The next time I see you
I’m going to punch you in the face
Don’t ask me why
I’m not really sure
It could be that thing you said to me a long time ago
That I forgot and you can’t recall
But, nonetheless, it pissed me off
Maybe it’s because you like that song My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas
Maybe it’s because you talk too much during movies
Or possibly it pertains to the peculiar sound you make when you eat
Perhaps it’s the way you look in a hat
Perhaps it’s the things you say to my cat
(I’m glad she always hisses and scratches you)
Whatever it is I’m going to punch you in the face
And I’ll record it and upload it to the internet, too
So you and everyone
Will know and will see
That you got punched in the face
Punched in the face
By me
Sitting in desolate isolation entrapped by a cubicle
My boredom melancholy counted by ticking clocks
Water coolers burping passing time like hour glasses
Co-workers gossiping about the celebrity couple that punched a nun in the face
And adopted a one legged orphan from Sri Lanka with rabies named Pujuma
I can no longer bear the monotony
So I jump onto a table in the middle of the room
And begin to scream out a Shakespearean sonnet
Tearing off my work clothes with each stanza
Instead of an English accent,
I recite it with the voice of Tony Danza
Now totally nude and completed all verse,
I tie my necktie around my head
And strap on running shoes with no socks
No socks, not now, not today
I yell out…
“I am Ezra Pound, and this is my lost Canto!”
Jumping down from the table, colleagues point and yell
Some laugh, some gasp
A lady faints, a man spits out coffee and drops things
My frightened turtle shrivels in the cool air-con
But I care not
For today I am free
I run into my boss’s office
Turning around and bending over,
I sing “Don’t worry, Be Happy” in B Flat and slap on my buttcheeks for rhythm
Not even exiting his conference call, I don't think he notices the intrusion
I wave “ta-ta” and run down the hall to the elevator
A woman had been standing there but took off running when she saw me
Once in the elevator, I hum to musak that sounds like “Kokomo”
“Aruba, Bahama” “Key Largo, Montego”
I love that song and it sounds much better when you’re naked and in an elevator
Getting out, I dodge a security guard trying to capture me
“To be or not to be!” I yell and run out into the street
As I run down the street, I sing Christmas Carols and put quarters into vacant parking meters
(I keep a roll of quarters inserted in my rectum at all times just in case a situation like this develops)
Stopping and saluting a leashed dog,
I revoltingly recant Walt Whitman and have sex with a street sign
Now smoking a cigarette I picked up off the street,
I begin running and singing again, even more out of key
People scream and point and cover their children’s eyes
It’s amazing the reactions that a naked man running down the street smoking,
bellowing out "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" elicits
I point to the sky and proclaim wildly:
"Today, and only today, I am the antique's teeth from 'The Waste Land' without the cockney accent, and
they are me!"
I run into a tumultuous shopping mall
Crawling with suburban zombies and credit crunchiness
Climbing up the escalator, I begin to give the Gettysburg Address
Suddenly I’m shot in the back of the head by a deranged Burger King employee on a homicidal rampage
I die instantly
I’m still naked
I woke up late today
The alarm clock had grown arms and legs and ran away
Scratching my testicles and stumbling into the kitchen,
I found an alligator eating my Cheerios
There was no time to fight him,
so I took off my nightgown and slipped into some edible panties,
red tights, a green tutu, retro basketball jersey, and funky tennis shoes
I brushed my teeth and put my hair into pig tails
Then I stepped out the door
and mounted the unicycle I ride to school
After giving a stranger the finger, I took off onto the highway
(The” Miami Vice” theme song played in my head)
Upon arrival at school,
I saw Tiger Woods out on the front lawn
with a neck brace on,
shooting midgets from a catapult
A group of mimes were next to him,
involved in a limbo contest
Behind them was a three legged homosexual donkey called “Rufus,”
chasing a rogue peacock in circles like a loon,
whilst singing Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”
completely out of tune
Inside the school, a roaming pack of football players,
in pads and helmets, tackled random people throughout the hallways,
as two cheerleaders named “Buffy” followed, waving pompoms,
and chanting the school fight song
As I walked into class,
I noticed that our teacher, Mr. Schlomsky, wasn’t there yet
Everyone looked puzzled…
When out of the blue, without warning,
Mr. Schlomsky fell through the ceiling and landed perfectly on his feet
(Totally perpendicular to the podium!)
A balding, obese and hairy Polish man of 5’2,
he was entirely naked except for a large pair of Versace sunglasses,
Polka-dotted bowtie and large red clown shoes
He looked around the room and didn’t say a word for about thirty seconds
And then
Burst into a fiery lecture about Confucius,
which was peppered with Russian curse words,
spastic hand and arm motions,
and brief outbursts of tap dancing
At the conclusion of the lecture,
he juggled pineapples,
and I stood up and applauded
Mr. Schlomsky then shapeshifted into a pterodactyl and flew out the window
After class, I saw Tiger Woods riding away on my unicycle,
giving me the finger and throwing golf balls at pedestrians
I tried to hail a taxi, but they were all full
Fortunately the baboon that lives in my closet, Fred,
was driving an ice cream truck nearby,
so I pole-vaulted onto the roof of the vehicle and surfed it all the way home
I hoped that alligator wasn’t still in my kitchen because I was hungry and needed something to eat.
