Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****

Snapped **** with teeth

Then grizzled grin at me and spit up

I poked at my chile relleno

Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs

Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque

Between my own fangs

I spit back scalding ****

Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"

Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see

Flashes his gleaming grill

I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle

Chattering ivories

It was not really thee
bards of the ages
who inspired me
but of your wages
I shall purloin lithe lines
to add to the meager confines
of my tailored tale

nineteen
green
inside and out
not knowing when I would be ripe
cramming all the ammo clips I could find
into my fresh jungle fatigues
he
the sage of 2nd platoon
told me of the frightful night
when
in the midst of a hellish firefight
he reached for more clips
and found only the remnants of chips
tasty morsels when first consumed
but then a sign he was doomed
“NO MORE AMMO—****”
he sunk even lower into the carpet of night
but to his ironic delight
“the **** that was shooting at me ran out of ammo too”
after exchanging an infinite stare
both fled into the ebony air
the moral of his twice told fable
grab all the ammo clips you are able

and the sage from 1st platoon said,
one night when our brains were brimming with beer
that a full bladder was also something to fear
for being distracted by the urge to ****
could perhaps be the reason we would miss
“some **** slithering through the black grass,
and that, my friends, could mean your ***”

so their caveats did not fall on deaf ears
although
they were filtered by my too few reckless years
yet, I snatched all the clips I could carry
on my 140 pounds of nineteen
and took not one sip from my canteen

others words bounced around my crowded skull
some were from rapier wit and others were dull
but the ones to which I would listen
were the ones that gave me hope for
another day of light
after the perpetual blind night
in the land of the ******

I had learned to walk without sound
all on my own
and find a place to crouch
where not even the dead
could see me, I would briefly imagine
but they were there
permeating the dank air
with silent dirges to their demise
and me waiting with cracked open eyes
for one to come alive
and yank my young *** into some dark hole

we have always seen things in the dark
while hiding from the devil our sisters said would come
under our blankets with one eye closed and the other agape
he was coming, she would say, to get you
for being….born
sometimes, the chosen, the blessed souls,
would forget he was there
and breath calm air
and walk into the life of nineteen
with a full canteen but
not worried about a full bladder
and missing Jacob’s ladder

but those of us who came to this wicked place
could not blithely put our demons to rest
and they continued their animated fest
in the darkness our eyes could not penetrate
and our spirits could not relegate
to the silent land of the past

there could have been a dozen, live ones,
snaking their way through the grass
close enough to smell my sweat
or perhaps only one
crouched in his own woeful world
miles away through the ****** jungle
but it did not matter
for in my wordless chatter
they were all around
maybe the same ones in my childhood room
coming to thicken the gloom
with another tormented soul
who at nineteen
was afraid to drink from his canteen

I would stop seeing them
at some point
but only for a shallow breath or two
then they would be there again
and I would hear nothing
except the other sages
from those ancient pages
where my eyes followed my fingers in curious delight
far from this lethal foaming night

"Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held just ourselves and immortality"
"Death be not proud, though some have called thee so"
“I looked in vain for another path for my feet
but they were all too small
except the one labeled ‘Death Street’”

and other less ominous verse would take the chance
to make its way into my riddled trance,
“Nature’s first green is gold,
her hardest hue to hold
her early leaf’s a flower,
but only so an hour
then leaf subsides to leaf
so Eden sank to grief
so dawn goes down to day
nothing gold can stay”

nothing gold, nor green I would recall
and when I would lose the light lull of the verse
I would again begin to traverse
into the blind black depths in front of my eyes
and the devils would tauntingly reappear
and I would again hear
the nothingness we all share
there
in the land of the ******
with a full canteen
and an M-16
at nineteen

for all the names on that granite wall and many others...

I  Prelude

Vietnam broke my mind.
Now it runs like a cheap watch
always leaping about in time.
It pulls me backward into
strange visions of a world gone mad.
My life is time borrowed from corpses.
It is hard to lead your life
while you are stuck in another.
Time, the great healer,
only seems to make this worse.
Self-medication, legal meditation,
nothing seems strong enough
to stop the pounding of the rotors,
the screams of the men and the monkeys.
I have never been able to **** the demons
hidden in the tree lines of my mind.
Forty-three years later I'm still hiding
nauseous and naked in the napalmed jungle.
But my high mileage body clings to life:
the quest for immortality knows no shame.
Now I am a poet drunk on words,
stumbling over the illusion of art.
The more I know of language,
the less I understand life and loss.
And still the mortars rain down
in an eternal, inescapable monsoon.


