"campbell" poems
UMMMMMMMMM SAVE US FROM THESE ONLINE KILLERS
UMMMMMMMMM THEY ARE JUST TRYING TO ENJOY THE FUTURE OF TECHNOLOGY
UMMMMMMMMM PLEASE SAVE OUR YOUNG, UMMMMMMM THEY ARE TREATED LIKE TOYS
UMMMMMMMMM STOP THESE INTERNET PREDATORS, UMMMMMM FROM GETTING THEIR WAY WITH VICTIMS
UMMMMMMMMM THE COMPUTER ISN’T A TOY, IT CAN BE DANGEROUS, DON’T LET MY OLD ME, IN ANY OF YOU
I DON’T WANT PEOPLE GETTING ME WRONG UMMMMMMMMM I WANT ANY SIDE OF KIDNAPPER OUT OF ME
UMMMMMMMMM PLEASE COUNCIL BRETT’S FAMILY UMMMMMMMMMM PLEASE COUNCIL BRETT’S FAMILY
UMMMMMMMMM THESE INTERNET PREDATORS MUST BE STOPPED, UMMMMMMMM BURT IT’S HARD TO STOP THEM
UMMMMMMMMM YOUTUBE IS FUN AND UMMMMMMMMM DONE IN THE RIGHT WAY, FACEBOOK IS FUN
UMMMMMMMMM YOUNG DUDES, BE CAREFUL, UMMMMMMM YOUNG DUDES BE CAREFUL
UMMMMMMMMM DON’T MAKE STRANGE FRIENDS, UMMMMMMM CHOOSE YOUR MATES CAREFULLY
UMMMMMMMMMM CAUSE, THIS IS A HORRIBLE EVENT UMMMMMMM HELP GIVE EVERYONE PROPER COMPUTER CLASSES
UMMMMMMMMMM ON HOW TO HAVE FUN ON COMPUTER UMMMMMMM MY DAD WHO DIED AND BORN AGAIN AS ELIZABETH ANN CAMPBELL
UMMMMMMMMMM ALWAYS TRIED TO UNDERSTAND TECHNOLOGY UMMMMMM DON’T LET INNOCENT BOYS BE CAPTURED BY COMPUTER GEEKS
UMMMMMMMMMM NO COMPUTERS ARE FUN, SOCIAL MEDIA IS FUN UMMMMMM BUT PREDATORS ARE DANGEROUS
UMMMMMMMMMM DON’T LET WHAT HAPPENED TO BRETT, HAPPEN TO YOU, UMMMMMMMM TECHNOLOGY IS FUN, UMMMMMMM TECHNOLOGY IS FUN
UMMMMMMMMM BUDDHA ATHENA AND CROBUS, WHO IS ME, TO STOP ONLINE PREDATORS, GET THE HANDS ON OUR YOUNG
UMMMMMMMMM EVEN IF THEY ARE YOUNG THEMSELVES, UMMMMMMMMMM YEAH, BRING US PEACE FROM STUPID PREDATORS
UMMMMMMMMMM I AIN’T COOL TO **** UMMMMMMMMMM LIKE THE MAN DOING BURNOUTS IN THE CARPARK UMMMMMMM IT MIGHT LOOK FUN
UMMMMMMMMMM BUT IT COULD’VE KILLED THAT LADY, UMMMMMMMMMM IS IT REALLY WORTH IT, UMMMMMMMM IS IT REALLY WORTH IT
UMMMMMMMMMMM IS IT REALLY WORTH IT, TO **** FOR TECHNOLOGY, UMMMMMMMMM IT DOESN’T IMPROVE THE WORLD
UMMMMMMMM TO SEE ONLINE PREDATORS, GET THEIR WAY, UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMM UMMMMMMMMMM
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
like Pollock's paint splattering on canvas
like Warhol's Campbell soup in print
like Cunningham's democracy on stage
she loves him like that; she loves him like Art
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
A DEATH CREATES A DECEMBER/OCTOBER TWIN BIRTH WITH RAY POCOCK’S LIFE FOLLOWING HIS TRAGIC NEXT LIFE’S DEATH
YOU SEE ROBERT KINOSHITA, TURNS 100, AND GOES UP TO SATURN TO
DO A FEW ROBOT DANCES, AND INVENTS THIS LITTLE SONG
I AM THE GREATEST, I MADE A FAMOUS ROBOT
IT WAS IN A GREAT GREAT SHOW TITLED LOST IN SPACE
I WANTED TO LIVE FOREVER, BUT I EVENTUALLY KICKED THE BUCKET
BUT I LIVED TO BE 100, TO SAY I DID THE ROBOT DANCE
I DID THE ROBOT DANCE, SAYING
I AM A ROBOT, I AM A ROBOT, MY WAY IS COMING TRUE THROUGHOUT THE LAND
I AM A ROBOT EVERY SINGLE DAY
I CREATED ROBOT B-9, HE WAS FAMOUS FOR SAYING
DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER WILL ROBINSON
AND THEN SAID, I AM A ROBOT, I AM A ROBOT,
I AM COMING TO EXTERMINATE YOU, I AM A ROBOT FOREVER AND EVER
AND THEN AS I GET OFF STAGE I TIP A KEG OF METHANE ALL OVER RAY POCOCK
TO SAY, LET’S MAKE TWINS IN OCTOBER, WELL LET’S MAKE THEM DUE IN OCTOBER ANYWAY
AND ROBERT AND RAY SAID WE ARE PERFECT ROBOTS
WE WILL CREATE NEW LIFE, IN OCTOBER, OH YEAH
RAY HAS NO IDEA, EITHER HAS ROBERT, BUT THEY BOTH SAID WE ARE ROBOTS
AND DANGER, IF WE LET THE TERRORISTS WIN
WE ARE CRONUS’S, EMBASSADORS, I AM CRONUS
