in the smoky air,
sitting on squeaky benches--all o’ them @ once--under maple elms or swimming in seas o’ lucre green--
figuratively, ‘cause it’d truly be in a bank, obviously--
driving, climbing, computing,
eating o’ the arts—culinary or not--all for which I pined,
fed my conscience by catering sentiments o’ my own...
But no--
¡too rich for your veins!
¡Party in the checkered sheets o’ shame!
Waiting. ¿For what?
You’ve filtered the falsities in every nutritious solution;
you know what must be done.
There’s no talking to you.
What kind o’ crazy must I be to be talking to--
¡O Jesus!
¡It’s in me, too!
& therefore it’d be crazy for it to be in you,
which means it’d be crazy for it to be in me, too.
¿What’s wrong with you?