II Place

Imagine a land that smells entirely of ****.
Only 70 miles wide in some places.
I flew above the abandoned bases of a war
that had been abandoned as well.
Places given up to the jungle
where 60,000 Americans died for nothing.
An implacable enemy that had fought
the Japanese and French before us
and had no doubt they would prevail.
A very beautiful place seen from the air
if no one was trying to eradicate you.
Skinny children, old women, many ******.
A place where real tigers might well
leap from ambush and eat you alive
and snakes so deadly that once bitten
you only got two steps before death.
Breathtaking sunsets and sunrises.
And the possibility of doom everywhere.
Rice paddies, mountains, triple canopy jungle.
Gorgeous beaches and an ocean laden
with sharks and sea snakes for company.
A place where death picked his teeth and smiled.


III Action

Stark terror is the mother of combat;
the rage of Peleus son Achilles
drives the soldier into the filed teeth
of impossibly horrible situations.
Not for America or the Stars and Stripes
but for the man next to you
whom you probably didn't even know.
Never ask why one man dies
and the one beside him lives on.
I shot an NVA regular from 20 feet
with a Colt Model 1911 45 automatic.
Got him exactly in the chest.
He looked very surprised to be dead.
I was surprised I didn't miss.
At An Loc a Huey 20 yards from mine
loaded with 18 hopeful human beings
took a rocket up the *** and
disintegrated into a debris cloud
of metal fragments and pink mist.
No bodies to be bothered with,
no pieces large enough to identify.
A CIA officer executing the wounded.
A tame **** torturing his countryman.
The exquisitely horrific moment when
you know you are falling, not flying.
The partner cut in half by a machine gun
five feet from where I stood.
Do not try to make any sense of this.
Fall back on the mantra: *don't mean nothing.
Cling to that and you may stay sane.
Apparently, God was busy for ten years
and never bothered to visit Vietnam.

IV Comrades

Forget that band of brothers *******,
we were more like a desperate rabble
with no one to count on but each other.
Sometimes a brother shares the blood
in your veins; sometimes you know him
by the blood that flows from his.
You scream, you curse, you try so hard
and he dies like a huge baby in your arms.
Vietnam was a club you could only join
by being there deep in the ****.
Now we are old men but our memberships
will never expire until we do.
And who will remember us then.

V Aftermath

Treated like lepers, we slunk home,
each to do the best he could.
Many died in the denouement of
drugs, alcohol, homelessness, suicide.
When I got home I wanted to be alone,
to be with people, lots of *****,
but only with no emotion attached,
an ocean of Jack Daniels, lines of coke,
mountains of ***, electro-shock therapy,
calm sleep without nightmares
and sometimes the comfort of a quick death.
Not much different than most I think.
Saigon fell. Don't mean ******* nothing.
Only some of us remember and want you to know
so you won't be fooled again.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Please take this as truth
That this is how it is done
If you see someone as enemy
You cease to see a human.
The fact that they are armed
And don’t like who you like
Is enough to create words like
****, ****, ****** and ****.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

Line up the opposition forces
Against a bullet-riddled wall
And shoot them many times
And see how many will fall.
The ones who do not die
Must be minions of the devil.
They are the enemy, you see.
That’s all. That’s on the level.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

And those people that don’t
Believe in your own form of Jesus,
Like Aerabbs and Jews and such,
Shoot them as much as it pleases.
Because they won’t go to heaven,
And are just heathens anyway
Like them Buddhist dingdongs
Like them ****** lesbians and gays.

Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.

And people in foreign countries
Well, you can guess how that goes;
Take a look and easily compare
Canadanians to them from Mexico.
The French are Frogs, Spanish spics.
None as good as us Americans.
And nothing good can come out
Of any **** place that is African.

Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.

