On Arriving at the Age of 46; Bloodmoon, Beer Summit, Luetzow’s Freikorps, Brestaurant, Megas Doux, NewRetroWave, and ‘The Five Venoms’

On Arriving at the Age of 46; Bloodmoon, Beer Summit, Luetzow’s Freikorps,
Brestaurant, Megas Doux, NewRetroWave, and ‘The Five Venoms’
By Quasimofo

Laerte’s Orchard:

is it wrong to poop in the shower?
Or read Kerouac’s “Mexican Lonliness” in
the voice of Dalek Sec leader of the cult of Skaro?
Virginia Woolf drowns in her own stream of consciousness
dreaming of street poleing and Martian waterslides..
Chai Latte’ tea time is for the true tea-totalers..
If only we could turn the world’s musketeers into cricketeers..
Locusts mess up my ci{r}cadian rhythm; the nightbrite pandybat
of James Joyce brewmaster excites exultant vomitory brats..
What forbidden fruit will make jams?
[What cheesy church marquee message will be shamelessly plagiarized next?]
–It’s a seasonal IPC telling you to be happy no matter the circumstance..
A hundred years none the worse for where?
You lisp “seas”…
Howl at the owl and bare your naked ass to a blood red moon.

Lone Star Beer–the National Beer of Texas:

we watched the slow motion replay of Ultimate Sex Match
on the jumbotron and sure enough, he came before she.
to improve my mood, i buy a lot of Wisconsin snacking cheese–
it takes my mind off despotates and sends me to that slithering sandbox
of intellectuals, artists, poets..
On gallopy grey horse i derring-do; pitch pup-tents with Eleonore Prochaska
sharing childhood tales, getting boozed, and playing ‘Pass the Pigs’..
We need to refi our bad karma and pledge allegiance to one nation under my pod
before it all goes tits down..
Local piss is cheaper than foreign novelty.
If i cross-reference Passion, Mission, Profession, and Vocation it tells me
i can molt into one thing–a candyman.

Colonel Sanders, Crane Style Kung Fu, and the Temple of the 46 Honey Badgers:
i had just talked with my dad the week before
about how the new Colonel Sanders sucked!
My dad was a 3 tour 3 purple heart Nam Vet
who’d collected ears from the Cong and smoked
camels next to 1000 year old Buddha statues in the bush.
“America is going to Hell, son!” he said.
That night, after attending a Beer Summit and downing
a couple benadryls, the real Colonel Harland Sanders
visited me in my dreams and told me to avenge the insult
of this sordid impersonator who had so maligned his personage
and to make right the good name of ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken’.
But to do this, he said, I would have to learn Crane Style
Kung Fu in the Temple of the 46 Honey Badgers which
was located near the birthplace of General Patton
along the Bourbon Trail. So i went and did that.
A year later, i pulled up to the KFC mansion headquarters
on a chariot of honey badgers, unhitched them,
and stormed the premises.
(The honey badgers went straight to the kitchen cause they
really don’t give a fuck).
Darrell Hammond, the new Colonel, was sitting in his
plantation chair smoking bluegrass from a corncob pipe.
I flew through the air yelling “Die you fake honkie motherfucker!”
But I was flung to the floor by a big black woman hiding in the shadows–
oh shit! It was the new Aunt Jemima! We fist fought and she bitch slapped
me into a pile of Rand Paul books. I did parkour over a Daniel
Boone wax replica and busted both her knee caps. As she dropped,
i did a Crane Style beak peck with my fingers and cut her jugular–instead
of blood spurting, pancake syrup flowed slowly down
her neck and onto her limp body.
The new Colonel Sanders let out a primal scream– “Noooooo! My one
and true love is gone forever never to come back from now through
eternity or in heaven or hell or reincarnation or cloning or nothing!!!”
(Apparently they had a thing going on). He gritted his false teeth
and came at me with his Coon Style Kung Fu. He landed blow after
blow and was about to perform his signature oven mitted biscuit-flip
death strike when i lept onto his shoulders and did manuvere # 38,
“Honey Badger breaks open the bee-hive”. His head exploded
as if dipped into a deep vat fryer leaving an extra spicy aroma
wafting all the way to the Jim Beam distillery. The bastard was dead.
But just as he was going through rigamortis, his right hand twitched
and flipped a hickory-handled spatula into the air. A figure appeared
in the doorway, his arm lifted and caught the spatula–it was Norm
MacDonald, the new new Colonel Sanders, and by his side was
Kim Davis, the infamous county clerk who refused marriage
certificates to gays. Yes, evil sometimes has no end. You cut
off one head of a chicken and another appears to take its place
before it even has a chance to cross the road.
It was a malicious funky cray-cray kind of voo doo like Sunday paper
coupons for the family meal deal that expire within the week
and are only good on Thursday.
But that is a tale for another time…

La poema de mi Perro azucar:
Cuantos anos tiene el gringo estupido?
El Diablo Trump es un puto.
Quien es esta gato flaco?
Apache spaghetti por desayuno.
Hombres pjendejos ayudame!
Cuidado piso Mojave.
Sus novias son chicas de loco burritos
Y no les gustan mis peliculas Blanca/negra.
Caya Te y odale.

joie de vivre:
I’d like to fill out a work application to somewhere all in Latin.
Then if they type it into Google translator it says I was a vampire hunter
employed by Pope Alexander VI in 1494.
It is said: “Empty your cup so it may be filled.”;
But I say “Leave a little in your cup, add something good, and enjoy a delicious tottie.”
When hipster babies are born, do they cut the umbilical corduroy?
How can Greece be going bankrupt when their yogurt is selling like mad cakes?
For breakfast, Hanibal Lecter doesn’t eat pancakes, he eats pancreas.
Would a low budget sofa with a Star Wars theme be called a “fu-ton-ton”?

 R    E    P    T    I    L    I    A    N       S    K    I    N    T    I    L   I    A    N

Let’s end with a 5 minute poemometer:
Grailgranny in stove top armor-all
Spatulas Spartacus bake goods
With cactus ale elixirs.
3 bitches roost on their perches
Sharing an iPhone to google
Adam Levine spandex spoonfull
Eye’s ante; aye-aye, antsy aunty–
Minute rice works as good as ice oceans.
Scrub the scrutiny from their mutiny.

If I was a pharaoh, I’d have servants bury me
in the chocolate donuts section of the food pyramid.

1 thought on “On Arriving at the Age of 46; Bloodmoon, Beer Summit, Luetzow’s Freikorps, Brestaurant, Megas Doux, NewRetroWave, and ‘The Five Venoms’

  1. This is what I think of as a collage poem in that it collates bits and pieces of thoughts, phrases, and various figurative and literal language together in an expressive “time-capsule” piece in which the flow resembles a roller coaster ride taking the reader on anything but a smooth transitional voyage. A shock to the senses occurs with onslaughts of verbal imagery, concentric themes, rhyme, assonance, alliteration, low and high brow humour, direct and indirect communication. The reader is challenged to forego “making sense” immediately and is encouraged to rather let the language absorb into the spongey mind thru non discerning ears and let feeling and connection have its heyday. Although periodically a straight forward rational statement may leap into the air like a fish escaping an immense ocean for a brief moment.
    Special thanks to the editor and Haggard & Halloo for providing a vehicle for this style of poetry to become planted, grow, and evolve.

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