I AM THE ONE IN THE FAMILY, WHO LIKES IMAGINATIVE ROBOTS
AND WE DANCE, WE ARE BIG ROBOTS, WE ARE BIG ROBOTS
WE HAVE COME TO ESTERMINATE YOU GUYS IF YA COME TO CLOSE
DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER WILL ROBINSON
THERE WILL BE DANGER IF ROBERT AND RAY SEPERATE, CAUSE
THEY ARE JOINED TO PROTECT THE EARTH, AND BRING PROPER ROBOTS BACK
WE WANT HELPFUL ROBOTS WE WANT HELPFUL ROBOTS
WE WILL GET THEM NOW, ROBERT KINOSHITA TIP METHANE ALL OVER BARRY ALLAN
CAUSE, HE WON’T EXCEPT HE IS NOW ELIZABETH ANN CAMPBELL
DANGER BARRY ALLAN ROBERT SAID IF YOU GET THIS YOUR LIKE ME AND MUMMY CRAP OUT OF YOUR SONS
DANGER AHEAD, TO OLD HAGS WE ARE BIG ROBOTS, AND WE WILL STAY BIG ROBOTS FOREVER
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
So I am about to be a free man again, to wander where I please.
I find the prospect nauseating.
I think that tonight is the night I will hang Howard W. Campbell, Jr., for crimes against himself.
I know that tonight is the night.
They say that a hanging man hears gorgeous music. Too bad that I, like my father, unlike my musical mother, am tone-deaf. All the same, I hope that the tune I am about to hear is not Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas.'
Goodbye, cruel world!
Auf wiedersehen?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
I have always loved you
because you are Jace Wayland
I found the sincerest thoughts
from every word you've said.
Transparent
is what you have always been.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 2:03 PM UTC
1. Janet Jackson - Let's Wait A While
2. Ralph Tresvant - Love At First Sight
3. En Vogue - Waitin' On You
4. Meshell Ndegeocello - Let Me Have You
5. Jade - Give Me What I'm Missing
6. Janet Jackson - Anytime Anyplace
7. El DeBarge - Love Me Tonight
8. Michael Sterling - Lovers & Friends
9. El DeBarge - You Are My Dream
10. Floetry - Imagination
11. Tevin Campbell - Shhh
12. Keith Martin - Never Find Someone Like You
13. Meshell Ndegeocello - Soul Searchin
14. TLC - Red Light Special
15. En Vogue - Everyday
Erotica epitome, your lips so soft, I am standing on my toes
Beautiful and ****** sensual sensational music playing in the background
and with a kiss we were
high and turned on, submerged in ******** tones
Beeping and aroused *****
But then the songs ended.
May the memory melismatic in every sense that permeates colour and oozes flavour... Live on, long after the songs have ended.
Erotica Epitome
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
Where is my Campbell Soup Can? My Candy Darling, Edie Sedgewick, my "Factory"?
I was promised 15 minutes, it said so on the box, on the manual of life, now where is it?
Did I pass it? Dismiss it? Was it at the bottom of the ******* Jack box I so carelessly tossed aside?
I think not. I think it does not exist, and therefore I think Andy failed me.
Andy lied.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
There's a funny sort of emptiness
that passes over me
as I walk past the paperback erotica that tuck themselves away
in the shelves of the local grocery store in places that are
simultaneously completely out in the open yet completely ignored
looking, as I do, with mock casual interest
and unfeigned disdain.
Who are these intended for, really?
Are they for the snuggly-wuggly, ***** cozy-woozy, wishy-washy and warm family of four
comparing chicken nugget prices and
weighing the health benefits of
vegetable medley versus succotash?