Now if you find some of this offensive
And if this is revving up your motors,
Just bear in mind, this is what goes on
In the mind of the average voter.
Want to change this, make life better?
Drop your representatives a letter.
Tell them you are on to their villainy
And see them as supporting the REAL enemy.

sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
                                    
                    ­                                     blank mind

stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.

stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:

                                     automatic writing

OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.

Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!

during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.

where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:

                                    meaningless gobbeldy-****

I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.

Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.

quarter tunes and squirt bottle bafoons
fooling loons out of cash money bank statements
complacent in textile original files
factual ***** in their feather capped heads
circumcising oatmeal kids. Picture this,
bits of fish in outer, not inner, space.
Dr. men manipulating through card tricks
leading to their pent house, fenced out from fresh air.
Nocturnal ****** pressured into dieting
shedding their skin and coughing up black sticky debris
recently I've found more comfort in scolding hot teas
then in eargasm speed dating or mango flavored cough drops
office cops crop pictures of rundown Puerto Rican shops
sloppy kissing gets me wishing for brass buttoned bell
bottoms
televised ****** questions. Sectioned off sidewalks
body shaped chalk talks for motherless kids to gawk at
steeples crease the clouds spreading rapid growth of ingrown
hairs
I pair myself against bears that tear me limb from limb
I'm figuring on pinning up accomplishments
on the egg white walls of my first apartment.
tarped floors and fluorescent glowing ceiling tiles
riled  up mice relentlessly fussing with nests throughout
the night
typing taxidermists chat next door
I'm more ashamed of my basement floor

the business was built on the sacrifice of others
that offering of the pennies of the soul
for the dollar delivery of modern existence
the plan was growth eternal
the interpretation of ledgers of lined boxes
page after page bearing the fruit of profit
it worked and if it didn’t, a kick of more of the same
brought results
people are meant to toil
the human machine designed for dexterous  invention
where do dreams fit in ? why produce when you can deduce?
how can a concrete rationalization  be formed
that causes us to drive through a beautiful morning
only to land in a container
operated by a mystery toward an easily questioned goal
of daily bread in a world overflowing with abundance

My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.

I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.

This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.

Hiss.

Kiss.

This is my bliss....

BLISS POEM I.

Getting back in touch with the comfort of the clutch. a miserly that I miss so much
of a life lost in the exhaust of a burnout
and u know there's only so many ways things can turn out
so no surprises
reminded every day how pointless his life is
Not the man that I wanted to b
n definitely not the man that I wanted u to see
you'll agree
the real me, is one of those things ud wanna hide and hold secretly inside
I only lied cuz some things r better untold,bring it up and watch me unfold
a cycle that gets old real fast
leaving u on the shore to watch as I cast myself into a sea of self destruction
I find comfort in the familiar dysfunction
where I finally feel like I fit!
so I sit n ride out the storm. my insecurities keep me warm as the world is torn apart
I grab a horn n start playing...I dunno something like the blues I guess.
My mom n dad made a mess who's willing to confess he's never been the best son or sibling, the one who did bring shame to the family name
A flame. Lost in he clouds of smoke.
No joke
We soak up the suffering n the sadness
To the point of madness
Dad this....isn't the way it's suppose to b,is it?
I avoid your calls n refuse to visit
Sometimes I think I hear u call my name
The way u did when I was a boy n we were playing a game
Gabblie ****, monkey, or worm
I'm 30 years old but u still use the term
After how many times this bridge has been burned
U helped me rebuild, warm welcomed return
Ud think I would learn n I did as a kid,
You'll always love me, despite the **** that I did
I use to cry when I'd see u calling when I went off the grid
I felt such failure, how many times r u gonna have to bail yer
kid outta jail, so he can just home n snort another rail
Then lie to your face, accepted my position as a disgrace
A grown man behind bars who just wants to feel daddy's embrace
To u I'm not fair we spent so much more time together while I was there
Just know that I care, but I can't bare to b swallowed by your stare
When u look in my eyes n your son is not there,
Both torn apart within that moment we share
Realize as I try my best not to look high
That Everything that I say, is still a lie to this day.
Every night I still pray that I'll wake up n not b this way
But for now all I can say is I'm sorry....silently too myself
The words "Im still a tweeker "stuck within my mouth

Is anyone real out there?
What a horrible question to tear
Apart this life,
Which always rhymes with strife
Because there's a limited number of ways
To say we're running short of plays
To fill these broken days

I don't think I'm better than anyone
I don't think I'm magically The One
But I also don't feel real
And here's the whole spiel

Maybe these bones are made to rust
At the intersection of fear and trust
'Cos all this pain is just reflection
Every fear is just projection
Insanity - I cannot condone
If we want to be free, do we have to be alone?

