To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.

The road was always interesting but I figured after my last
um run in with  authorities gonzo needed to lay
low and anyone else he could get his hands on.

Apon return  I found i had some unpaid parking tickets and
some unretuned videos ****** man thoose  videos were
no joke you ever cross paths with a ******* video store clerk
it wasnt pretty and i really wasnt up for ******  oil wrestling
at the moment.

The strange device attached to the phone that spoke and I belived
had turned my on to drugs was filled with voices.
many of which asking the same question.

Gonzo  where have you been?
Gonzo Im late.
****** woman should have left sooner.
Why was that my problem  oh ****.
Well maybe we erase that one  change my name .
Who am i kidding  no one could be this goddamed good looking.

So many messages played it was like a far of hello are a ****
in a packed elevator  even if ya did it you always blamed it on
Eliot  he's a nervous farter  and a wonderful dancer  so
the drag queen in vegas  told me dont ask.

Hey Gonzo did you steal my credit card?
Cause im gonna kick your  ***.
****** now the mighty samuri of hello  was mad at me.
And  a battle between poets is never a prety thing.
that and i feared i would be burried  alive by Gary  and
his many books.

Once he threw  like ninja stars  yes he new some tricks
and had spell check  but i had whiskey bottles.
And  a army of truck driving lesbians   to hide behind.

I knew it was best to seek refuge  in a place none would think to
look in a bar.
the place smelled funny and the whiskey was watred down.
And what kind of place served kids.

After the acid finally weared off i realized i probaly needed
to exit the ball bit at macdonalds cause thoose ten year old
playground gangs were known  to flip ****
when  ya  didnt hand over your happy meal.

My time on the road had taught me many things.
None of which I could remember.
Much like sobriety and spell check i had little
need for brain cells either.

So onto the pub my true home  i did return.
After  a bit of some engine troubles.
it's hell kickstarting a Harley in highheels.

******  thoose were  a nice pair to  Eliot was gonna be ******
But it was time for Gonzos return ******.
And the pud needed its favorite madman.
Cause a pub without Gonzo.

Well it's probaly better stocked but *****
friends im back.

James, you make my eyebrows feel so heavy.
To think: if I never find the one and one make too many empty glasses were broken in the mud-
dled my words when she asked for the time for bed –
All during my morning constitutional.
Take your ***** on the Mount and your Sin of the Farter
Because I know there’s nothing behind the artist except falling towers and furniture-sellers.
But can the deaf still listen?
Or should I care what’s inside a box I can never open?
And how many carriages will follow my coffin
And who will be my wormeaten neighbors
And which tongue will be employed to engrave the epitaph
And topped by what symbol or none?
 
In the beginning the first two words began to breed
And each generation issued reduplication
Evolving vestigial verbiage and new punctuation
All the way down to a young Poet-Hero-Creator:
Use illusory contours to paint the gravity between heavenly bodies, and use
The shared human experience of multistable perception to imply the gestalt of Dublin
(and be sure to use that German term).
We are the artificers of meaning.
 
Item: the location of the key.
Cat: things I should be thinking about but am not.
Item: the *** organs of strangers and acquaintances.
Category: things I should not be thinking about but am.
Item: the autobiographical component of Shakespeare’s later works.
Cat: things I need you to know that I think about.
Item: the possibility that my presence is not nearly as commanding as I’d formerly assumed.
Item: the increasing inebriatory similarities between myself and my father.
Item: the fear of losing my memory of Mother’s face,
as directly correlated to the expanding passage of time.
Cat: things I need you to think I don’t think about, at all.
 
Picture a symphony.
Hold the moment when the lights first fall and the cacophony of tuning
Floods into a single, synthesized vibrating tone. After the silence and before the song.
Write what you hear.
Write the chords in semiotic rhyme; transcribe harmony as memory:
Sing lived and unlived love and stride through on inkblot feet.
Now add the missing notes.

Farting Frank used ****
   rather furtively
A real Frank-furter Farter
    was he.

But mellifluous Maeve
   she'd **** loudly all day
She couldn't care less
   what came out of her derriere.

The pyromaniac within yours truly
beckons sacrificial ritual
mine burning (man's)
sacred plastic bags
of ******* (comprised of: hairs combed,
ditto trimmed from dead head,
filthy lucre - ha, phlegm
wrapped in tissue paper,
snips and snails,
and puppy dogs' tails),
awaiting flame thence said materials
reincarnated into sooty ash

no matter such fiery rhetoric
would be deemed
illogical or brash,
cuz I would sooner serve as a crash
test dummy while riding *******
with spicy specie missus dash
(subsequently witnessing Chiroptera
bat out of hell bat an eyelash
at weird ways of wordsmith)
subsequently prompting me
a praetorian guard reincarnate,

whose coat of shining armor
after radiant dancing sunbeams
beating down ferociously
upon the terra firma indicating
resplendent morning has broken
to blindingly flash
belying onerous task
setting sharp teeth into
bite size meaty morsel that gnash,
whereby said raw bits of comestibles
masticated into hash.

Sheesh, yours truly the fire starter
his fiery soul he would willingly barter
with the devil, who might be repulsed
all the way to kingdom come
courtesy one powerful farter,
whose name alone sends shivers,
especially snaking down
the spines of Thamnophis.

Maybe being a garbage patch kid,
the progeny of renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky – (both parents deceased)
as well as a long haired
pencil necked geek
even going Halloweening once
as chief garbage taster
helps explain this fixation
retaining said plastic bags of trash,
which mode of disposal
would ideally be courtesy kindling tinder.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

Pardon me while I attend
to formidable task
to buzzfeed incinerator,
which cries out like a hungry caterpillar
a rumbling easily mistaken
for the Alaskan bull worm.