Thoughts mused in a jalopy of a porta-potty outside a Gentleman's cabaret serviced by the 'Mobile Throne Co.'
Thoughts mused in a jalopy of a porta-potty
outside a Gentleman’s cabaret serviced by the ‘Mobile Throne Co.’
by Fictional Self-Occupy
i like to go window shopping
for those who put their pain on display
…for those who break the mold and break the bank
so that’s why i’ve created this little five and dime:
It’s not so much the W o R l D
but the bastards and bitches living in it!
–so please–
Plunger Flush this simultaneous exsponging
of colon cleanse projectile upchuck
from the quivering lips of emotionally bereft sphincters.
God casts a disapproving glance not because
of the BYOB all nude
but because this crapper is 20 years overdue
for cleaning and it stinks to high heaven.
(Last serviced by Mr. Log Handler)
{But yes, there comes a time when you
can’t take people’s shit anymore
and you just have to tell them:
“Pull your head outta yer ass,
kiss my ass,
go to Hell,
and go fuck yourself!”}
[Usually that does the trick though they prolly won’t do it
and will look at you like you’re Satan’s pillow-fluffer].
Back to topic:
Men go to strip clubs;
Women go to strip-malls;
Women like shopping carts;
Men like go-carts and go-go girls.
So i did my homage to literal
and figurative Olympic size cesspool
and walked into that establishment where i
could find the finest Baby’s Mama,
eat Texas jalapeño nachos off her naked torso
the way Japanese do with sushi,
make sure we wanted the same things outta life
and that we could be each other’s one person
outside it all that could be inside it all,
get married right then and there,
then move to a trailer house surrounded
by synth-pop flower gardens of ROY G. BIV perennials.
Some landro-cycles later,
your previous kid and our love child make
inseperable half-bros–
one with a mohawk, one with an afro,
and they go to Montessori,
become genius millionaires developing
the ‘portable therapist’ ap for cell phones.
We clean our systems of garbonzo attachment
of the disappearing dirt that is earth
as we lay beside a rattling box fan
staring into the night at a moth who
has mistaken a street light for the moon.
There’re some fantastic lines in here, but I like the lines that ended this poem the best. Good choice.
Plus, there’s something different about this poem that makes it different from your other ones. I can’t quite say what it is, but I like it…
I’m thinking the same as you joe. This is a more straightforward thrashing than his other stuff, which takes you all over (expertly, to make my opinion on that clear). I really like this though. The end is fantastic. This is Alice in Chains doing Jar of Flies, when Ryan Adams steps away from his band. Just coming right at you and lighting the fire right at your face to show off he, the artist, has got natural skill. It’s cool. Quasi rocks fucking hard on this dirtbag’s anthem.
Luke, I am your father. I am the fan in the window stuttering the words you say. “Come on baby, light my farts on fire”- my flame thrower duodenum has found a future in trading kosher pork bellies for boiled soy, lentil & green beans on the corner stock exchange.
If no one is understood and communication inherently flawed by signal loss then the purpose of poetry must be to pull in errant evening butterflies so they commingle with the moths that belong here. I could waste all night reading this poem. The ambient glow of it reminds me of something both magical and shameless as much as the emission of a jalapeno-scented flatulent signal flare put on permanent tap so the world will know it’s still night time and all the good people should stay inside counting spinning blades outside of Eden for the rest of their natural lives.
Beats the hell out of a Boron light bulb enemas casting for the shadow players rendition of A Mid-Summer Nights Dream Won’t Survive the Winter of Our Discontent (A sold-out show, I am told)…
…best yet Quasi. What you lost in flow was gained in concision.
thx boyos! glad you enjoyed the read. It makes it worthwhile to receive comments. Ultimately one has to write for themself, but it’s good to know it goes somewhere, reaches a destination, makes an impact (however small, however great). Whenever i get around to collating and commissioning a new book i’ll put these comments in there [to give some input/direction to such a helter skelter ‘roller coaster in the dark’ style.]. Live Free! Or die trying! later!