Whatever else is true, whatever ways I'll rot -
I truly love you; words are all I've got
The 4's attachment is being broken;
All that's expressed is just a token
I can only show the 2d shell
And so I Truly wish you well
But I'd sooner save you from this spell

Hey broken one: are you reading yet?
This is for you, so don't forget
The rhythm doesn't matter
All words will fade, left in tatters

And though this path we can't condone
I swear to you: you're not alone.
You're somewhere amidst the thought and ****;
I bid to you: please stop and look

The slightest difference between we:
I'm a permutation of thee
I know the things you cannot say
I, too, seek each shattered Way
Combing The NeverNever every day
For another reason to stay.

I know you fear you've fallen wrong,
But there's meaning in your song;
Long past the end of time,
What's true will shine through every rhyme.

The conservative element in DC
Has something else as priority.
It sure is not you, nor is it me.
It’s a much more powerful constituency:
Those who pull strings do not care
Unless you are a multi-millionaire
And contribute to their greedy cause
Like some kind of Santa Claus.

They keep on doing what they’re doing
******* who they were *******
I would explain it all if I could
But sometimes words do no good.
Behind all the gobbledy ****
Someone is not playing by the book.
Winning with lies is what they are trying
To make the true facts look like lying.

They keep you so confused that you
You believe what they want you to,
So you won’t see behind their wiles
To bring their larcenous ***** to trial.
Dignifying public rumors of buggery
You look away from skullduggery.
A few insignificant happenstances
Eclipse treasonous circumstances.

You ***** about gays and abortion
While conservatives commit extortion
And persecution in Jesus’ name.
To them it’s all a ratings game.
If you don’t care what people feel
You lose all track of what is real.
You turn into a tool for deception;
A dupe of sleight-of-hand misdirection.

As long as things are as they are
We’ll get run over by the clown car
Which is the Congress currently seated.
And as long as they remain undefeated
The rules will leave the deck stacked.
Nobody in DC will have our backs.
Why should they care about our whim
When the way it is benefits them?

We need one item, one bill rules
Or we end up the same beaten fools.
We need campaign funding to be equal
Or each election becomes a sequel
To what happened with Gore and Bush
When backdoor politics bit us in the ****.
The only way change will ever come around
Is to take the loopholes from these clowns.

I paddled and glided along the current
Of the St. Clair,
To the west bank of the serpentine river,
And portaged to the ash tree,
Known as Ching-ach-****,
Waving noble limbs in full relief,
Offering respite from the meridian sun.
Leaves fluttered in the north current.
Beneath I lay in cold comfort
Envisioning the bows and bats that once propogated:
The unborn of an endangered species.
This is a dead tree growing,
Seeds, like Uncas,
Rotting above the roots:
This native treasure
Waiting for the emerald bore
Like an imprisoned pagan.

My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.

I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.

This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.

Hiss.

Kiss.

This is my bliss....

BLISS POEM I.

Me love white Yankee conquerors with ****** B & ricin nerve gas
who ****** all my **** family long time ago in long-time-ago past
when it wasn't kooky to alphabetize ***** as **** A, B or **** E*


Teleprompter-reader Lesley Stahl on U.S. sanctions against Iraq: "We have heard that a half million children have died. I mean, that's more children than died in Hiroshima. And, you know, is the price worth it?"; Secretary of State Madeleine Albright: "I think this is a very hard choice, but the price--we think the price is worth it." — *60 Minutes (5/12/96)

slick white tile
I crash again
water droplets run from my hair
to my feet
and swirl down the drain
in one last hoorah

