Poet Joshua Clover and 11 Students May Face Prison Time

Johnny Rotten and Prince Kropotkin vs. the Spartans 5:29 a.m
by quasimofo

After the passers-by ate raw cookie dough and their mouths
foamed with coke and chocolate, my stepdad approached in echelon
waking me up in the middle of the night to point out minute
particles and grains of Brussels sprouts from the kitchen sink
that had been neglected in cleaning after supper.
The certainty of the world broke me into a contorted fetal position
shaped like circular shrink wrap mowed lawn dotted with a disarmed
array in the sock drawer.
Phalanxes of white little kittens {let’s call them ‘whitees’}marched,
stepped into 12,000 different cat litter boxes, and laboriously
dug, sniffed, excreted, scratched, covered, stretched, breathed,
and climbed out marshalling to new havens of popular low-IQ
understanding.
The same arbitrary quip possessing some to read no further than
page 60 had laid an underground foundation for eventual days
of dead pop reckoning.
“There are none wiser than Lydon” sayeth the orifice….
….I still bet he can’t tear his paper towels neatly along the
perforation….
And while the 300 punks at Thermopylae, ebullient with archaic glare,
hold up hordes of foreign polluted visages of ideas, the mob’s
weak acceptance of fine wine finds the narrow defile behind lines.
Bread is conquered and regurgitated to the masses.
But did Elvis succeed because he was white or because he could sing
and play like a black man?
In tie-dye bikini underwear I have often jumped around playing my
lotus guitar purging the stench of dead inferences and conclusions
brought back on their shield.
Wind a string too tight, it snaps; too loose—it will not play yeah yeah yeah it all sounds the same with distortion!
Peloponnesia sank when Mrs. Hotchcraft told me I could not draw
stick figures in 2^nd grade;
yet I crossed the Hellespont in 1982 and became the City Park
Hoola-Hoop Champion.
Such is the energy of timid aloofness when you have rigid corporate
vegetable theological seminary crammed up your complacent
made-by-the-media Ass!
The Press: “How do you feel about the death of Kurt Cobain?”
Mr. Rotten: “I don’t give a fuck about Cobain!”