d5 Low-Level Magic User Kills Kobold King, wins Neoprene Ivanka Sex-Doll; Sangfroid, Poodleman, Nosferatu Zodd, Count Istvan Teleky, Son of Big Chief, Ebdanian Lambric, Kickapoo and Crockery Creek, The Okra Barons, and Glen Campbell
“Sometimes in life, all a man wants is a good place to poop.”
–Comodus of Eljer (2nd century B.C.)–
The poet compares poets with junebugs to explain the world
People often ask me what it’s like as a poet
to view God’s naked truths laid bare.
Actually no, they don’t.
They’re too busy with gourmet microwave meals
and kinky sex to give a shit.
But it’s like being a junebug fluttering upwards
towards a bloated luminance hung next to flea market stars.
And finding only that which was better espied from afar.
Yeah, God and divine questions pursued too closely are a bug zapper.
Beauty is ugliness as well.
Maybe that’s what William Carlos Williams meant when he said poets are damned.
French Roast Blues 5:53 a.m.
Joan of Arc cries “Fuck all!” and burns.
There’s a bon-bon fire in my aorta.
Pierre names his daughter “Alsace-Lorraine”
and she is slut-shamed by Germans.
Their kids race escargo-carts deep inside the mineshafts where we google “Gnosticism”.
I slurp my 2% milk at the threshold of Parisian tongue
and a southern evangelical tallying key words in Gospels.
Father Time wears a Rolex yet issues me a kitchen timer–“Wa-Taa!”–Roundhouse Kick to the Pean!
I lay a sacrificial PlayStation 5 down upon the altar of secular humanism.
I find myself in a soft-lit lounge drifting to the
Keys of a traveling organist who knows more questions than answers…
Saint Harambe Matriculate
by alter-ego Alistair Keats Mankin, host of “Nocturnal Poetry Theatre”
It’s Sunday Morning in America, do you know where your urinal is?
If so, Facebook Live it, and begin your whizz.
A girlfriend toasts English muffins for a beau who breeds
French Bulldogs and gives tips to a Polish cousin saving
for a breakfast burrito hut.
This melting pot is smoking pot..
Mothers, leash your children and the explore no more frontiers!
We’ve got K-cups for your Keurig that will make whiskey and beer!
I don’t want a wooly mammoth insemination!
I want clones of Harambe spliced with giant bat wings!
Edmond walks around naked. He spent his food stamps on bird seed.
Come on Edmond–Clothes before Crows!
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha X ? ………………………………..
We can mate man to the machine, irrigate, congregate, regulate, flagelate,
–and that’s how we matriculate!
There’s house-flippin’ and burger-flippin’ and gender-flippin’ and whelpkin-whippin’.
We become rich to make fun of the poor.
The American Dream gives way to a waking reality–still-born pregnant.
No chance to abort.. Don’t lose your rhyme-space continu-umph!
There’s a floating resort in the middle of Lake Michigan called “ShAtlantis”.
It’s made of trailer houses and comes with glass bottom johnboats.
Yes, and their Lamprey Pot Pies are WORLD RENOWN!!!
I’ve got a payment plan for a timeshare with the “Aluminum Package”
which includes a full body massage from Coach Jim Harbaugh.
I’m really looking forward to it.
Abandoned couch in a parking lot
Moored in a sea of asphalt,
A desert Bedouin sifts
It’s lost virginity handed back
With buffalo nickels,
Crumbs from hot pockets, tv dinners,
Seminal fluid Pollack
In charred bong water plush.
After so many asses, your etudes
…Nothing was ever created
On Raoul Hausmann’s “The Spirit of our Times”
¿Run to mama, who’s your dada?
Weldon Woodhart graduated 22nd
In his class
At Oakmont High and after
A brief stint with Terminex
(and fill-in putty),
Went into carpentry where he
Could really use his head.
But his splintered thoughts
Got whittled down
By the modern world.
How could discipline
And will-power dwell
In an abstract mind that
Is rarely righty-tighty?
Man is a product of
His own S u r v I v a l
Yeah yeah yeah..
He dated one of those
Objectified beauty girls
And she sprayed his face
With furniture wax–
Lit him up with a Zippo.