Or are they for the uni flatmates
walking huddled together for warmth or protection or both,
seeing as they're wearing only sandals and denim shorts
and this is the first time
they've been grocery shopping without mum,
that giggle loudly together to mask how homesick they really are
while they compare the calories in
Campbell's versus Progresso.
They went with Progresso if you were wondering.
Or are they meant for those who are cooking for one?
For those who have no need to compare prices
or calories
out loud.
For those who are well acquainted
with the old, familiar tiled aisles
as they have no one to take out to dinner.
Is this where they are to find company?
Betwixt the pages of a badly penned,
lighter than marshmallows,
more shallow than the kiddie pool,
more transparent than Casper,
not-good-enough-to-be-bloody-compost
"literary" garbage?
Is this -assumed- female
supposed to curl up with one of these slabs of drivel
and feel **** and aroused
in her baggy sweats and ill-fitting hoodie
after she ate a microwaveable chicken *** pie all by her lonesome?
As a single girl who often cooks for one,
I am offended by this.
Personally,
I think Lestat is ten times sexier than Edward,
Salai is way cuter than Fabio,
and Christian Grey couldn't S Mr. Rochester's D.
What I'm saying is-
Grocery Stores.
YOU are the primary reason for this pathetic f-ckery.
Everything else in the store can be compared for quality.
So why not apply that same knowledge
to the book arena.
Signed,
A Concerned Shopper
p.s. Please extend the validity date on the chicken *** pie coupon. Thank you!
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
MY NEICE IS A AN OLD ROCK AND ROLL SINGER OF THE PAST
YOU SEE MY NIECE CAITLIN IS A ROCK SINGER
JUST LIKE MY BROTHER IS
THERE COULD BE PREVIOUS LIVES STORIES HERE
LIKE SHE COULD BE ROY ORBISON OR RICKY MAY
OR SOMEONE BETTER, CAUSE MY NIECE CATLIN
IS SO PERFECT AT SINGERS, IT GOES FURTHER THAN GENES
IF MY MATE PAUL BERENYI DIED IN 1995 LIKE A ****** TOLD ME
HE COULD BE CAITLIN, BUT YOU CAN’T TRUST OTHER PEOPLE
BETTER JUST TRUST THE NEWS
AND NO MATTER WHO CAITLIN WAS IN HER PREVIOUS LIFE
SHE SHOULD ****** CHOOSE, WHAT IS A HER CHARACTER
I AM JUST CRONUS THE POWERFUL GOD
I CAN TELL IF I HAVE THE INTERNET FACTS
I CAN FIND PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERNS
BY, WORKING OUT WHEN PEOPLE DIE
AND HOW MANY YEARS, AND NORMALLY IF THEY YELL
THEY WERE EITHER, KIDNAPPERS, OF OLD HOOLIGANS OF THE PAST
BUT CAITLIN IS A GREAT SINGER, AND SHE HAS SOME PREVIOUS LIFE PATTERN
I KNOW MY BROTHER IS A SINGER TOO, BUT THERE IS MORE THAN THAT I KNOW
LIKE, I WAS ISABELLA OF FRANCE, I WAS THEIR FAMILIES ENTERTAINER
I KNOW SCOTT MCDONALD WANTED TO TEASE ME
SO HE DIED AND BECAME TWO CATS, LUCKY THE CAT WHO WILL TEASE DAD
WHEN IT RAINS, AND MUSCLES WAS TO SAY ONLY ANIMALS DO WHAT I DID BACK THEN
THAT IS WHY THE GUYS TEASED ME
IF PAUL DID DIE, IN 1995, HE COULD BE MY NIECE CAITLIN
BECAUSE NOW I MENTION IT, IT COULD’VE BEEN BEFORE 1995 WHEN I SAW HIM
AT TUGGERANONG WITH ANTHONY COSTA WATCHING BASKETBALL
BUT I KNOW DAD IS IN THE ****** OF LISA CAMPBELL, WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS
WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO, IS BRING MY FAMILY HAPPINESS
CAITLIN COULD BE PAUL BERENYI, OR COULD BE ROY ORBISON
AND NO MATTER WHO SHE IS, SHE IS MY NIECE, AND SUSAN IS MY OTHER NIECE
AND I LOVE THEM BOTH TO BITS
AND NOW, THE RAIN IS COMING CAUSED BY PAUL BERENYI
SAYING NO MATTER WHO I AM, CRONUS SHOULD KEEP IT DOWN
GO TO BED USA, AS THERE IS A BIG SURFING TOURNAMENT IN MERCURY
ORGANISED BY THE TERRORISTS, TO CALM THE HEAT, AND NOT **** THEIR HOOLIGAN
BUT CRONUS TELLS DAD, TO KEEP THEM STRAPPED IN THE SUN
WHERE NO WATER CAN SAVE THEM, THEY’LL SUFFER
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
Do not utter a syllable
For the reaper lurks at the door
Dim the lights as our eyes are widened
Sit in a desperate, huddled mass
Feel the shivering, helpless creature on the left
Hear my traitorous lungs exhaling, surrendering my position
My heart pounding, screaming at my body
Ordering me to run, to fight, to ****
"Do not go gentle into that good night,"
As Dylan Thomas so elegantly stated
Yet it is not a time for romantic visions of heroism
Beowulf's idealism will not save us here
Sobbing, shivering, ***** stained American Eagle
Sweat drenched Under Amour Tees and hoodies
Feet ironically quivering in red and orange Nike Shocks
A 243 pound lineman blubbering under his breath
He wants his mother, his daddy, his pillow, to go home
Another boy, Darrel, clenches his fists, readies for attack
Cassidy sits silently, emotionless, statuesque, frozen in time
And I . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do?
