If I knew where this poem came from, I’d tell you. But I don’t. I think I had a brick thrown at me recently. I’m not sure if someone was trying to say I plagiarized them but it damn sure came off that way.
The best part is I wrote this poem before reading said brick so it’s…ye gods I don’t know what it is but it sure moved me. Channeling frustrations of waiting to return to my job in the event we don’t go over the fiscal cliff? Maybe! Just having a jolly ol’ time with strong drink? Always possible! Plagiarizing someone? What’s the difference between a tickle and a fucking left-hook? There are few people who ought to find out, and maybe they will. But it won’t be you, lovely reader. No indeed.
Instead it’ll be Mr. Tautology who gets mad. Well, fuck him. Fuck him right in the cornhole with a giant cock the size of a roll of fucking cookie dough. Maggot.
Now, enjoy pure happiness:
Goddamn you’ve gotten old
Goddamn you’ve been so flown
Can’t recall not being high
But somehow all you do is shine
Four-eyed bastard piece of static clothing can’t you die
Next on his knuckles break and no one seems to understand why
It was a rumored lie
But yonder black-book cannot lie
Ye put to waste with sweetest amber thoughts ye need to cast out
You’ll never see just what you’ve sewn
The reaping over
So the boring part has just begun
You’ll only ken the miles you’ve flown
A human tube of fucking lube
Flattened by the rolling stone
When you swim along
And you watch yourself swim alone
Pulled like arthritis into the zone
Raised up by Law of Club and Fang
Found devils in vibrations unseen and pink
Despised by all his peers
Loved only by freaks and queers
He can see a pen as a gun
He has used the gun for a pen
The End - not come
No One Bows
Still hopping the train would go bad
Hop the train realize the dreams of going back
You can smell the cream every morn’
You wake up and smell it in the morning
Like arthritis the pull of the zone.
There’s always something you lack.
Always demons raping you down.
You get angry and cackle back
You break the scum-fucker’s crown
You’ll be found dead in the end
You’ll be found with writing on your palm
With a transfer in your dirty jeans
With an 80 pound bag you carried alone
You’ve been writing since the day you were born
You’re outside and cloven-hoofed.
It is hard to stand by what you throw
Befriend horror and try to find the zone.
Ye fucking gods. Now I’m bringin’ sexy back, dolls. I would dance on the table but here there is only the keyboard, so I have to let my fingers launch rockets for me; after the agony comes the grin because there’s nothing quite like a green glow on the faces of your fellow dominant species. YAR! It’s 99% Hugs, 1% slugs, and I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough now…one day I’m going to show up to the party and present myself politely.
The Accused of Redundancy, esq.