I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
  
I know a lot of eve's and some get naked
But, I got drunk somehow after shopping and banking
Now I don't need no how on keep waking up wasted
I shot him in his brain and sliced his neck
  
I wacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
  
Now it's Christmas Day, I have him here
He's hung in my backyard.  Oh, what a deer!
Today's a holiday.  We'll serve what's near.
And Rudolph's venison will bring on cheer
  
I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve
  
I'm slicing jerkey
I'm slicing meat
I'm cutting steaks
I'm slicing lean
I cut his brains out
Threw them away
His guts and his *****
Have been turned into hay
  
I whacked Rudolph, that showoff with the bright nose
Wakin' me up all night on Christmas Eve
Santa had to cut him off the lead pack
Just to make his rounds on Christmas Eve

Alas, poor venison salami, I knew ye well!
You were a dear, dear friend
But then you met your sorry end
at my fair cat’s royal command

I'll sing a dirge & sound the Bell
I'll tip my hat & say farewell
to your sweet, succulent delight
may we ne’er lose it out of sight.

You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honour still pursue,
Go, and subdue,
Whilst loit'ring hinds
Lurke here at home with shame.

Britons, you stay too long,
Quickly aboard bestow you;
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretched sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer,
West and by South forth keep;
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need nor fear,
So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold;
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only Paradise.

Where Nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish;
And the fruitfull'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.

To whom the golden age
Still Nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the sea that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell,
Approaching the dear strand.

In kenning of the shore,
(Thanks to God first given)
O you, the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let canons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven!

And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.

And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,
Apollo's sacred tree,
You may it see
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.

Thy voyages attend
Industrious Hakluit,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after-times thy wit.

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills

The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear

The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks

Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree

From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys

But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere

And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast

We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer

Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too

His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more

Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year


© All Rights Reserved

I’ve never been so cold
While lying next to you
I’ve lost that hand to hold
You watch my skin turn deathly blue

I am the venison
Left unwanted after the hunt
Still warm, sensitive
Dying in the cold front

I only wish I freeze peaceful
The snow covers me white
My death comes so blissful
As the moon overtakes the night

The hunters have left to kiss their women
Hug their kids and sleep soundly
While my decayed body is unwritten
And my spirit is ungrounded

Doe of the night,
Wisting away in the wind
The soul of The Taken takes flight
And finds his own ending

Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

    I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack
The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

    Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills

The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear

The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks

Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree

From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys

But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere

And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast

We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer

Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too

His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more

Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year


© All Rights Reserved

Knock knock
Who's there?
Mr.Harris
Mr. Harris who?


Mr. Harris whom lead women with elegance
Tied minds and hearts with verbal excrement
Pondered their looks as well as their flesh
Decided to touch which lead to a mess
For his brain and hands were shaky at best
Floundered around inside of their chest
Slicing and skinned the meat of the breast
The last thing they saw as they took their last breath
An extreme way to deal with life and its stress
Just a mad insane killer you couldn't reject.
Harris is the  man who is there at your door
Knock Knock! Who's there?  Not you any more.
Mr. Harris with blood on his shoes
Mr. Harass you that's who!
Love.
-Xin-

Jessica;
Behind close doors he was a cruel brute.
In the public view he smiled and spoke soft
Laid the trap with a simple hello.
Sprung it with a slash
Took his trophies and placed it in his stash
Tonight he stalk a petite country gal
A texan tone and expecting child
Brunette, fair skin and smile you could eat
Perky, quirky with dainty hands and feet
He sat in her car and stakeout her yard
Sneaked in her house while she bath and smelled her towels.
She was a standing appointment on his to do calendar
For 3 months he pondered how to handle her
Caress her flesh and kiss her toes
Asphyxiate! Hand over her mouth and pinch her nose.
Or
Suckle her perfect breast, brush her hair with short strokes
Look into her wide eyes, face to face, then slit her throat
She passed him on the train and he became,
Paralyzed by her fragrance, almost ashamed.
It became obvious, now that her baby bump showed
He had to **** her fast before it grew any more
And like that 9pm drew near and on his table she appeared.
She begged for her life but he didn't care "please I'm pregnant" I said I don't care
He chose option one for his method of ******
Soft and polite until life ignored her.
Now all left to do is to savor the taste of her essence
Then into the river and on to the next lesson
She was Jessica.
-Mr H.-


