I’am the
Whiney,
Amy Winehouse
Wannabee.
That’s going to blow myself,  
away
before the Whispers of wicked winds can.

I can’t smile anymore.
If you have to always
stab
me in the back.
My heart lives on the other side
of my body.
If ya wanted to....

I could get you;
a steak knife
and you could
tear into my heart
like it’s
a medium rare steak.

If it would make you happy.
I’ll even bring the A-1.
Cause I care that much.

Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his  buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo

Plubderp.

Schmubderp.

Im here for family my Juggalos don't care bout the rest,
All you whiney *** haters to me are just a test.
I'm down with the clown and I will be until I die,
Whether it be heaven or Hell in which I fry.
I'm representin clown love for all my life,
And I hope so will my future wife.
We got Blaze, ICP, Twiztid, and Boondox,
**** what the haters say this music rocks!
We all got love for one another we family,
Sit back and watch and song you'll see,
We paint our faces but it's not just for show,
We show our heart which route our minds will go.
We don't care what you think or say,
Every one of us deals with haters everyday.
We will live strong and die strong,
And no matter what you say we'll always be strong.
When we die we get our own island where we go,
And if you ain't down Thats a place you'll never know.
We Juggalo homies man we're the best,
And no matter what you try we'll pass your foolish tests.


- Dustin Kohman 1/17/2011 1:32 pm

Every night, before going off to bed,
I lie down, and reflect on all the things I've done, heard, and said.
Have my words affected peoples lives?
Have my actions, changed how I'm viewed peoples eyes?
Am I still self conscious about the things people have said?
Do I still think I'm fat or think that I'd be better off dead.
Am I still just a whiney little girl?
Will I actually get somewhere in this world?
Will I ever be loved?
Or will I continue to be pushed around, bullied and shoved.
Yes, I've heard some pretty nasty things in my day.
But now, I've learned not to listen to what people do or say.
I know exactly who I am inside.
I've been depressed it for so long, but now, I refuse to hide.
I love myself, in every possible way.
So, for now, I drift asleep, and hope that tomorrow will be an even better day.

I claim to have empathy
But I also know I'm lacking.
I chuckled when you said
You'd marry him
You're in high school, sweetie
And when it didn't work out
I wasn't at all surprised.
When you ******* about your life
My mind was on mine
When you made every small problem
Bigger than it needed to be
My thoughts immediately said
"It could've been worse"
But my mouth didn't dare.
And then you have the gaul to tell me
That I'm being pessimistic and whiney
After all the times I bit my tongue
In front of you?
Sorry honey,
But I can falsify empathy for you.
If it's sympathy you want
Go look elsewhere.

If I did go wrong more or less at once, I wonder where
The chop block decisions of grade school, when you first realize you don’t care
‘I just don’t care’ in whiney and off-pitch voices and messy drawers
Was it the first time you realized you couldn’t be perfect and so just stopped
Being
Was it sneaking on to computers and secretly learning more about life in books than your
Parents wished you to (***** things)
Or was it when you learned because you shouldn’t
And didn’t learn and didn’t learn, and that persistent bubble as you grew up got bigger and bigger
Some looming threat about your future dangled over your animal head like a carrot as you trotted through worksheet a, a-2, a-3
And exercises you could finish in two minutes or two hours and get the same grade
Or copy and get the same grade
And those grades mattered more and more, and vaguer and vaguer
And they guided you less as they shoved more in front of you and grabbed your nose to say
This is important, this is you
And your friends started laughing like lunatics as well as *******
And the first kids ended up crying in stairwells
And you slept in class?
Was it all that, or was it outside. Was it your parents admitting they weren’t happy.
Was it the first time you had to recognize dishonesty or cruelty in others
(you had long since seen it in yourself)
Was it the first time you wanted to die.
Is it now?

if journalists weren't
           the whiney ******* to begin with...
   do i even have to provide
         a copyright infringement
                on a citing emily dickinson?
  just asking,
       because i wondered upon
seeing primary school pupils
             being taught: phalanx formation,
or the old tale of Noah:
        hand in hand...
hand upon hand to give a vote...
                i'm past thinking
about the hindu gods acting as
the gods: who taught people to tie
their shoelaces, subsequently
     pushing them into a sprint,
        that never resulted
                   into a gallop of a mustang...
well **** me,
      if that **** runs on a
            photosynthesis
                                  shortscript
that's grass and not a birch tree...
                                                    hug it.
i just see: eating dwarfs...
                  but it's not that,
a sunday supplement of a newspaper,
****, gott'ah have a cohort...
             magazine (i.e.) -
         i'm walking through a mirror labyrinth,
a minotaur to own my own:
   of what doesn't really regard
   scribbling graffiti...
                  but on a serious note...
     why is there a bother for trans-
trans-gender?
                      with every book review
i've read,
             it's a man reviewing a man's
book, e.g. john carey on steven pinker...
and there's
                   jackie annesley
on laura freeman...
          once "this" gets solved
it's going to become funny
watching inter-****** sporting
events, outside the realm of
tennis and curling...
                   without a thespian
attitude of: faking it.
   the modern age is seriously
epitomised by a woman giving
birth to a siamese twin...
      it's like which part do i ****
             and which head do i talk to?
you can't exactly fake it,
when boys read boy books,
and women read, girl books...
   oh look... a diminutive counter
to a martini: whatever the bartender
knows & does... without the shacken part...
       trigger ******* happy
from here on in...
                    or ear on a dog leash /
     fishing line...
                 ****... shay... shayken...
shacking or shackles?
                         shaking...
    but where's shay?
                             shay i, or should you,
answer that, question?
  must be a fantasy of a french speaking
princess with blonde hair
   and ***** hairs dyed blue...
      and a man with ****** hair:
otherwise known these days:
    bearded man: look at me - i'm dancing
naked!
                  well,
that's without the kangaroo hop or kick
attending to dr. pangloss...
   as read on the no. 86 bus
each morning in circa genesis of 21st
century.
          missing diacritical marks
is disorientating,
      but there's no chance of applying them
to english...
      because there are too many
particular instances when
they could be applied,
         subsequently there would be
no universal impetus for use...
              perhaps: archetypal
                                     familiarities?
arch and no arc...
                   i make an oath toward
YHWH...
                         gay ******* all day,
and i mean that in the "archaic"
                 substance / meaning of: gay.
hunk of a back, or hunchback?
   this is becoming
quantum physics ****...
                   c, k, q...
                          you look at it:
and it's a sound with the cipher C...
then you look away
   and it's a de-cipher that constitutes
K & Q...
                   buy hey...
              it's worth being a tourist
once in a while, not minding
this observation.