The other day I read a poem by a British human named Debs
about an entity that attacked her in the middle of the night
and tried to steal her Calvin Klein underwear
It was a good poem;
after having a chuckle about it, I ate some shrimp, drank a bit of whiskey,
and went about my business
everything was fine
UNTIL
Something strange happened later that night…
As I slept the sleep of a newborn-tit-sucking-shit-machine,
I felt my Scooby Doo blanket being pulled off me
Slowly I awoke, looked up into the darkness at the foot of my bed and
saw what looked like the ghostly figure of someone I recognized
It was the long dead poet, Ezra Pound!
I said, “Holy shit, are you Ezra Pound?”
He said:
“AHHHHH! Motherfucker! I’m Ezra Pound’s ghost, bitch! AHHHH! BOOO! SCARY! AHHHH!!!!”
Doing what anyone would, I sprung out of bed, grabbed my vacuum cleaner
and chased him around “Ghostbusters” style
but he was fast!
Ghosts of dead poets are really swift!
He jumped into my refrigerator
(I keep the refrigerator door open at night because I like to use a lot of electricity)
I slammed the door shut and trapped him inside
He was like “AHHHH! Let me out! Let me out! AHHHHH!”
However, I decided to keep him in there and went back to sleep like nothing happened
Next morning I opened up the refrigerator and Ezra was still in it
He said he actually likes living in the fridge and handed me a couple eggs and a cuppa coffee
and gave me some awesome recipes for pasta he knew from his time in Italy
He asked if he could stay; I said OK,
because I like having a dead poet in my refrigerator
I really don’t know why people are against having evil spirits in their house
I think it’s fun having demons and stuff, I use my Ouija board all the time to contact them
and ask them to drop by and play Scrabble
What does this “Debs” person think is so wrong with nocturnal entities?
Fighting off malicious spirits in the middle of the night is a gas and such great exercise
Much better than going to the gym!
You know, it all reminds me of this hippy girl I used to have sexual intercourse with in Tennessee
As soon as we moved into a house, she put on a Harry Potter costume, burned incense,
and started some sort of séance to rid the place of evil spirits
I told her “NO! Stop doing that!”
I like having wicked spirits in my domicile!
So what if they’re a poltergeist or something!
They have a right to be there, too, and were here before WE moved in,
so it would be like totally rude to kick them out
What am I, an asshole?
Poltergeists and demons are people, too, with hopes, dreams, aspirations and families
Leave them alone you fucking bastards always harassing them!
(Needless to say, that relationship was short-lived!)
(Besides, she always hated it when I’d shave off my eyebrows, paint a turtle on my chest, and go do aerobics in the
graveyard.)
After that I moved into a 1920’s bright pink art deco Miami Beach hotel that was possessed by something or other
(probably an old pissed off Jewish lady from Manhattan)
Stuff would disappear all the time and things would fall off the refrigerator a lot
(this was before I had a dead poet living in my fridge)
At first, I didn’t believe it was haunted and accused my girlfriend at the time, who was from Switzerland,
of hiding
things,
like my neon green goggles that went missing for a week
and then turned up in the bathtub when I was having a shower and eating cereal
(I eat cereal in the shower sometimes)
I pointed at her and said forcefully that I don’t know what types of weird shit you do over there in Switzerland,
but here in America we don’t steal people’s goggles when they want to go swimming in the Atlantic!
If I were attacked by a shark and mangled to death like an Australian surfer it would all be her fault!
So anyways, even after I chased her away at 3am with a hot frying pan full of bacon,
stuff still went missing, so I’m pretty sure the place was possessed by a spirit of some sort
The whole incident with Debs and Ezra Pound reminds me of that place
Upon reflection, I think I’ll move back there now, buy a purple-assed baboon to keep as a pet,
and bring the refrigerator with Ezra in it, too, and maybe invite Debs over so we can read poetry about ghosts,
and I’ll also invite that Swiss girl, if she wants to come back
Listen, Magda (the Swiss girl’s name), I’m really sorry about chasing you with that frying pan.
Can we be friends?
I’ve got this really cool new ghost in my refrigerator I want you to meet!
Now if you’ll please excuse me,
Ezra and I are going outside to do aerobics in the graveyard
Talk to ya later!
Bye Bye!
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
(bright light shining)
(head back, eyes closed)
(funny taste, weird smell)
RRRREEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
“Open up wider, please”
“Lift up your chin”
“This may sting a bit”
(needle gum pinching, injection gripping, infection slipping, pricking a purple passive haze)
(cooling circular currents of numb mollify my mouth violently in vertical, soothing, yet massive waves)
EEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHEZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHH
LLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZ
“Spit”
“That’s a good boy”
(drooling, tongue out, panting like a dog)
RERRRRREEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
“Nurse Ratched, more Novocain”
“Doctor, he’s bleeding a lot”
(suction device probing)
SSSSSSSSSSUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
WWWRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
(thinking about changing my chosen brand of toothpaste)
(though it says on the label that nine out of ten oral hygienists recommend it)
(but what if my dentist is the one that doesn’t?)