Bridgette:
This night his head ached, he sipped wine and ate
Clenched his brow and grunted and tried to concentrate
This night his heart ailed for a particular face
Some one he knew from a particular place
Blonde hair, tattooed skin and frequent bizarre encounters
A spunky one she was, always on an adventure
She constantly moved which made it a task to learn her
But he was persistent and eventually impaled her.
5 years he tracked her with laid roots just to leave again
He even befriended her friends. But nothing came through them
With every new home she kept, and new ink she bared.
He would be right there sharing her air.
A secret adoration, a crush, a unrequited love
He would scale walls to procure her safety and guard her till she was his alone.
Outside her window snapping photos and collecting her things
Setting coincidences and craving her limbs
He's sneaked in one night and restrained her to the bed
Counting her ink from her honey *** to the kissing undead.
Rubbing her hour glass and slicing through her haunted castle
Penetrating her clover and stabbing her dracula.
For she was his best creation.
He mourned as her flesh he torn
When it was all said and done every tattoo was massacred
Her body of work now a body of hurt
Bled out at the hands that knew her the most
From a distance so close from a distance so close
She was Bridgette
-Mr. H-

Jen:
She was so much more than a craving
More than a friend.
Its by accident that she met her end.  
They shared a bed, shared a home, shared there love
Now they share his secrets, but not her tomb
She stumbled on his collection of trinkets
And he confessed all thinking their bond and life together would lead to an exception
Shame on him, as to his surprise she screamed and grabbed a weapon
"who are you" she yell and ran to the door.
He screamed in response "I don't know but don't go"
Frantic she struggled with the door lock
Panicked he hit her face with the cutting block
Oops
She fell
So did his heart down his throat
This was his partner, his lover, his other half
In every day before his reason for life, his only plan
No way to recover this act of passion so he finished the job.  
Crying and kissing her asian lips
Squeezing her neck till she was gone gone gone.
She was Jen
-Mr. H-

Kaylani:
As he progressed and perfected his method
He broadened his pallet and obsessed on this venison
He heard her words sent men to their knees
Both in praise of her power and to lap at her Mahogany
She was clever and sharp like his finest cleaver
Voluminous in her cleavage, firm in her actions like a verb, Poison to her distractions
For him it was her words that overwhelmed his desires
Call to arms, yell to god,do my bidding and "I promise I'll be yours"
She wrote poems like he did, spoke truth like he do
Broke hearts like he could, and swept the world away like he should
He sent her a poem she accepted with joy
Blew her mind with crafts he assembled like schemes, plots, and ploys
She gave him a secret, he gave her a line
She confessed her emotions, he confessed a lie
She showed him her body, he shrugged and denied
She caved and gave more, he enslaved her with compliments, task and more endeavors
She wanted him so bad that for the first time she fell to her knees
He arose from his own. Succeed indeed
He gave her one night, yes one night
8 years of famine, for only one night
He kissed, massage, fingered and caressed
Demanded her mouth as he got undressed
His contact was of malice and encounter of a deranged mind
An anomaly of his needs, a poetic way to propel her demise
He entered her slow made her safe in his glow
Then with a wicked grin the nightmare did begin
He took control, pinned her down, put big things in small spaces
Made her a scream queen with no crown as he laughed and mocked her desperate faces
A little cut here and a little punch there he accepted her fear
On the night stand he had a special potion
A blend of deadly poison
Told her it would end once she breath no more
"Its your choice my dear" then made her scream some more
He took a break said he'll be back
Went to the kitchen to get a snack
"When I come back we'll start again"
Upon his return he gazed the beaten, ****** goddess
She drank her escape route, now she is lifeless
She was Kaylani
-Mr. H-

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.

For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!

The first shots slammed across the woods at dawn
Into my sleep, there taking down my dreams
Which can’t be slung into a pickup truck
And carried to the processors by noon

Venison is a bit gamey, of course:
That’s why they call it game, wild game, then food
Blended with pork and spices for Thanksgiving
And that’s a nice little dream in itself

Let’s not indulge sentimentality here
In forest glades or on china plates – it’s just a deer

Earth (Pangaea)

Pangaea heaved and shifted
beneath the fire-storm sky.
Colliding plates and spewing mountains
shook, roared and thundered
under the brutal chaos
of torrential cataclysms.

In time she yielded her ire
to millennia of pacific rains -
her severed crust
set adrift across the oceans
like gigantic earthen rafts.