No matter how much I scratch
rub or claw
the **** that surrounds my skin
will never come loose

down the drain goes
my love for people
my trust in you and
thoughts and feelings
that used to make me smile

someone cleanse me this ick
make me pure again
remove the soil from my heart
and start anew

or turn me into something beautiful
where the dirt remains in my chest
make me a garden
water me, give me plenty of sunshine
and I will forever devote myself
to living, breathing and existing once more

Hello poetry is under attack
it's a very sad tack
but yet I have faith
that there is a trace
of mad computer skills
and the will
for the programers to save
our special page
of wonder
before it is torn asunder
by gobley ****
written by insane crooked kooks
I truly have faith
hopefully I don't have to wait

(As for the attackers be ashamed)

My dear, my love..
Were you sent from above?

I swear I saw you
Float down to the ground
And laid there until I found,
You in the midst of the night

Covered in moss,
Your eyes glossed,
And skin like thin glass

Hair as fine as silk,
Now filled with filth
And body smeared with ****

You cried and you shook
Wailing, with no intention to stop
Not saying what made you sob
You remain silent still to this day

And I just want to wipe your tears away

Your beauty is substantial,
Your mind so fine,
But you wont speak to me
So you can't be mine

*****, Nip,
*****, ****,
Towel Head:
you call them
whatever
allows you
to ****** them
comfortably;
the terrible
dark side
of the power
of words.
  - mce

~Vietnam/ Laos 1972

Known variously as:

Indian Country,

the ****,

the Jungle
& the Zone.

****** stumps,
flying metal,

charred flesh,

screaming agony,

cellular fear,

burning choppers,

dying men,
dead eyes

staring,

betrayal.

“Don’t mean ******* nothing.”

Not a place
on a map,
but a state of mind
-
my mind.

Vietnam has fallen,

but the Zone
remains
a jungle
in my head
& some things

return me there.

There I learned
the necessary.

In the Zone,
only predator and prey,
**** or be killed,

win or die,

the quick and the dead.

In the Zone

only survival matters
-
no morality,

no right or wrong

no lies,

no truths,
no fair,
no unfair.

No rules at all.

"It's only a ****.
**** it."

In the Zone
everything is allowed…

meet the enemy,
destroy him,

maim him,

outsmart him,

walk away
with the blood of others
squishing in your boots

feeling gloriously alive.

Friend,

brother,
enemy,

child,

lover,

you do not
- ever -

want to meet me

in the Zone.
–mce

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Here on 2 limbs hobbles a 110-year-old pervert, Kirk Douglas, who
fugged fugging Marilyn Monroe fugless like 1 Aussie **** Kug lass
***** it tightly, sweet, slutty ***** in a perch from the lowest mast
with the queer **** who kicked in your teeth after you back-sassed
a family ******, I meant therapist, 47 centuries ago in the recent past
whilst kaffirs sold for a displaced value & **** got 'em lynched fast
as slaves were replacement-ready when white girls got them gassed
as ******* were placed steady when pink-titted girls had 'em gassed
as slaves were replaced already 'cause **** broads got them gassed
'cause any way you mounted it the leg-breakers struck a broken cast
from short shards of a super speedway's superficial asphaltical blast
that bombed big red dog Clifford's **** ½ so big as the 1 before last
so as to cover civilized folks & render traditional gay queers aghast
at the sick **** rumblings of organized colon-clutterer Thomas Nast
& his merrie band of coolies & ne're-do-wells routinely out-classed
dead Charles W. Fairbanks, his nephropathy & deeds done ½-assed
in 1909 when Wales appeared, to ****** ***** on dope, tall & vast
& open to the dirt-bag raunchiest, slickest, iconoclastical iconoclast
whose morganatical marriage meant zero to Cymru lepers harassed
by what ****-****-licking/puking anti-popes did for embarrassment
in the Vatican's most x-pope steady, paederastically-cozy apartment
that was no-less bigger than the *******-******-ghetto compartment
where it was ebonically-taught what the worst navy-bean **** meant
after eating obese Santa's guts before the final Christmas card's sent
Tick them off, each one's deader than the other for keeps like butter
***-spread 'cross lower labial lips that spit, sprawl, sputter & stutter
in the gray-cancer corpse cream cheese of Laura & Isaac Perlmutter
living the lives of 439 felonious fugitives in pig-****-garbage clutter
I was tossin' large rocks at myself when a large rock struck my face
bashin' in my nose to make me look like I was from an inferior race
I was lucky to have my passport if questioned by whites just in case
I was throwin' rocks at myself when a big one struck me in my face
smashing my nose to make me look like I was from an inferior race
I held a new passport, if white officials wanted to see it, just in case
I was droppin' big rocks on myself when big rocks crushed my face
widenin' my Caucasoid nose like an ugly pig of an undesirable race
I needed a good passport, if white officers demanded it, just in case
I was killin' myself with boulders when 1 race-mixed my ***** race
bashin' in my nose to make me look like I had an inferior **** face
I possessed a valid passport, if white cops demanded it, just in case
flattening my nose to make me look as if I was from a Mongol race
I possessed a valid visa, if white pigs demanded 1, & a can of mace
because even with a **** nose I could flee Vietnam without a trace
with leprous tourists, spastically limping to an unknown someplace
far from the rigors of a religiously-generous-bombed-out home base
queerly accented in wool hung crêpe & whitework embroidery lace
that trails down downed trails florid in flower for a perfumed chase
over a broken crutch mountain to ******* cripples via bracing brace
that holds Big Bertha beyond Elton John's pacemaker's stodgy pace
as excitement builds when 2 ****-buddies present Elton with a vase
that allows Big Bertha to under-pace Elton John's pacemaker's pace
as excitement builds when a ****-buddy shoves up into Elton a vase