(what would that mean?)
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
“Have you been flossing?”
(nodding yes)
(every evening, Doctor Kevorkian)
VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
VRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRR
(damn, that drill sounds so high-pitched and horrid)
(why couldn’t they make it sound like Mozart, Cradle of Filth, or at least 50 Cent?)
(and what happened to the other patients from the waiting room?)
(where did that old lady go?)
(and why are all the magazines here from 2003?)
(and what if Edward Scissorhands became a dentist under an assumed name and identity?)
KRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZ
URRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE
“We’ll have to take some X-Rays, too.”
“I think those wisdom teeth need to come out”
(cavities opening in my bank account)
OOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
(levitating in the chair)
(meditating on that scene from the film “Marathon Man”)
KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
(suddenly that Pixies song “Gigantic” dances into my head, and I am temporarily transported to bliss)
(“Hey, Paul! Hey, Paul! Hey, Paul! Let’s have a ball!”)
(“Hey, Paul! Hey, Paul! Hey, Paul! Let’s have a ball!”)
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
(gargle)
(discharge)
(picturing Corbin Bernsen)
EIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEIEOOOOOOOOOOOOO
EEEEEEEEEEEEXXXXXXXNNNNNMMMMMEEEEEBBBBBEEEEWUWUWUWUWUWU
“Here is my scalpel, cold and hungry”
“Will you marry it?”
(only if it comes with a prenuptial agreement)
(I swear I’m not an anti-Dentite or anything like that)
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
PTTTOOOOOOUUUUHHHHHH
“We’re all done here today”
“Don’t eat anything for the next two hours”
“Nurse Ratched will finish you off”
NAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(bleeding, rinsing, rising, walking, puking, gripping my jaw, searching for the old lady)
“I’m afraid your insurance doesn’t cover this procedure”
“Will that be cash or credit card?”
(NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO)
“How will you be paying us today, sir?”
(weeping)
SWIPE, SWIPE, KA-CHING!
“Now let’s schedule your next appointment”
(running)
I
*AM* <- and I mean that
a porn addict in the physical
with a and the
taco beer gut metaphysical
done gone nuts senses you see
became a
compulsive fart[er]
driving
a big (ass) nasty garbage truck.
that bitch:
bright (ass) green.
and I play
ice-cream truck remixes
of Donna Summer classics
you can hear a block away
((in between songs
weather updates
they’re never wrong
they’re never late
--Jeff Sibley is the weather man
apparently he is accurate
and punctual--
today’s forecast:
bukkake showers followed
by Sarasota sunshine
perfect for felching the
hippopotamus sublime))
*FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS*
gotta Michael Jordan bobble head on the dash
and a sweaty
(ass)-flavored pine tree
hangin’
from a light on the ceiling
--it used to be a light
it doesn’t come on anymore
guess it’ aint much of a light--
plus a Key Largo payload of dead ballerinas
fixing to disappear
just as soon as I find
a chrome plated pitchfork
to unload them bitches with
you just absolutely would not believe what dead ballerinas command
on the open market these days I mean if you dress them up in wedding
dresses with pink slippers and make it so they lactate when you give
them the old butt rape then oh my god in just a little while like a week or
three you’d have enough to help Uncle Frank pay the Thai Lady Boy’s
ransom and then, man, talk about the poems we’d read
her gonorrhea reflections *sparkle*
from the clip-on vanity
mirror shades
I wear
My friends
I
**AM** <<-- I put two stars
gonna be ‘cuz this is
the new Billy-The-Goddamn-Kid! the second
amongst big time we’ve
NASTY (ass) been over this shit.
garbage truck drivers
I’ll pull up in your front yard
spit ya a pearl diver
wipe my (ass) with my hand
give ya a high fiver
*FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS*
This bright (ass) green demon
needs no gasoline to get around
the block my good friend Glen
has a still makes the best moon
*shine* around you could fly to
fuckin' mars on that shit put a
gallon in and it’s ballerinas for
a week
first day on the job:
bicycles
second day on the job:
televisions
third day on the job:
assorted bits of
scraps of
pieces of
torn paper and used condoms
and moldy loafs of
bread that we
use for- [shut the fuck up man,
you’ll queer the market!!]
{what market man chill the fuck out
we got ‘em in every stop-n- rob
from NE Mississippi to
Alligator Alley
it’s cool}
*FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS* *FUCKBOTS*
bet your (ass) we make the best
*FUCKBOTS*
in town we make ‘em
out of all that stuff
them other schmucks threw away
{step right up folks and catch your self a
glimpse yes that’s right folks you heard
right what we have here is the amazing back-
wards walking *FUCKBOT* it dances the
Macarena it talks like Richard Simmons
it has a white boy afro and doesn’t mind if
you share it with your friends}
The trick to making a quality
*FUCKBOT*
is twisting the hypothalamus
into an introverted
logarithmic diaper
[it took me ten thousand
tries to get the thing right
(during the movie, a seven