Jungles sprang up and terrible lizards
came, grazed and left their bones.
Forests, grains and multifarious beasts
grew and perished in accord
with their past and future destinies.

So here we are - earthbound,
tossed from our mothers' wombs -
fated to live and breed
by the grace of miracles
far beyond our ken.

Beloved mother Gaia,
from whose dust we are raised,
nurture and sustain us
and sing us to our mortal sleep.

2. Air

Air - earth's miracle brew of
     oxygen, nitrogen and all the rest
          meted out in perfect harmony.

Air - silent and still on a moonlit night -
     driver of sheeted rain on window panes -
          and winds that shake the trembling aspens.

Air - author of land and ocean squalls -
     bringer of that ominous pallor
          that presages a tornado's furor

Air - invisible aerial highway
     for majestic eagles and turbo-jets -
         medium of rhetoric and symphonies.

Air – window to the cosmos
      and our fragile life–giving broth -
          unwitting conveyer of toxic alchemy.

Keep watch my sisters and brothers:
     the air we breathe is what we make it
          or rather what we let it be.

3. Water

Water like a capricious deity
     wanders through time and topography -
     cherished and cursed for
     what it gives and what it takes away.

Gentle rains and strident gales
     sculpt rivers and streams
     through forests and plains
     bound for union with the open sea.

Diurnal tides ebb and wane
     at the whim of the charismatic moon.
     Ice mountains advance and retreat;
     rock-strewns moraines left in their wake.

Turbulent currents
     soar over jagged cataracts,
     spraying pastel prisms
     across the misted valleys.

Beneath our all too fragile skins,
     secret sanguine rivers navigate
     our veins and arteries
     bathing organs, limbs and sensors
     with curative balm and sustenance.

Wellspring of all elements,
     fill our daily ladles
     and grant us the will and empathy
     to bequeath the same to our progeny.

4. Fire

Two hundred million years ago
our Paleolithic cousins
seized branches from a burning forest
and stepped into a bold new world.

By the glow of fire-lit caves,
and the scent of searing venison,
they gathered wits and tools
to craft shelters and weaponry.

Their children's children would design
forges and furnaces, factories
and build engines that run on fire.

But their anxious siblings in despair
snatched lightning from the sky
and twisted by fits of anger pride
made also muskets, missiles, bombs
and nuclear Armageddons.

Loki, god of nobler flames
open our blood-stained eyes
and show us the means
to stay our arson lust and
abide by the light of reason.

*Revised and integrated version, December, 2015

I went into the woods today
to feed the little birds
the squirrel in his little  drey
and the roe deer in their herds
went in feeling confident
walked out tired and grey
now I need some counselling
and this is what I'll say!
Those little ******* birdies
had set a trap for me
dug a hole with mickey the mole
they knew I would't see
fell right down
and bashed my head
they laughed so much,
thought I was dead
all they wanted was my seed
No! not my *****!
Oh, please take heed
the rabbits kicked earth into the hole
****** lagomorphs got no soul
except for hares
they are classier
even though
the females are sassier
I climbed back  out
the birds got miffed
"there is no doubt,
he must be biffed!"
so into the fray
they sent their trump
a ****** great stag
to give me a thump
spent ten minutes dodging round
running like a good'un
until I ran into a tree
solid and pretty wooden
"my sodding nose,
that ****** hurt!
I'm bleeding down
into the dirt!"
tough they told me
with their eyes
that tree will cut you
down to size!
I got away at half past six
how was purely luck
I fed the stag some weetabix
and he got hit by a truck
So now we're having venison
and gravy for our tea
and if I go to the woods again
I'll take some friends with me!

with the battle joined and my intimacy jaded and clack froth
i merge my pavilions with my valleys, gliding on a ragged stallion
with a wreath in it’s withers… a’gallop in the arbitrary dawn
of my hellscape. relentless as Hope.

like juniper and venison, we intertwine in the hillocks of our faraway eyes
like two marbles adjusting to the stride of an elephant
hoisting the world into all charm and calamity
without a care in the World

On Its Back.

Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.

For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -

I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?

To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!

But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE

And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.

You talk about your past lovers like cuts of meat;
The ******* on this one, the thick thighs on that one, the firm *** on the other.
You call them Chicken, Cow, Pig.
You call me Dear.

I walk into your abattoir  of my own accord
and tie myself to the gambrel,
ask you to slaughter me, please, slaughter me.
Always the slaughterer, never the slaughtered,
I want to know what it feels like.