Do I flinch like Sir Gawain in the face of death?
Or do I . . . . . . What do I do?
God, may I never discover the answer to this evil query
God help us stop the violence consuming innocent children
Render CODE RED obsolete
Yet, CODE RED will parish not
For society feeds on fictional fame
Fifteen minutes that Warhol never could have painted
Now it will be duplicated like so many Campbell's Soup cans
CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED CODE RED
And . . . What will I do?
What will I do?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
BRIAN, YOU ARE STILL A LITTLE SHY BOY, BUDDY
YOU SEE MY DAD CLOSED THE DOOR SAYING
DON’T WORRY ABOUT THE TEASING, BE LIKE ME AND MUMMY
AND WENT BACK IN AND I FOLLOWED DAD AND HE SAID
ARE YOU GETTING TEASED, BRIAN , AND I SAID, I AM TEASING YOU
CAUSE DAD, YOUR NOT LIKE US, YOUR NOT LIKE US, YA NOT LIKE US
I AM A YOUNG DUDE, AND YOU ARE A GRUMPY OLD ****
AND DAD SAID GO TO YOUR ROOM, AND I SAID NEH, I AM STILL COOL, BUDDY
DAD SAID, COOL, WHY DO YA WANT TO BE COOL FOR, BE LIKE ME AND MUMMY
OR A SHY YOUNG DUDE, AND I SAID, YOU ARE FUCKEN SHY, DAD
AND DAD GOT UP AND SAID, GO TO YOUR BLINKEN ROOM YA LITTLE SHY BOY
AND IF WE HAD LOCKS, I WILL LOCK YOU IN, I SAID WHEN YOU DIE
YOU ARE LEARNING ABOUT HOW KIDS OF TODAY ACT
DAD SAID SHUT UP, YOUR STILL A LITTLE SHY BOY
AND RAN TO HIS SEAT, AND I FOLLOWED HIM SAYING, I AM STILL NOT LEAVING YOU ALONE DAD
AND DAD SAID, GO TO YOUR ROOM YA FOOL, YA FOOL
I SAID, HIT ME HERE IN THE FACE DADDY, AND HE SAID OK AND HIT ME SQUARE IN THE FACE
AND TRIED TO RUN TO HIS SEAT, AND I FOLLOWED HIM TO HIS SEAT
SAYING, I WANT TO BE COOL, AND HE SAID COOL WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE COOL FOR
GO AWAY FOOL, DAD, SAID, AND I STUCK MY FINGER UP AT DAD, AND HE SAID
DON;T GIVE ME THOSE RITCHARD HAND SIGNALS YA FOOL YOU FLAMING FOOL
AND I SHOWED DAD MY FINGER 199 TIMES, MY BROTHER DEFENDED DAD LIKE A MANS KID WOULD
AND I STARTED A BG ARGUMENT WITH DAD SAYING, I WAS TOO COOL FOR THIS FAMILY
HE SAID, GO AWAY YA FOOL, GO AWAY FOOL, GO FOR A WALK, YA NEED TO LET OFF STEAM
I SAID, NEH, I WANT TO HAVE MY SAY, DAD YOU NEED TO LIGHTEN UP
DAD SAID, GO TO YOUR ROOM, FOOL, GO TO YOUR ROOM, YA FOOL
AND I SAID, **** OFF AWAY FROM US YOUNG DUDES, BUDDY, YOU ARE AN OLD FUCKEN KODGER
DAD SAID, GO AWAY YA FOOL, AND WENT INTO THE KITCHEN TO WIPE UP
AND I REMEMBER FOLLOWING HIM, SAYING, LISTEN TO ME, DAD I AM NOT YOUR FAVOURITE SON AM IT
HE SAID, NO, NOT IF YOU CARRY ON LIKE THIS YOUR NOT, YOUR A LITTLE SHY BOY, BUDDY
I SAID, DAD I WANT TO STAB YOU IN THE BACK, DAD SAID WHERE’S THE KNIFE
THE BIG THING WAS, WHERE’S THE KNIFE, I DIDN’T WANT TO **** DAD, HE’S FAMILY
I WAS REALLY TEASING LIKE THE COOL YOUNG DUDES DID IN THE 1980s
WHEN DAD FINISHED THAT HE RAN STRAIGHT TO HIS CHAIR