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."


Started:    June 21, 2011
Finished:  August 14, 2011

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."

Purportedly, the final words of Bobby Fischer, the reclusive, oft bizarre-acting Chess Grandmaster, whose life deserves your examination.  

I wasted decades of my life in a loveless, sexless, miserable marriage. I read his dying words, and the poem~notion was born, but the words had their own timetable and it made me crazy.

All the facts you need to read this old poem are now in your possession.
~-----------------------------------------------~
Mos­­t poems used to just tumble out,
Sudoku words combos,
Gunslinger I was,
poetically licensed to shoot
from the hip (the lip?).

Then you go mute, until that second,
When once again,
Machine gun stanzas fall like
Cheerios
Spilling all over the kitchen floor,
As they always do at Two Am
When quietude is in high season,
And the whole house is sleeping.

Once in awhile,
The title~idea recorded,
But the poem unwrit,
just won't come.
*** but no ******.

The words smack you,
Write me, I deserve it,
A challenged duel glove
Goes kissy kissy on your face,
But the words,
The choice of weapons
Eludes for weeks, months.  

So Bobby,
Your challenge
Long ago accepted,
But my reply imperfect,
Has lain bound and gagged,
A poem-in-progress
Hid in the trunk of my heart,
Unable to escape, even when
Escape attempted, unsuccessful.

From June till August moon,
Your dying words have been
A cancer growing, within,  
Hiding from my bullets
Invented to radiate,
Your final words, explicate,
Explode and expose.

Your life,
An essay on life in solitary,
Anti-social would immodestly describe your life best.

How came you then to exclaim,
Re the glories of human touch?

Ah a dying man's last regret,
A simple cri du couer,
Nothing extraordinaire,
A basic 101 shoulda/woulda
Of "I coulda done it better,"
What's the big deal?

Until this exact second,
Sunday rain jolted body from bed
Do I instant understand my obsession,
The import to me,
The need to capture
The haunt of the healing
Of your dying words.  

Life is small, miniaturized
When numbered in decades -
Five, six, seven,
Maybe,
Eight nine or even ten.  

How came I to pass so many,
Discarded whole decades,
Of the few we garner
Without the sustenance of
Human Touch?

How came I to allow this disaster to pass?

How did I advance to the next grade/decade,
When a failing grade was scarlet tattooed
In ****** scars upon my chest?

Would be easy to dismiss as just another whiney rant
That is no longer relevant to you,
Lies I told myself, no longer resonate, over, now.

Never.  

Everything matters.  

Summation.  Accumulation.

Day Counter Totals  reveal gaps of years
That cannot be refilled so your accounting
Must include a retelling of the
Wasted days and acknowledge with your dying breath,

Nothing is so healing as the human touch.
~~~~~~~
Happy 3rd Birthday poem.

I wish I was Stronger.
Handsome.
Attractive.

Instead of this whiney
Hopeless
*******.

The jester free styled about dealing grams under the tainted Charleston moonlight – Drug scene.
Whenever we discussed the existence of God, it always ended in a fight – The unseen.

The harlot was always type casted as the Rizzo, never the Sandy.
Who could forget those black leather pants, oh so tight – Street corner scene.

The king flirted with the innocent freshmen girls, unaware of the imminent restraining order.
He would joke about using the effervescent glow of his skin as their flashlight – Obscene.

The fair lady believed Tolkien was the closet humanity could ever get to godly perfection.
She was infamous for always tripping over the set, a common plight – Off scene.

The wizard dreamed one day to be the first black James Bond, code name Black Mamba.
One day he told me he liked women and men, except the whiney boys of white – Epicene.

You, the minstrel, sang the words to “Baby Got Back” in your high-pitched voice backstage.
You often told us “rawr” is dinosaur for I love you and everything will be alright – End scene.

I, the queen, tried to hide behind the black velvet curtain paralyzed by my stage fright.
But now, I just wish you hadn’t crashed your car into the tree that night – Unforeseen.

If my physical wellbeing is any kind of indicator
I'd say that I'm wibbly-wobbly, piney-whiney.