You do as I ask: strip away my skin, slice open my chest, remove my vital organs.
You have to separate my consciousness
from my carcass
to finish.

I am venison, fresh.
You mount my head on your wall
next to the others and
shut my eyes.

Bunny Rabbits

Bunny rabbits are cute,
But with out pity they root,
our hard-tended vegetable garden.

Deer, majestic, beauteous to look upon.
But they fine dine with a good vine,
on our expensive shrubbery.

******* rabbits and deer.
No earthly good for anyone,
but poets and kids.

So I guess its's ok.
Let the ******* rabbits and deer,
chomp away....

Maybe some day I'll return their favor,
With venison and stew on
my dinner menu.

Grinchy Seuss

Yellow jackets’ yellow jackets
Licorice made of Venison
Stand over there, quite queer, my dear
While I drink a handle of Jameson

**** wizards and Eddie Izzard
Speak to me in glad tidings
Astronauts, sweet lizards' space gizzards
Jump over the back of book bindings

***** the misconceptions
Drive off the road into gravy
Split the checks, and **** on decks
Mistake my sound perceptions

Habeus Corpus
Parlay with ***
Start with darts
And move to the porpoise

The castle kitchens had big fireplaces, where the oxen and the meat
Were roasted on spits. The cookies were baking, roasting by using the heat.
The pantries were hung with birds, swans, pigeons, rabbits, mutton, ducks,
Venison and wild boar. Suddenly, the spring life became a luminous flux.

Everywhere on the tables, there were berries, nuts, and other fruits.
In the rooms, there were pottery, glass, fabrics, jackets, dress coats,  
Sweaters, bodices, pants, petticoats, silk, music, joy, pewter utensils,
Jewelry, purses, shoes, hats, ties, powders and eyebrow pencils.

‘The guests will arrive and the food is not ready, yet’, whispered Pauline.
'You can hurry a little’, said Frieda, ‘Guess, who's coming!’ ‘The queen!'
Anne tasted all the fresh food and drinks and found them well prepared.
'After you finish, open the windows, because the rooms are not aired.'

Queen hurried away, leaving behind a whiff of perfume and stress.
'Do you see her through the window? ‘What a splendid wedding dress!'
"Jezebel is beautiful. I heard that the marriage can change the doom.'
'Yes, the bad fortune of the bride can bring a bad fate for the groom.'
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

(At the monastery, Clara and Mary were preparing their luggage to go to the wedding.)

'I'm talking about this false teaching, which left me confused’, said Mary.
'No one is sinless perfect', said Clara, ‘we’re God's children. Be wary!'
'She hates her sisters; she walks in the darkness, while being so blind.'
'But God is Light, and the prayers have the power to change her mind.'

'She's not truly in fellowship with God, because she can't love her sister,
But I can't compare her with Surah, who is a real incurable blister.'
'Surah hates her sisters, she's a murderer, and doesn't need eternal life.
She's an ignorant, she needs power, and she lives only her life of strife.'

‘Is it true that whatever we ask, we receive from Him, because we fight
To keep His commandments, while doing what is pleasing in His sight?'
'It's true.' ', I asked Him to save my niece, but I didn't receive any response.'
'You must teach Surah how to love, and she will destroy her magic sconce.'

(It was three o’clock in the morning, and Surah entered the passage of the cave.
She entered the castle, and climbed up the stairs to be in the room of the tower.
There, she put two goblets on the table containing a beverage used to induce a coma.
After that, she came down from the tower to enter the Jezebel’s room.)

'How is my sweet niece, who will be a bride?' ‘I’m a little scared.'
'Every bride is scared knowing that her feelings in bed must be shared.'
"How was your first moment in bed?' 'Well, I started with a little kiss;
I gave it to the loveliness I was wallowing in. I felt the radiance of bliss.
(Surah smiled being a little tender while looking at her niece.)

‘Let me show you my wedding gift. Let’s go into the tower to see it.'
'This is a joke!' Surah took her hand. 'I have the key.' 'Does this key fit?
My mom can hear us, and you know that you're not allowed to enter here.'
'She cannot wake up early in this morning. Did you forget that I'm a seer?'

(Surah and Jezebel climbed up the stairs of the tower. They entered the room of the tower. Jezebel sat on a chair to marvel at the beauty of the altar and at the golden spindle. Surah took out a medallion from her pocket and put it into the Jezebel's hands. The medallion had two miniature portraits. One of them was the portrait of Frederick, and the other one was the portrait of a very beautiful woman.)