AND I FOLLOWED HIM, SAYING, YOU ARE A STUPID FATHER
HE SAID, GO AWAY FOOL, GO AWAY FOOL, LEAVE ME ALONE BRIAN, I’M A FAMILY MAN
I SAID, I HAVE COOL MATES, I DON’T NEED YOU TO SAY, YOUR LIKE ME AND MUMMY BRIAN EVERY DAY
THEN I SAID I AM COOL, DAD, DAD SAID, COOL, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE COOL FOR
WELL, NOW DAD IS DEAD, I GOT MY CHANCE TO TELL DAD THAT I WAS BEING A KID
AND NOW IT’S DAD’S TURN TO BE ONE OF DAVID AND LISA CAMPBELL’S TWINS
PAIRED WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS, THEY ARE JUST LIKE EACH OTHER
DAD, IS SOON TO BE JIMMY BARNES’S GRANDCHILD WITH ROBIN WILLIAMS
TO JOIN OLGA CHICK
HAPPY NEXT LIFE, DAD
AND LET US DUDES BURN YA OLDIE OFF WITH METHANE, TO IMPROVE YOUR NEXT EARTH BODY
BOBYE BLINKEN DAD, YA FOOL, I AM ONLY JOKING, HA HA HA HA
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
N THE YEARS OF 1995 AND 2007, I WENT TO WORK AT
NORTHSOUTH COTRACTORS, AND I MET STEPHEN
VOLKS, AND HE WAS A VERY ENTHUIASTIC PERSON
ALWAYS WORKED HARD, DID THINGS HE SHOULDN’T DO
SOMETIMES, BUT STEVE VOLKS DIED AND HIS MOTHER
CRIED AT THE FUNERAL, AND STEVEN VOLKS HAS BEEN
REINCARNATED AS A CAT, LIVING NEXT DORR TO ME IN HAWKER
THE CATS NAME IS JADE, AND I LIKE JADE, AND JADE IS A REALLY
CUTE CAT, REMINDS ME OF VOLKI’S LAUGH AT NORTH SOUTH YA KNOW
I GOT ON WELL WITH VOLKI, AND NOW AS I SEE JADE ENTER MY
BALCONY, TRYING TO PULL MY SCREEN IN, YA SEE
YA SEE, AT LEAST STEVEN VOLKS, IS AT PEACE WITH BEN
MY NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR LOOKING AFTER IT WELL
YEAH AS JADE IS SEEN BY ME, I MUTTER TO MYSELF, HI VOLKI HOWS IT GOING
AND DAD AND ROBIN WILLIAMS, HAVE ENTERED THE ****** OF DAVID
AND LISA CAMPBELL AND LEO, WHO IS THEIR ELDEST BOY
WELL APPARENTLY HIS PREVIOUS LIFE WAS OLGA CHICK
AND I MADE SURE THAT DAD BROUGHT HIS AFTER LIFE TOYBOY ROBIN WILLIAMS
TO MEET WITH OLGA CHICK, YA SEE, THIS IS A PLOY TO BRING OLGA
TO DAD, OLGA WAS A WORKER AT VINNIES LIKE ME
AND SHE WORKED IN A BIG CAFETERIA, ONCE, AND
AFTER SHE DIED, AND SHE WAS A LOVELY LADY, A REALLY LOVELY LADY
AND SHE BECAME THE FIRST BORN OF DAVID AND LISA CAMPBELL
OLGA IS NOW LEO CAMPBELL, AND LEO IS GETTING TWIN SIBLINGS
DAD AND ROBIN WILLIAMS, REINCARNATIONS AS I WANTED DAD TO MEET OLGA
SHE IS SUPER NICE, AND I WANT DAVID LISA LEO TO MEET DAD AND ROBIN WILLIAMS SO THEIR SPIRITS DON’T STRAY
LIKE I DID, AND MANY OTHERS DID
I BELIEVE OLGA IS LEO CAMPBELL CAUSE I AM A BUDDHIST
AND STEVEN VOLKS IS JADE CAUSE I AM A BUDDHIST
STEVEN WANTS TO BE JADE, SO HE CAN CURE HIS SOUL FROM MENTAL BREAKDOWNS
OLGA AND STEVE, UMMMMMM, LEO AND JADE UMMMMM
UMMMMMM OLGA IS LEO, UMMMMMM STEVEN VOLKS IS JADE
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
The men shout at me as they drive by
****** walk like a man!”
They hoot, shout, and laugh
As sunlight blinds their white-trash getaway.
