Coonskin Cap Catechism Amanuensis of Neufchâtel Bucaramanga Supremo with Takeda Shingen as Second Chapbook

Coonskin Cap Catechism Amanuensis of Neufchâtel Bucaramanga Supremo
with Takeda Shingen as Second Chapbook
by Davy Quasimofo
i. Bishamonten pops Chicharrónes at laser car wash guaranteed ‘no touch’:
We’re profane cause we fill propane next to ‘i-phone repair’ banners
& i’m in line to get chicken since there’s only so many sushi girls i can eat
sushi and donuts off of–tastes like lemon sprinkle bronzing formula.
(Munch a dollop from this polyp to get max ammo..
{We draw lots for this lot in life and it takes its toll..
Pilfer a pilsner stilled from tough succulents and you might see t h r ewww
the fogma of dogma or punch a rote clock with MMA gloves making
pinky-sized maxi pads for Barbie dolls. 🙂 i’ve got an M.F.A! 🙁
J. Claudius says my alliteration ‘licks the luscious labia of the Lord’ ..
which coincidentally is my favorite alliteration of all time:
“…Licks the Luscious Labia of the Lord.”
Batten down the rumble strip with Borracho Beans noir-tinged
with Beer brewed by Quotidians who cosplay conquering the cerebrawl
Cortez of an e-cig.
i have cankers from all these anchors flung on a fling with afro jazz.
Let’s spraypaint ‘D’s at the front of every ‘Orkin Pest Control’ sign we can find..
i thought i saw a sasquatch the other day but it was only a Saskatchewan
–someone buy that dude a gillette!
There will be time enough to reflect in the Hall of Mirrors.
i add a cd to the floorboard of my 4 cylinder every week;
if it’s in the seat it’s ‘now playing’.
Biarritz alms for the calm war-fanning of french lounge rock
stoking the em burr stockings to their Cardbordeaux core.
My friend put an Orgasmic Manikin ™  on lay-a-way–it was either that or rent-to-bone.
Flight of the Ancients: ” Alright, we’ve showed ’em how to make fire,
now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Let’s end every alien invasion movie and anarchic canto by nuking the mothership.

ii. On Hokusai’s The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife:
‘Pus on puss’
Wooing the womb
Birth canal canoodling
Pitch a tentacular titillation
Pleasure is Death…

iii. Grilled Cheese Bushido:
Meh, bleh, and Japanese twat.
The sybian carpet-bombs
her one-shag love-throb
into lack-of-want
rug-burned kneed.
i watch Yidl Mitn Fidl
mulling vini viddles vici !
{the bafoonery of a baboon playing
the bassoon may be better termed ‘baboonery’}
A poem can be a time-capsule or a chocolate suppository…
Semper Fi Cystic Fibrosis.
i have a mexican jumping
beanbag for composing kick-start
indie bass-line
ommm-ing like a vu-meter
of EKG life outlook.
???? ???? ???? to the
constellation pin-ups.
–oh, just askin’ to ask.
…and basking in the task…
When you’re at the end
of your gut-wrenching wits,
tie a knot in the entrails
and ducktape one’s self
to the commode al la mode.
In my own post-ragnarok
Museumnacht i wooze from
dreamy booze as a Kafka microwaving
potpies for Kierkegaard who
knits woolen speedo for Dostoevsky
who nose-hair trims Nietzsche.
Show me the worst death scene ever
and i will tell you:
“the slow-mo and over-dramatic
drawn-out ‘ahhhhhhhhhh’ lent
to real cinematic flair for the ruination
of an antagonist overflowing with tragic
70’s character flaw.”
At this juncture in the poem,
readers will be ready for cogency,
closure, and 1 more asian allusion
to help them believe there’s a centrally
planned and enlightened theme rather
than the mere cut-n-paste
random observations of a part-time poet
With Godzilla pomade, kimono, and katana
i surf in the wake and spray of human misery
i-podding j-pop while munching saké pop-tarts.
–Poetry is the assembly of battery
into one-battery-flashlight..
..and hoping to hell it works.

iv. An Adaptation of Ovid’s ‘The Poets Alone Are Immortal’
{and Immoral} (with obvious Addendum):
Go to Hell you fame-jacking bastards! I’ll masturbate till my dick becomes a felt-tip BiC and I scribe dreams 24/7. Fuck carpenters! Fuck attorneys! And Fuck the marines! I’ll hand out ass-hats to the literary world and make ’em wear ’em! Everything else is shit! Kowtow before me small indie presses! There’s no expiration date on my poetry. I’m the rapper party people party to. Conventional Matt’s good if Quintessential Teddy and Status Quo Idamay are. I compose in the Market Garden of grocery stores, goddammit! They say poetry is like milk–sours by the hour. Bullcrap! My words are like golden corn in the freezer! PSY’s ‘Gangnam Style’ and ‘Gentleman’ will be downloaded for millennia at least for the beat if not for hot dancing Korean chicks. Bukowski’s inebriated seduction of skanks will be the jump rope jingles of 4th graders until the sun explodes. Billy Collins too, after he blows me. While the poor are still able to fashion guillotines, mount satellite dishes, mount each other, and grow ganja in whiskey jars on the front porch of their trailer houses, poetry will not croak! I keep an index of publications and display them like a corporateer horn-dog erecting commemorative phalluses atop the restrooms of gift shops. When they lay my corpse in a johnboat, aim it at the center of the lake, and detonate, I’ll still have volumes of my chapbooks on blogzines and in small town libraries to confuse youthful degenerates and aspiring colporteurs alike! There will be poems composed from my poems. That’s how I give back–by taking the hearts minds and souls of unborn babes and barbecuing them on the sacrificial altar of Mesquite-flavored deification. Thus shall I live on though I be a rotten stiff with a stiffie.

v. Takeda Onna Bushi [logo pogo]:
Fleet as a fart,
Quiet as a rubber tree,
In your face like burnt popcorn,
Stuck like a dung heap.
Above Hell and Hell on Earth, i fear only myself.