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Give me your hirsute/textile/hombre love you lovely hairy rag man,
with your pointy nose, unlimbered leg & warts from Larry Hagman
who from the horse's mountable side snuck up like an airy stag ram
Don't take what little's left via state Santa Christmas merry bag ban
Let's dress like women in debt at the oldest Chuck Berry drag stand
My happiness is easily seen in blood-letting cirques as corpuscular
while my rippling backwards frontage is of a physique so muscular
that it is known by fat aunt Joan as socked-in and highly avuncular
In icy Florida I pine for Klondike my favorite Alaskan lesbian lover
who, in our gay igloo, resembled that big oily ****** Danny Glover

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Refugees flee what's so repressively dangerous that it's forever fled
The bloodied blood biz passes pathogens to bleeders bloodily bled
It is a dreadful situation that ****** folks find difficult not to dread
A gent is obliged to face conflict face first short of living in a shed,
plying the rough trade, rough-necking with ******* or playing dead
When my cruddy teeth are encrusted I brush the crud off with Crest
while working drainward with this golden cake of soap called Zest
Like a woman on public assistance I refuse to let my choppers rest
There was a time when talk of quiz was a precursor to an Iowa test
My basic skills are determinedly under-cutting my housewife guest
whose stems run north to her malignant tissue free mammae breast
In movies shooting orphans with high-powered rifles is done in jest
'cause in Amerika making ammunition is what wage-slaves do best

I bleed thick arterial blood profusely as fat lesbian medics leisurely
truck me to a big city V.D./A.I.D.S.-*****, public, quack hospital or
some place of some sort for some reason as old, devoted Christians
bring the pine Christmas trees in during the crucifixion of our Lord
Jesus season as it's seen that this ritual to Jehovah is 100%  pleasin'
Me love white Yankee conquerors with ****** B & ricin nerve gas
who ****** all my **** family long time ago in long-time-ago past
when it wasn't kooky to alphabetize ***** as **** A, B or **** E
Let us carry out & sally forth with de-icing an iced brake pump like
C.P.R. on ******, “Papa Adolf, for the love of Jesus God wake up!”
A warrior of 9 holy wars asks, “Who is the ****** with you fella?”
I don't know for certain but I think this *****-**** answers to Stella
as this wild Geechee ***** rat snake only babbles in coastal Gullah
These doughnuts ain't fresh! How do you know? I tasted them. And
these kitty turds ain't fresh either! How do you know that? Shut up!
Half a doughnut in to my doughnut experiment I am puking chunks
like a twinky modeling ***-pink ****** for Hungarian hunky hunks
who sail *****-ships in reverse, payin' sailors like winos pay punks
After Friday's Catholic fish-fry with our ******* dry we pray to God
a lot, to force Staples to honor the idiotic warranties that we bought
Truly, because only our richly-blue Heaven's God-on-high has ultra-
holy Biblical God's godly-god power, I seeketh graves to desecrate,
infidels to hang, virgins to de-flower, **** to fling off Eiffel's tower
The miracle of Glen Campbell? Each time I play a song by Glen Q.
Campbell my Chihuahua takes a ****. I wonder now, now that Glen
Q. Campbell has crapped out, will Chico be constipated a little bit?
5 bullets into John Lennon = big curtailment of public appearances,
hand-holding, bun-baking, Greek shipping-magnate disappearances
Hello Isabelle, my neighbor's uncle used to go to the island of Cebu
to fight in the style of Kung Fu to whip his **' ******* black & blue
To be alone & dead is sad but no sadder than a few other dead ends
that entail crappin' out among ***** who'd ripped you off as friends