I look around and think
How ridiculous to be unable to walk
How insane for me to think that these legs
Move on their own.
How silly for me, the queen that I am,
To think that my kingdom was
Any place I was welcome.
To be queer and visible
Is to challenge
The stained muscle shirts
“wife beaters,” strung across
Tattooed skin and handlebar
Mustaches of the “real men”
Whose siren calls
Police my step.
Most men hate us
The Children of Naomi Campbell
Men, YES MEN, too unafraid
To straighten our walk
Loosen our pant legs
And be invisible.
To be properly gay
Acceptably gay, to be
Tolerable is to be invisible
To hide, to be “real man”
My manhood is ghostly
Terrifying even
My walk so dangerous that
It is unsafe to even drive by
My community is still
Dangerous, unreal
Waiting for the next truck to drive by
To beat me, tie me to a fence and leave me
Like Matthew Shepard
A ghost on a fencepole
Unwanted, dangerous,
My people are a threat
Legs too long threatening the ability of
“real men” to have simple desires
They will do whatever it takes
To keep it easy.
Walk like a man, they yelled.
I yell back the names of my family:
Tiffany Edwards,
Zoraida Reyes, Kandy Hall
Yaz’min Shancez
Bodies that didn’t walk the right way
These ghosts were once threatening too.
Simply existing means threatening
"real men" and their women
Swinging my hips is literally deadly
To be flirtatious is to be threatening
To invite violence, attention
To get what I want, to be made a man
Real man, I am not real
As if my only job is to
Show others how to walk,
As if the rest of me
Is simply fake, fantasy, irrelevant
See how easily queer people
Are watered down to something unidimensional,
Something that is only a fragment of
“real” people – we are ghosts
Moving among you
Threatening, ******
Never just going to work
But always somehow
threatening, challenging
And forcing fantasies onto the world
Why do we always challenge
What is real? What is normal?
Why can’t a man strut? Why isn’t manhood
Something other than what swings with my
Legs?
Real. Ghostly. Fake. Invisible. Dangerous.
What I hear is *powerful, noted, interesting,
….maybe even desirable.* (GASP!)
When I walk now, I walk with an army of ghosts
Led by the fallen, queens, and divas
who threatened the men of the past.
I live their lessons and proudly
swish my hips in honor of my adopted
****** ancestors.
We Sashay however we want
Because we've realized that
a "real" men is always
Just a step away.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
I'll probably go visit my parents on Thanksgiving. I'd hate to miss the way my father nods at my mother's sisters and brothers then steps backward into the shadows until he becomes them. We're having the mess at my aunt's in Seminole. Dad always drives separately. He makes his escape without saying goodbye. Leaving my mother, my sister, my brother, and I to explain the hermit.
I never ride with him. Haven't rode in a car -- just him and I -- since high school. I would lay my head against passenger window. Listen to tires press gravel deeper into the red earth. He never asked my thoughts on God, though a minister. He never asked about my classes, though a former teacher. He never asked about girls, though my father. Glen Campbell, however, he'd talk about Glen Campbell. Claimed I always looked like him. When I was a child, he'd even part my hair sharply and take pictures. What a good, little Glen Campbell. If he took his eyes off the road long enough to hone in on a power line, "Wichita Lineman" inevitably became the topic of conversation. That song would delta off into "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Gentle on My Mind," "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." Soon we'd be in town, knowing each other no better than before the departure. But we arrived. That's something.
To this day, no occasion could coerce me into parting my hair. With the exception of Mr. Campbell's funeral of course.
Tim will love your family. As I did. Still do. I thought he might only be a consolation, but looks like he's a trophy. Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Anna Prine. I thank you. The fowl of the air thank you. The beasts of the field thank you. Tell them they're welcome.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
The smell of grandma's porch was wonderful
but not in the clothes on the line or fresh apple pie on the windowsill kind of way.