'I want you to know that this portrait belonged to his former dead fiancée.
He had abandoned her for another one. His love was only a flight of fancy.'
'Give me something to drink, my dear aunt, I really don't feel quite well!'
"Sure', said Surah giving her to drink the beverage having an interesting smell.

God is good & God is great
He hates queers that levitate
Momma said that God is dead & I can touch a thousand men
We're not hippies, we're just dumb
We do drugs. We Have fun

(No Brains!)

Obama, I wanna go-bama
I know you know I wanna
go-bama to a sauna
in the Bahamas, bring iguanas

Obama, I think
I think you know-bama
I wanna go, I wanna wear pajamas
in Bahama mama sticky saunas

(No Brains!)


I don't know how to think
The clock goes " tick tick tick tick"
Gotta speak quick, gotta think big
Gotta beat kids with a big stick

God told me I wrote the bible
Jesus had a black disciple
Jesus got behind the wheel
He'll make Obama great again
He'll make it rain and bring the pain
He'll make it make it make it
(No Brains!)

Jesus cured all my diseases
He taught me what cottage cheese is
Analingus teachers taught the preachers how to feed us
eat a fetus
Jesus teaches
(No Abortion!)

but I don't really think that it's that important
but if you really think that its that important
there's pre-abortional baptism

America runs on fascism
American chicks like circumcision not activism
if it lacks vision then
police could release the crack
in the ghetto snacks
in the ghetto shacks
In the fellow stacks, it'll make a better tax return
I'm like,
(No Brains!)
It's metal, baby
Obama, I wanna go-bama I think
I think,  you wanna know-bama,
I wanna go-bama I think
I think,  you wanna know

It's metal, baby
Don't touch me, I'm beautiful
Touch me touch me, I will sue
Don't touch me, I have a crush
Watch me crush, watch me ****
Armageddon veterans take armadillo medicine
I eat you like venison
Watch me crush, watch me ****

I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer,
Half a **** of Rudeheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?

"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."

Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.

"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds

of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.

Snowed in,
We prepare peasant food:

Simmering onions
Then broth
Base for boiling fish stew
Cooled in the snowbank beside the brown ale
The pineapple pies
and the venison steak.

Barbi is on Prozac and Percoset
her ******* are too large  
for her back
so now she is no good in the sack
thus Ken left her for Kim Possible
Snow White is a *** addict
so many princes so little time
Alice has OCD
she shares a half way house
with the hatter
G.I Joe is AWOL
last seen by Camp Pendleton
and
oh no
Bambi is venison stew
what is true
where is childhood
for me
and you?

Rain forest warm,
predicting a storm,
hippos, giraffes and more
Parumping the water hole.
didn’t take us long, to slap a crown
on a fools heart.
Everything the light touches
made the lions cold.

had to many sad boys in your bed.
(To tune of: Nants ingonyama bagithi baba from: Lion king intro)

Moat of toys,
prey on canniballs,
venison visceral
Drop your bridge Shallow moat.

Midus touch,
rabbit didn't quite touch
lucky enough, your trust, bust
The weatherman cuts.
Can't fight a storm with a pack
Of lions, and djarum butts
Cool Cats don't like the water
won't splash,
might soil their tight pants
Sea captain called
old Horizen won't dance
"listen to your old man".
not worth a penny of your sand.
but if we weren't so green-headed,
A compas might save our hand
for marriage
we don't want plans
They don't understand
want to roll around with simba
Giggling in the butterflies
when they're gone, find another man.

There Was Always A Fall Feast,
Way Before The Pilgrams Even Came,
Squanto Was A Prisoner,
Taken Over To Europe,
And Worked As A Slave To Spanish Monks,
He Was Captured From His Village,
And Returned There 5 Years Later,
Where His Tribe Had Died From The Disease,
The Europeans Had Brought Over,
The Pilgrims--Savage And Starving,
Were Rading Near By Villages,
Scavenging In The Tribe's Food Storages
Since Squanto Knew How To Speak English,
He Befriended The Pilgrims And Taught Them,
To Fish And Hunt Off The Land,
When The Fall Feast Arrived,
They Did Not Eat Turkey (Yes You Read That Right),
Squanto And Some Other Natives Brought,
Venison, Crab, Lobster, Fish,
And Feasted....
So You Can See--That What We Learned In School,
Is Not True,
It's Just One More Common Misconception,
Just Another Secret,
This Country Has Tried To Mask

Our mystic alabaster satellite
rules the midnight sky
casting shadowy silhouettes
of all our trees and houses.