Foot  Rhythm ~ Feel the rhythm of my foot as I bury it up your ***.
You **** my raunchy *** 'cause you are gay from Monday through
Thursday for a full week's pay, regardless of what you playfully say
I'm in love with 48 married women who are in love with each other
because they were co-workers in a factory mixing Jiff peanut butter
with a long-handled-wooden dingus that looked like a ship's rudder
I bleed thick arterial blood profusely as fat lesbian medics leisurely
truck me to a big city V.D./A.I.D.S.-*****, public, quack hospital or
some place of some sort for some reason as old, devoted Christians
bring the pine Christmas trees in during the crucifixion of our Lord
Jesus season as it's seen that this ritual to Jehovah is 100%  pleasin'
Me love white Yankee conquerors with ****** B & ricin nerve gas
who ****** all my **** family long time ago in long-time-ago past
when it wasn't kooky to alphabetize ***** as **** A, B or **** E
Let us carry out & sally forth with de-icing an iced brake pump like
C.P.R. on ******, “Papa Adolf, for the love of Jesus God wake up!”
A warrior of 9 holy wars asks, “Who is the ****** with you fella?”
I don't know for certain but I think this *****-**** answers to Stella
as this wild Geechee ***** rat snake only babbles in coastal Gullah
These doughnuts ain't fresh! How do you know? I tasted them. And
these kitty turds ain't fresh either! How do you know that? Shut up!
Half a doughnut in to my doughnut experiment I am puking chunks
like a twinky modeling ***-pink ****** for Hungarian hunky hunks
who sail *****-ships in reverse, payin' sailors like winos pay punks
After Friday's Catholic fish-fry with our ******* dry we pray to God
a lot, to force Staples to honor the idiotic warranties that we bought
Truly, because only our richly-blue Heaven's God-on-high has ultra-
holy Biblical God's godly-god power, I seeketh graves to desecrate,
infidels to hang, virgins to de-flower, **** to fling off Eiffel's tower
The miracle of Glen Campbell? Each time I play a song by Glen Q.
Campbell my Chihuahua takes a ****. I wonder now, now that Glen
Q. Campbell has crapped out, will Chico be constipated a little bit?
5 bullets into John Lennon = big curtailment of public appearances,
hand-holding, bun-baking, Greek shipping-magnate disappearances
Hello Isabelle, my neighbor's uncle used to go to the island of Cebu
to fight in the style of Kung Fu to whip his **' ******* black & blue
To be alone & dead is sad but no sadder than a few other dead ends
that entail crappin' out among ***** who'd ripped you off as friends
I saw a film today oh goy, Prince Jesus Christ had just won the war
by Himself, without Dad's help, Jesus extirpated Haifa's rotten core
I saw a film today oh Troy, Jewish King Jesus had just won the war
by cursing grain with white blight to despoil Judea's vast food store
I saw a film today oh joy, our Divine Messiah had just won the war
by afflicting the children with pox to exterminate Judea's rural core
so as to crush the crushing penury inflicted upon the ******-*** poor

