Fruity-pebble morn:
cubicle worker
quotes vid in comments.

Guaranteed
warm or your cash back–
Summer Moon™

«Mmmm…»

Hold it there, Signor Sher: I just

saw you rolling round the sun-caressed

grass villi like a cub fucking

for the 1st time—well, OK, nothing

o’ this I truly saw; but I did glimpse flashing

colors through your eyes into your mind, basking

in your soft cotton sweats &

your puffy jacket. Think you’re the cream on the pumpkin

pie, right? Wrong! We were saving this

sweet & sour sunlight. It wasn’t meant for you.

Nothing is.

That’s right: put it all back where

you found it—all o’ the slick hair-

like grass; all o’ the viney

wrinkles on every oak; every

juicy loose-leaf hugging your

shoeless socked feet; & all 4

seasons. Don’t miss e’en the most worthless

piece. We’ll count them all to ascertain

that they’re all returned.

As for you, you

need to get a clue:

snooze.

Quiza es junio,

pero el celeste gris

y el aire que es tan frío que puede verlo

lo hacen un junio del otoño,

ni del verano ni siquiera de la primavera.

So there.

What a waste. Without a taste,

stretching out for help, but found

none in suns on yellow days,

frowning drowning pastel clown.

Nothing’s sweat in salty tears,

only smeared & only itchy

make up made up of those years—

dark, & yet they still bewitch me.

Dump you down my creaky drain,

please remind me of the rain—

Please! I promise to behave…

Recuerdo cuando oía aquella canción en el radio.

No la toca no más.

…

I remember when I heard that song on the radio.

They don’t play it anymo’.

…

I’m not ‘fraid o’ the night,

where light illuminates the dark & dark illuminates the light;

‘stead I fear the day,

when the flesh-faced hunters—Aughooo!—wake,

marching out on the open plain,

as if we don’t all know what’s @ stake ‘tween our stakes.

Day like a desert saps me dry

till I become drunk on inebriated light & stumble blind.

Contrastingly, the night makes me much less anxious,

wrapping me with its twins: breeze & blankets.

Ignore the slander that night has no light

from those who ignore electricity & fireflies.

Seriously,

everyone knows ’bout the electricity & fireflies.

Lay sorrow for the sorrows I thought I harbored but didn’t,

drain,

now listen to that same spinning disk

I’ve been frisking for days now.

How ich bin itching loud.

When I’m starving to leave,

I say chow,

I do.

« Cat, get your face off my hand

& sit in a marching band.

Bash those drums off my hand

¿& sit? ¿Is marching banned? »

When the clocks get dusty,

¿y’know what I get in my bag?

A li’l timerag.

When the rocks grow rusty,

¿y’know what I’ve got on my back?

It’s not just his 1-night sand;

it’s all hour jazz.

« I don’t want to be em,

I don’t want to be hot,

I don’t want to grow young,

I | want | to | go | emooooo.

¡So medicate! & get late. »

—Smashing Berenjenas, “So Hot”

Look what: you warped my tape;

this is why I

shook rough you wrapped in tape

in this twilight.

I wish I had jam

to go with this pop

lock rock tock glock.

—O, ¿why all the blues?

Too poor for my blood;

I need a horn that blows—.

The loudness

only e’er makes the quiet louder, too.

—Now come, I’ll trade your tears ‘fore my fear

¿How come? I’ll make your bears … my fear—.

The beer o’ cheer only makes it run out;

its taste in my mouth

is only it leaving my mouth.

—Your problem is you keep trying to make music that ne’er stops.

¿Why stop the schlock that stops?

So you don’t stop stopping

& ne’er get round to music that stops,

much less los otros;

you’re obsessed with Easy-E

& ne’er get round to the humans that stop,

much less los otros—.

« …we threw things cruel—

eliminated the crannies & twigs. »

— OVED, “The Metaphor, My Sis”

O, ¿who am I ribbing?

I can’t be on the rag,

no mind how I rag.

The nearest I ran

was mooching a mini moocher.

I need to come back to the future;

I need, too, comfort when through sure.

I’m not sure these words are worth.

« When the talk’s all musty,

¿y’know what I packed in my keg?

A li’l timerag.

When the chalk falls fuzzy,

¿y’know that I made it in my sack?

It’s not just her, 4-morn sea:

it’s him, phony. »

— Some asschasm, “CUANDO LOS CEROS SE ALINEAN EN EL RELOJ DE VEINTICUATRO HORAS”

Already it’s getting laid

& the ligh-ligh-ligh… dim

& the 0s line up on the plenty for our lock

& I don’t remember why I scratched,

but I did.

Lay sorrows for the sorrows I thought I had but didn’t.

—Mike, check—.

I haven’t earned em.

—Mike, check—.

I don’t think I e’er will.

—Mike, check—.

¡We gret it, already!

Out o’ the blue
in creamy blue–
afternoon moon.

En los sueños vi una obra por Henrik Ibsen

que no ha estado visto por nadie jamás.

Los actores se sentaba y se hablaba para una hora

(pues, a veces uno se levantaría y caminaría al fregadero

y miraría afuera de la ventana),

pero el reparto incluyó la parca.

Después hubo otra obra sobre Pokémon,

que posiblemente fuera erótica;

no sabría porque me distraba la silla que seguía cayéndose atrás,

que causaba echarme miradas agrias los otros vagos spectadores.

No me encanta que avergonzarme ante spectadores imaginarios, silla.

In my dreams I saw a play by Henrik Ibsen

that nobody had e’er seen before.

The actors sat & talked for an hour

(well, sometimes one would get up & walk o’er to the sink

& look out the window),

but the cast included the grim reaper.

Afterward there was ‘nother work ‘bout Pokémon,

that was possibly erotic;

I wouldn’t know ‘cause I was distracted by the chair that kept falling backward,

which caused the other vague viewers to throw sour looks in my direction.

I don’t particularly like being embarrassed before imaginary viewers, chair.