Rational tri-millennial me
chooses not to bay about it
or worship its fabled godly essence
(long since neutered by geology).

Casting aside the chains of time
I sidle up to Cenozoic me
munching on a leg of venison
staring at that improbable hanging ball
suspended in the southern heavens.

Wonder and vexation cloud his hairy face -
hunting vainly for a clue.
I whisper in a secret tongue
that only he and I can comprehend,
"You may not get it yet, grandpa
but soon enough you will."

With saddest music all day long
She soothed her secret sorrow:
At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrong
Such cheerful words to borrow.
Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song
I'll sing to thee to-morrow."

I thanked her, but I could not say
That I was glad to hear it:
I left the house at break of day,
And did not venture near it
Till time, I hoped, had worn away
Her grief, for nought could cheer it!

My dismal sister! Couldst thou know
The wretched home thou keepest!
Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,
Is thankful when thou sleepest;
For if I laugh, however low,
When thou'rt awake, thou weepest!

I took my sister t'other day
(Excuse the slang expression)
To Sadler's Wells to see the play
In hopes the new impression
Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay
Effect some slight digression.

I asked three gay young dogs from town
To join us in our folly,
Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown
My sister's melancholy:
The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,
And Robinson the jolly.

The maid announced the meal in tones
That I myself had taught her,
Meant to allay my sister's moans
Like oil on troubled water:
I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones,
And begged him to escort her.

Vainly he strove, with ready wit,
To joke about the weather -
To ventilate the last 'ON DIT' -
To quote the price of leather -
She groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit:
Let us lament together!"

I urged "You're wasting time, you know:
Delay will spoil the venison."
"My heart is wasted with my woe!
There is no rest - in Venice, on
The Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted low
From Byron and from Tennyson.

I need not tell of soup and fish
In solemn silence swallowed,
The sobs that ushered in each dish,
And its departure followed,
Nor yet my suicidal wish
To BE the cheese I hollowed.

Some desperate attempts were made
To start a conversation;
"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed,
"Which kind of recreation,
Hunting or fishing, have you made
Your special occupation?"

Her lips curved downwards instantly,
As if of india-rubber.
"Hounds IN FULL CRY I like," said she:
(Oh how I longed to snub her!)
"Of fish, a whale's the one for me,
IT IS SO FULL OF BLUBBER!"

The night's performance was "King John."
"It's dull," she wept, "and so-so!"
Awhile I let her tears flow on,
She said they soothed her woe so!
At length the curtain rose upon
'Bombastes Furioso.'

In vain we roared; in vain we tried
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide
From orchestra to rafter -
"TIER UPON TIER!" she said, and sighed;
And silence followed after.

Suddenly it feels numb
My body restive
My words gone dumb.
Muted grievances against the window pane
Are wiped away as insane.
Something inside, yet miles away
Resonates a perfectly eternal dismay.
Sweet are the tears that embrace,
Coursing down the contours of the loving face.


I ask myself,
“Why can I never write about important things?
About Philosophy, Politics and similar meanderings?”
Reasonable things.
Inklings of promising meanings.
Instead I struggle with my tempestuous heart,
Unimportant to the world, yet the most excruciating art.
The pain and the glory
Is the never-ending selfish story
My childish mind can recall.


Despite all this wondrous melancholy,
I always choose to repeat my folly.
Up and about to write I go,
There’s too much heart material to forego.
I lie under those dry lifeless branches,
Sit, stand or walk around in hunches.
Only the grass understands
Under the skin in innumerable strands
Pain is the only conspicuous poison
Reigning the veins, arteries,
Defining the venison.


I couldn’t look at you much
Since you drank from my cup
Travesties of my past break-up
And chose to inflict it upon me again
To see if our old life
Could be regained.
But nonchalance has a way of defeating you.
It looks odd on you,
Like an unaccustomed parvenu.


Love wrecks your heart like the shivering of an earthquake.
When my insides tear, shrivel and menacingly rake.
You realize that your nonchalance was odd indeed.
I was the friend in need
You fled the deed.
That could have saved me
From depression.


