Honeybadger vs. Honey Boo Boo; or Creative Writing Laboratory Rends Asunder Rufied Keurig Memeology Self-Replicating Cultural Analogue [*Shit to the power of Ballgazer 7*]
Honeybadger vs. Honey Boo Boo; or Creative Writing Laboratory Rends Asunder
Rufied Keurig Memeology Self-Replicating Cultural Analogues [*Shit to the power of Ballgazer 7*]
For Nicholas Thomas Hranilovich
I used to love reading tales of King Arthur and his Knights
but nowadays i just wanna eat pussy.
Yes, i is a rotten m-f-er who’ll eat your sweets
and will meet ya just to eat your meat.
The posture of my posterior is mostly a posteriori but upon occasion i have shit so hard
that my vertebrae fell into place sending the chiropractor back to Cairo.
Tractor trailers will flatbed haul all the various flavors to fuck-buddy falsetto
and to teenage celebs who play ‘spin the botox’.
Mama a naturalis throws more than a few saboteurs into the mix
for population control, you know?
But fortune will always favor the bold coffee drinkers.
And Fortuna wears p b and j edible undies.
More than anything i want to see a honeybadger tear the living shit out of Honey Boo Boo
(who is not NASA’s probe rover on Mars which would have gotten its nadnoid circuits ripped to electro eunuch 6th blackhole dimension)..
i mean, Honeybadgers don’t give a shit, they fart in beehives to clear out the candy store.
My new profile pic will be that spoiled rotten brat’s guts splayed over her fat bitch of a mother.
Ahem[lock], what ‘should be’ is so ideal that it’s not really all that real so we get this shit ‘life’ from the deal.
When i die i just want to cease to exist–no heaven or reincarnation or hell–the prospect of something ‘after’ is actually very dismal to me.
On a sidenote, Rodrigo knew that in order to win the Tejano band competition
everything would have to go accordion to plan. haha jk. get it?
Here i will randomly interject the name of Arcimboldo,
a 16th century Renaissance artist famous for his portraits
made of fruits and vegetables and laden with covert jibes and jaunts.
Poetry is Pollock. and Salmon. and Mackerel. and Halibutt.
They say today’s the first day–know Him and Know Thyself.
i say ‘Negatore Skeletore!’;
Sometimes there is no way of truly knowing thyself or Hisself.
The Devil doesn’t make deals at crossroads, he prefers cul de sacs during block parties.
And he doesn’t bargain for souls, he goes for the cheap petty stuff like fireants down a milf’s
granny panties in exchange for 30 minutes of invisibility at the gynecologist.
It’s the little tiddlee-piddlee that ends up killing the world [but keeps it going].
Pope Villanus in the ‘Famous Popes of History’ Confessional Box $25.00:
Villanus: “yo, this shit‘s on fire, whatup?”
Poet: “Damn, i can’t believe they put a confessional in an all nude BYOB!”
Villanus: “These days, we go straight to the sinner. Saves time.”
Poet: “Oh, and i love your name. It’s a witty splice between ‘Villain’ and ‘Anus’!”
Villanus: “Touching.. So why you here, kid?”
Poet: “Well, i just don’t give a fuck anymore.”
Villanus: “Yeah, why don’t you join me and the girls backstage in the Holy Water Hot Tub for $100?”
Poet: “Ok, will this earn me the remission of my sins?”
Villanus: “Naw, more like the retransmission of your sins.”
Poet: “I’m down.”
We wait on the edge of our seats for junkmail.
The world is not what you make of it–it’s what you can bake from it.
I once dreamed i started my own Institut De Beaute and put all the spa girls out of business.
Now all they’ve got is 7 inches of uncut cucumber.
I’m gonna write a novel called “The Knucklebabies”.
It’s about a marine biologist named Degaius Leopardieux
who studies the lampreys of Lake Michigan.
But Degaius is unhappy and jacks off all the time.
One night, there is a tempest on the lake and Degaius’s houseboat sinks.
The lampreys save Degaius and take him to a mystical realm
where live all the spawn of his chronic masterbation.
It will beat the shit out of anything Cormac McCarthy and Eckart Tolle can drudge up.
i also dreamed that it rains shit in outer space.
And though i might end this poem with the mention of Alphonse Mucha,
a late 19th century Art Nouveau artist who caught the eye
of popular culture before blinding it,
i will merely finish with the word ‘lugubrious’.
I’m not sure what it means but i like the sound of it and i like what i think it means.
0 thoughts on “Honeybadger vs. Honey Boo Boo; or Creative Writing Laboratory Rends Asunder Rufied Keurig Memeology Self-Replicating Cultural Analogue [*Shit to the power of Ballgazer 7*]”
What’s curious about the aesthetic of randomness is its concentration; here, defecation/ejaculation into private or vast areas, which is basically angry frustration at attempts of self-fulfillment, in this life or after, ultimately settling for sorrow. You can get off on it, but not as much as the poet does, and it doesn’t go far for the latter either.
The lamprey stanza is flat-out my favorite quasi ever. Oh my, I’m driving west on 94 to get to the lake and jack off in it AS WE SPEAK
You’re like a salmon that’s not really lazy so much as has better things to do than climb in, look around for a mate, sweep the bottom all clean, prime up this total stranger you just met, wait around while she spurts her massive egg dump (on the spot you just cleaned!), then on top of that~ die while she watches you jerking in rigor to get out every last drop of your realized potential before you both get flushed back down the river.
I hope the water level appreciably rises with your visits.
dammit boy! lmao! post pictures! you inspired this stanza, btw! Hope to read some new Misener material real soon!
I read this as a Radon-powered clog buster burrowing into the nasty sewer under the house to investigate what’s stuck in the drain.
From my gathering of the poetic wild stabs at spastography, this is about the bell curve and standard distribution. It seems that as we push the boundary of human excellence, there is a law~ statistical and reactive, that demands for every advance forward in progress we eat up our time doing (“worthwhile” things like send robot cars to Mars); we must also expand the other end of the spectrum and make allowances for a bollus of wasted potential to stop up our slide toward something further down the poopshoot.
Apt appraisal, sir! ‘Radon-powered clog buster’–love that! And yes, we must expand the lower spectrum and bring excellence to depravity. lol. Looking forward to your chapbook release!
I guess I was wrong about not getting off much on the poem, but the euphoria describes a trajectory of self-diminishing returns.
Yeah, it’s a poetic leeching of the dark demons, probably much to celebrated for readers to realize it’s a venting of sturm und drang to return to calmer seas. i’m not purporting any set in stone ways of life here, just observing myself.
Mr. Nicholas, thanks for the comments and thanks for all your hard work recently on the site!