Grandma's porch smelled of old paint
of winter even in the summer and of
damp wicker, an ancient outdoor rug, oxidized aluminum siding
and dust from the cars on First Avenue speeding to,
or from,
the Post Office on Main Street at the bottom of her street
These were not necessarily "good" smells
We'd wash them off of our hands before we ate lunch in front of
the TV with grandpa, watching Jeopardy
but the old one not the one with the Canadian guy
But they were good smells to us because
they reminded us of a grandma who allowed her grandchildren to build massive forts
from blankets
and every chair and sofa cushion in the house
TV tables too
As long as they were dismantled before Noon when Jeopardy came on
and grandpa would want his lunch
and the vapor rising from his bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup
would wash away the smell of grandmas porch from our noses.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
My mom used to grind tomatoes every October
for canning with this metal monster that kept it's mouth
clenched on the edge of our kitchen table
for weeks at a time. I used to climb up the stools
just to barely crank the tail around and around,
watching the vegetable guts spill into a cauldron.
She would give me a mini Krackle bar
if I could count all of the jars to at least ten,
their gold rims like little crowns that she would carefully
twist over their heads, the reflection from the setting sun
bouncing off my Kindergarten cheeks. My dad,
pretending to be a cartoon character behind her back
as I covered my mouth in secret laughter. I can't prove it,
but I bet she smiled as she rolled her eyes, pretending
not to be totally in love with a forty year old man
who's heart was as young as his daughter. Now,
she can't even stir Campbell's soup without crying.
The sound of the crank is only like the sound of the car
as they tore apart it's skeleton just to find my dad's baseball cap
stuck in the glass of the windshield. So instead,
now ten years later, I tuck pictures in places
I know she won't look, say prayers when she's gone to sleep,
and pull the curtain over the jars
of the homemade spaghetti sauce in the cellar.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
there’s something unsettling about convenience stores. the fluorescent lights resemble some planet far away from here. neon signs with a letter broken, now flashing “be r,” beckoning the broken, the damaged, the lost boys. the home of those who don’t fit in. they buy the greasy pizza, rubbery hot dogs, and chemically nacho cheese which imitate something edible but scream danger on the tongue. haunted by the souls of the the pimply teenagers working the register, lips stained blue from blue raspberry slushy, slaving through the evening for the nocturnal souls buying milk and bread in the wee hours of the night. hushed arguments on the phone about forgetting to buy toilet paper and why don’t you ever pay attention to me. the pungent smell of hair dye boxes, the stink of attempting to be someone you’re not. skeleton children with messy hair, ***** fingernails as well as thoughts, up to no good back for more cherry cough syrup and furniture polish. soon after 3 candy bars will be found missing from inventory. detergent bottle caps, once neon, now faded with gathering dust, residing next to a dented can of campbell’s chicken soup. an organized chaos. the land of misfit toys.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
The kitchen is drowning.
Cereal reefs are jagged and submerged,
Perched on them is a hermit crab in a Campbell’s can.
Little bacon eels swim crackling by.
Toast flounders on the tile,
Half-buried in sandy crumbs.
And the mermaid swims through,
Her little stomach growling
For a peanut-butter-and-jellyfish sandwich.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Electric static buzzing in attentive ears, wondering how and why you ended up where you did. Stale smoke filling the air like the compressor in a carburetor.
Direct injection.
Vicious speeds.
Catatonic struggle.
The lisp of an old hippie, tracing his tracks in a wheel-legged fashion, up and down the streets of Seattle, looking for the kicks that previous nights were unable to provide. Supply and demand for bottom up approaches.
Roaches scattered in the living room. Some dead, some still glowing in the dimness. Empty cans of Campbell lint excessive consumption. The prevalent motif of the middle class. Stars and stripes hung in the window pain, above the static placidity.