Earthquakes don’t mean any harm.
They simple do their job
And leave destruction in the wake.
Naïve.
Nonchalant.
Dilettante.
They are not exactly wrong.
No culpable intentions.
Only humming a deleterious song.
Yet
We seldom recover when the grounds from below
Shake.
I thought you were the soft breeze, drizzling rain.
But turns out,
You are an earthquake.

You eat a lot of things from tuber ware containers with a ***** fork
you haven't washed in weeks.
You pile mounds of ketchup on anything
literally everything you eat,
and you hold your utensils like a sandbox shovel
just stuffing the food in your mouth, filling your cheeks like a chipmunk,
yet somehow you still think you have the ability to talk.
You wash everything down with beer.
One kind of beer- nothing else.
I always ask for a sip and you just pull it away while pulling me in.
Your lips are warm and taste like venison, and the yellow light
of the kitchen makes your complexion look a little off
but your eyes are bluer than they've ever been.
You should see yourself stand there at the counter
trying to tell me some story I can't understand about what happened to you that day,
or that night, or maybe it was last week.
Your timeline's never been quite accurate, your memory skewed.
Sometimes I'll look at you in moments like this and mumble, "you're so ******* weird"
but truth is I love all the things you do.

It's bits like this that I miss when you're not there.
Like how you sleep with your elbows under the pillow, snoring so loud
I can't hear myself dreaming.
How you think just because you've memorized every movie ever
that means I have too,
and why it is I just laugh when you quote something I've never seen.
Especially, those times you look at me with this quizzical look
a great idea just sitting on your tongue, expecting something
when really it's just some silly thing you've thought about all day
just didn't know how to say.
I tell you constantly that I can't stand how you wait until the very last clean shirt
before you do the laundry,
how those loads and loads are a ***** to fold
but truth is I love how worn everything is.
I even love the way you sing in the shower, or in the car, or in after dark, or all the time.
I love the way you moan as the sunlight peaks through the window in the morning.
I love when you rustle up my hair after I just did it.
I love how you smear my make-up.
I love you all the time, when you're smart, a *******, rude.
And even though I'll say 100 times in a day that you drive me crazy.
I love all the things you do.

Begin with the meat.
Venison, if you seek authenticity;
if you were raised white,
ground beef will do.
The mirapoix can be purchased
if you no longer till
the back yard.
Potatoes and peas and corn
as well.  No matter
what the commercials say,
frozen tastes nothing like
fresh from the earth.
If Grandfather did not
milk the cow and churn the butter,
saute the vegetables and meat
in half a stick.
Flour was bought and traded for
for many generations;
just open the bag and add a quarter cup.
Beef stock is such a
pain in the *** to make.
Safe, sterile boxes
with tamper-proof caps
so much more convenient.
Let the soup simmer for
what seems to be a lifetime,
then open two cans
of hominy, drain them,
and add to the ***,
letting the smell
summon the memories
of whole families.
Adjust the seasoning,
sweetening the broth
with a tear or two
before serving.

October and flaming leaves of all colors
not only my birthday but so are others
October is so many things this season brings
Columbus day full moon Halloween and many things,
October is fall and all the trees are changing
colored lawns with falling leafs,
left to bare the limbs and trees.
Halloween is the exciting time,
in October of wilting summer vines,
for children there's costooms  and trick or treat,
for the women baking pumpkins pies to eat
For the men there's bow hunting and venison meat.
A new season October brings, temperature drops and frost appears,
October, November, December, then January and it's another year.

We know this table has been a fire pit in days long past,
a flat-topped boulder, a grassy river bank,
a row of seats along side a highschool ball game.
It is the gathering place of women who
know their history and the names of their ancestors,
who tell one another in stories that live
among the words they use.  Stories that keep them breathing.
This table, with it's polished oak surface, kept shining
with canned wax has been the heart-place home of the
people through ages.  It is the place
where the circle is widened, children are raised
and  Warriors seek council, leave reverent.
This table has woven whole societies, birthed legends;
dreaming the life of family/clan/band/tribe
into beads, quills and brain-tanned hides, sewing
them into the skins of daughters with the sinew of survival.
This place is strong like the August sun on the high plains,
and January winds on the prairie, enduring as the work of knives,
awls and the love that are used as tools here in this sacred place.
Here divinity smells of new sage bundles, green braids of
sweetgrass, fry-bread and venison stew.  It is warm
as a summer thunderstorm, a mother's arms or a lover's
lingering kiss.  This table has existed in a thousand
forms through centuries of stories.  This table, this
talk, this knowledge, this way of keeping real history.