I bleed thick arterial blood profusely as fat lesbian medics leisurely
truck me to a big city V.D./A.I.D.S.-*****, public, quack hospital or
some place of some sort for some reason as old, devoted Christians
bring the pine Christmas trees in during the crucifixion of our Lord
Jesus season as it's seen that this ritual to Jehovah is 100%  pleasin'
Me love white Yankee conquerors with ****** B & ricin nerve gas
who ****** all my **** family long time ago in long-time-ago past
when it wasn't kooky to alphabetize ***** as **** A, B or **** E
Let us carry out & sally forth with de-icing an iced brake pump like
C.P.R. on ******, “Papa Adolf, for the love of Jesus God wake up!”
A warrior of 9 holy wars asks, “Who is the ****** with you fella?”
I don't know for certain but I think this *****-**** answers to Stella
as this wild Geechee ***** rat snake only babbles in coastal Gullah
These doughnuts ain't fresh! How do you know? I tasted them. And
these kitty turds ain't fresh either! How do you know that? Shut up!
Half a doughnut in to my doughnut experiment I am puking chunks
like a twinky modeling ***-pink ****** for Hungarian hunky hunks
who sail *****-ships in reverse, payin' sailors like winos pay punks
After Friday's Catholic fish-fry with our ******* dry we pray to God
a lot, to force Staples to honor the idiotic warranties that we bought
Truly, because only our richly-blue Heaven's God-on-high has ultra-
holy Biblical God's godly-god power, I seeketh graves to desecrate,
infidels to hang, virgins to de-flower, **** to fling off Eiffel's tower
The miracle of Glen Campbell? Each time I play a song by Glen Q.
Campbell my Chihuahua takes a ****. I wonder now, now that Glen
Q. Campbell has crapped out, will Chico be constipated a little bit?
5 bullets into John Lennon = big curtailment of public appearances,
hand-holding, bun-baking, Greek shipping-magnate disappearances
Hello Isabelle, my neighbor's uncle used to go to the island of Cebu
to fight in the style of Kung Fu to whip his **' ******* black & blue
To be alone & dead is sad but no sadder than a few other dead ends
that entail crappin' out among ***** who'd ripped you off as friends

My horrifying memories of you crash like 39 trillion shopping carts
into Lake Erie on a Thursday night during Black Lives Matter night

Let us kiss and end this brutal fighting, so as to resume hot *** sans disfiguring biting. The time has arrived to forgive & forget, the crime you committed barbecuing my pet. He was a good dog that was faithfully sweet, till you pickled his brains & boiled his feet. For you such things are normal in ol' Saigon, 'cause your **** neighbors eat dog till the whole dog is gone. No one knows and no one should care, how I romanced twin sisters born as a pair. One was happy, the other was happy too. We need a big pillow when big pillows are few. I believe that a man can **** with uncorrupted kindness, but not after urological surgery messed up his straight-line ****. Peeing is always very gratifyingly important, to Mexican wetbacks who can't be deported. So far as I know, 50 dollars still buys a penicillin-chomping ***. Let us pretend that my woman is equal, from her twin peaks to her permanent sink hole. There was an era when wives couldn't vote, nor navigate rivers via river barge or boat. My Mother's generosity has aided & helped, pregnant dog ******* too young to be whelped. A white guy who marries a squaw is a squaw man. A white guy who humps negresses lays down the law, man. Living on food stamps is thrilling, when it's Iowa farmers you love killing. Queer Jesse Jackson's current wife is a well-respected chick, who only pukes, upchucks, hurls & vomits when she's ailingly ill & sick. I love peanut butter spread on her quills thickly, as it makes the porcupine nettles on Sophia Loren's lard *** less prickly. Look at my bowel after it's resected: swollen & green & gangrenously infected. I'd rather die having ****** ******* with a thousand beauty queen Pinay nips than plant a soul kiss on your moody, mean, thin, gray lips. Never will you lie on your back for nothing, as long as you keep tidy your rosebud's muffin. I like you because you are so wild & free, like a ******* who'll perform for 15 to twenty. My beauty is proclaimed by millionaires with money, from Australia in weather gloomy & sunny. I love your hard *** & Niagara splash back, when I'm not under a red alert *** gas attack.