Seattle stars
No such thing
I guess it must be raining there forever.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Sunday 40,88 82 82 80 82 Between South Africa, Brazil and Macedonia 600-100-300 300 John Wilson, 300 + 40.82 Congress, eight letters, George Washington. Brazilian art gallery More than 1,300 years later, German, African and Chinese ****** arrive in South Africa, Mexico, Brazil, 60.6006 million 40600300600 (20) ******* divorcees, 8,8,8,8, Brazil, Brazil Brazil, 600 600 600, 600, 82 300, 300, 300 Brazil, 40.82 - another "teacher" in France France is full of ****** from Brazil 600-100 - Six dogs and ****** are full of the fruity aromas of Carmen Campbell, a woman who lives with prostitutes; Prostitutes have existed for 300,700 years (according to Tom Wilson) 300 8 George W. Ashington, USA Euro, Brazil, Brazil, Gabon, Morocco, Ra Ramalin, Harlem, 0.82, Latin America, Africa, Macedonia, South Africa, 40.82, Yobe Africa, Morocco, 40-82 years. MacDonald's, May 2, South Africa, Curse, United Kingdom, Russians, whores' ****** and G'ilimão de Mécoques 2011 6,000,000 days in South Africa, China, South Africa, Go-Go UK / EU. Yuku Uyu and 600, 600, 600, 600, 600 Google ****** Yeh, one Sunday, George Washington attended the coronation of George W. Murray 40.82 600-100-300 300 300 Tom Wilson has Good News for Ephraim in South Africa, ****** from Africa And South Africa bloom in the dust of South Africa. 82300300 has a place of landing for Brooklyn ****** Washington ****** and ****** from East New York in South Africa with 600 600 000 300 (8) 600 doctors, South Africa Google with more than 600 people. 5-300000 600,600,000,600,600 600,000 John Wilson, George Washington, 200,000 in 50000 - 60000600402 in the morning 6006,0066 3006 63 00000 100 600 600 600 600 ****** are here. 600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,00,600,660,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,
600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,600,60,6 ******* canned report 600600600 40, 82, Brazil, South African and possibly poisonous, 300B - ******* for Tom Wilson, Rudolf, Morocco 600-100-300300 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 6 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 600 1300 Brazilian Producers Paul Paulson, Wilson 2: 40.82, South Africa, South Africa and Brazil 600 600 600 United States' 'Hamster' Washington 100 6006006 Miami, Florida 300,600 82.3003 million more in Brazil, South Africa, Mexico and Russia; Tom Hamilton 40.82 to Morocco and Brazil, South Africa; Freedom in Ohio as a frontier wife, Macedonia, Brazil; United States, Spain, Brazil 20.8 Aborigines, Moroccan, Brooklyn and Harlem ****** 0.82, Decoration: Often, a professional, in fact, is a pre-recorded decision. Others see teenagers, while others see "magic." Doyle is the most vicious woman, of the bride for $15 per night to support her classmate, the "ex" ********** who is still a ********** The figures show that prostitutes are from the local community, that they are disgusting ****** and a woman who has been trafficked for less than a month can reduce stress she receives through using a ********** **** ******* your *** is your money! Your ******* donkeys, and donkeys are your money.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Certain people see things
differently.
Now why do we do that?
Is it a lack of closeness?
Maybe communication?
I have questions
for the pastor/Pete Campbell clone
at Immanuel Bible Church.
Like,
why does your sermon feel derivative?
How often are songs played in-between the sermons?
Are these songs a necessary transition?
A slideshow?
A distraction?
I still don’t know how to sing,
or keep tempo with claps.
Pavlov’s dog is hated,
by you.
Do you hate the dog?
Or do you hate the results of the experiment?
Is science,
a deceitful ex-girlfriend to you?
Someone you don’t trust?
If so I can understand you.
But I don’t understand you.
Because you have your truth.
And I have my truth.
Peter said to me truth is an abstraction.
I’m telling you your truth is yours.
But,
cup your hand and press it against the wall of my truth,
listen and you will hear a man and a man talking to each other.
Their naked bodies are sealed by an anchor that you have never seen.
The first man leans forward
and
kisses the second man on the nape of his neck.
Then, the second man kisses the first man on the left part of his chest.
Should I stop?
Am I scaring you?
Do you want to watch a blonde girl stick her tongue down another blonde girl’s throat,
Until her breath cannot escape and float and trail off her lips.
Like the dove white spaceships that launch into the expanding horizon of darkness.
Am I making sense?
I want you to follow my words.
I want you to respect me.
The first man is talking. The second man has his arms folded behind his back like a
Korean man, and he’s looking out the window, gazing at the dove white spaceship
Propelling into the incredible shadow, the one that is swallowing up everything we love.
Pete Campbell is the shadow.
Do you care about POV?
Are you bothered when another person is talking about a person in the third person?
I consider your opinion,
Even when you don’t consider mine.
Does that make me weak?
“Television turn off the mind,”
that is a quote that shot out of your mouth,
like an arrow from the Green Arrow dressed in Cupid’s apparel.
Or is that the flesh?
Carnal.
I digress.
Tangents happen.
I was rude. I am sorry,
And I know sorry is a word,
And you do not value words.
But I am a poet.
Words are my salmon and red wine
Rewind the cassette.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
I have come to a conclusion.
We are in an endless cycle.
We wake up and think about food.
We eat sugary cereals for breakfast
so we go to school or work thinking about food.
Afterschool, we watch food and beauty advertisements
that make us feel bad about ourselves,
so what do we do?
Shop for food and clothes to make us
"feel better" and to "fill the void."
After shopping, we get tired and watch television
where we, yet again, shovel even MORE food
into our lifeless pieholes.
We also don't want to cook anything,
so our meals consist of Campbell's soups, frozen pizzas and leftovers of whatever casserole is in the house.
Even after eating dinner, we are tempted to eat more,
so we have DESSERT!
Because of our constantly on-the-go lifestyle, half the time we are not even conscious of what we're eating.
Ironically, yet predictably, we go to sleep thinking about what we will have for breakfast the next day.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC