Burger King-a-Lingus

17 May

Burger King-a-Lingus


The FBomb’s this week again

What should I probably write about?

What do I feel like reading?


I don’t know


I broke my ribs again, and

Trump’s still president and

everything feels like a fucking mess


but I don’t feel like writing about what it feels like

waking up each day with a passed out metronome

and the same dirty blanket


in occupied territory

overthrown like naïve bathtubs

overlord-ed and now controlled by: The Messy


I don’t want to write about those feelings, again

I don’t want to think about politics and randomness

as it pertains to fib-based realities

and these various collections of atoms


Welcome to the 45th President’s Super Great Grift-Grabbed Marina!

Are you a chum bucket or shark bait?

Please line up accordingly


Fuck that!


I don’t want to think about 70 year old billionaires

who’re trying to ruin everything

and own their own golf carts


For at least one goddamn night, anyway

I don’t want to think about Trump

because I’m tired of thinking about Trump


So I’m not going to think about Trump

Not for the rest of tonight, anyway

So what’s left?


I bought a metronome last week

That was a good day….

I’ve been watching the movie Seven again

every night, and have recently decided to relearn

a bunch of Beethoven stuff arranged for classical guitar


and shit, once you decide multiple things like that

everything else becomes obvious

and you immediately realize

if you’re going to get through this:


You’re gonna need a metronome


Stuff like every hateful thing President 2018’s ever internet-composed

with his gassy thumbs and The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

may be fake news, but everything I’m ever going to say

about the mythological greatness of metronomes

is fucking true


After watching Seven 6 nights in a row,

missing things, and somewhat obsessively

thinking about Beethoven


I found myself

filled with an over-consumable urge

to co-exist with a metronome


So I got one

We met, and it immediately moved in with me

and it’s great


I’ve named it Morgan, and

we watch movies together


and listen to Beethoven

and write poems about Paris

with the window almost open


You have no idea how much calmer I am now

that I have this metronome,

and xanex (the xanex helps too)


I’m so much calmer now

that I’m writing a fan fiction sequel to Seven

starring a fresh out of the mental hospital Brad Pitt


in which Morgan Freeman’s dead, allegedly,

so Brad Pitt teams up with Morgan Freeman’s

metronome and they’re called in to solve the worst


most bigly serial killer murder spree of all time!

2018 Trump world based murder scenarios

instead of the original’s 7 deadly sins this time


The sequel’s called Eight, and

the serial killer’s serial killing code name is

Burger King-A-Lingus (because McDonaldst-Rump

seems too: obvious, and)




I’m not supposed to be thinking

about Trump tonight

so on a completely unrelated topic:


When I think about you

the bumper car in my pants

turns into a ferris wheel


on which my feelings go for a ride

and from up here I can see everything

everyone’s ever wanted


and I can also see Paris

and from this angle

Paris looks like your vagina


so now the metronome’s

all wound up again and

our star’s dead light starts playing


‘What’s in the box’

with the quantum gravity

of things like love

and past sexual positions


and now fuck, I’ll never

get to sleep tonight

but that’s ok


At least

I’m not thinking

about Trump


Edgar’s Coffee

5 May


Edgar’s Coffee


I won’t sleep again tonight

Don’t remember sleeping last night

Who knows what that fuck’ll be going on



Everything we know is bound atoms and ground beans

filtered through this goddamned inability

of letting go


Blame it on politics

or an eight year old broken heart

Blame it on the fact that the very best things

are temporary


Blame it on Edgar’s coffee


Yeah, I know,

I’m missing her while watching

Signs again


Get over it

or don’t

It’s not that easy


getting over things

You know that

we all know that




Edgar’s coffee

That was one of our things

Everybody else has got their own things


and it all comes down to Edgar’s coffee

our bones are made from this


There’s a lifetime of caffeine

in being alone

Unmellow Yellow: A Star Wars Story

11 Apr


Unmellow Yellow


Han Solo had a 10 Parsec


long dong

vertically hairy

and Black Vest-idly



He named it Chewbacca

but the Chewbacca you remember

from childhood is a figment

of Han Solo’s overly exaggerated mind



so, as a separate entity, the thick Wookie

that sat beside him co-piloting

the Millenium Falcon

doesn’t actually exist

(not in the way in which we perceive it)



Chewbacca is in reality a simple manifestation

of Han Solo’s grand thoughts about his own penis

a grand thought

so strong that it became

a shared vision



we all went along with it


It’s like Jimmy Stewart in Harvey

only Jimmy saw the rabbit


it’s like that, except on a much larger scale

because Han Solo wasn’t alone

we all saw Chewbacca!

even though he wasn’t there

or, in a sense, he was there


but not in the way our culturally connected minds perceived him to be there


he was there, in the literal sense, tucked inside

Han Solo’s pants


even though we perceived Chewie, as Han Solo did

as an eight foot tall best pal who’s posture slightly

stiffened every time Princess Lea entered and room

and haimishly gargled at all of Han’s jokes


we all saw it, ergo:

we’re all

in every sense

and in all actuality

totally nuts


and speaking of nuts

what kind of man nicknames his dick



The Unmellow Universe

is not only a coward

and hesitantly expanding


it’s judging us, about shit like this


and thinking things like

if it had it to do all over again


it would’ve liked to have gotten a degree in Psychology

or something like that


instead of becoming what it is

an enormously nervous Tea Cup

that contains Everything


including Cocky Bastards

with Talking Teddy Bear dick



so powerful

that everyone he comes

into celluloid contact with


as if dazzled by the variant amount

of loneliness and special effects


wind up believing

in the fantasy


dear cracker that I left underneath the futon mattress until the ants got you

26 Mar


dear cracker that I left underneath the futon mattress until the ants got you


what can I say if not: sorry about that

it happened

love is not often survived by the brittle

in your own cheesy way that was obvious

because you wore your cheesiness

on your outsides

but it was more than that

wasn’t it


I get that


between the cheesy exterior you had

a thin peanut butter lust for her

that could slice through time machines

and nightmares about zombified blankets

you miss her

don’t you

no, don’t worry


I get that


I mean

I miss her too

On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds

25 Mar


On Monday You Feel Like A Naked Burt Reynolds


On Monday you feel

like a naked

Burt Reynolds

like a 70’s magazine

fold out

excessively mustached & hairy


Tuesday’s still hairy

but methodically lacking in that sweaty mustache feel

propelled by desperation the missing’s worn inside out

and doesn’t fit right to the point where your toe nails feel naked

and the sun sets like a dirty magazine

when you learn she’s recently dating some jerk-off name Burt


Wednesday becomes Hate Burt

Day, puppet-name-posing-as-a-human-name-hairy


big-foot-swifty bastard, you don’t feel

well go home from work early sit on the couch semi-naked

while drinking bourbon and watching reruns of Lost you pass out


Thursday you spend paddling without

a rowboat trailing behind the wake of the S.S Burt

which based on these cruel winds has totally seen her naked

by now, before midnight you watch a couple Ray Harry-

hausen movies and while listening to That’s The Way I Feel

by the Johnny Burnette Trio you send a snotty email to that fucker’s magazine


Friday morning she instructs you over the phone

to leave the magazine out of this

says she understands how you feel

and all that but Burt

has a hairy

temper and if you contact him at work again he’ll beat you naked


Saturday’s spent trying to figure out what ‘beat naked’

exactly means, you smoke cigarettes next to the corner magazine

stand cursing the sunlight because it makes your knuckles look hairy

and try to scrape the facts out

of your skull, that on the phone she’d called Burt

her boyfriend, dead pigeons scream: you know how they feel


Sunday you wake up naked and out

of your mind vowing fuck magazines! fuck Burt!

fuck Harry Houdini! I’ll escape this! (I’m over it), fuck the way I feel


22 Mar




at the end of an impossible day

post orgasm

in bed


I don’t mind sleeping

on the wet spot

unless I’m alone

One Year Without Nickel

9 Feb


One Year Without Nickel




Gosh, I fucking miss you

with me: sitting inside at this dining room table desk

writing this thing I wish didn’t need writing, and

you: in the backyard behind me

covered in all the love I’ll always have for you

and random snake shit

and the neighbor’s dog barks

and dirt


This world’s gone extra nutty without you

In the past year since you were forced out of here

by the cyclones of redacted reality

and the mortal biology of cruel blueprints

and the fact that life was designed

to hurt




Since you’ve been gone (copywrite: Kelly Clarkson)


the icecaps have intensified their melting

and compassion has been thrown overboard

by the denial of facts

and while in this current concussed state

has forgotten how to swim


Trump’s played this country

like a spoiled brat shitting in his own toy box


None of us are winning here:


Nazi pedophiles openly run for office

on the Republican ticket


Democrats continue to fumble

under the incompetence of their own Pelosis


and that wasted Justice League movie; holy bat shit,

it was fucking terrible!


Superman’s mustache is 2017’s CGI deep stated metaphor

for the fact that this world’s default move seemed to specialize

in letting everything down


What’s up with that, America?


I’m sick of your Tom Bradys and toothpaste




my cat is still dead

and nobody seems to be digging

that post Super Bowl Cloverfield movie

like I do



You’ve got a Congress lodged in your asshole

shaped like an Ancient Aliens pyramid

(Can you feel that?!)


(Is the answer: Yes? Then do something!)


Stop arguing about who’s going to grab the salad tongs

and get it out of there, you’ve got a serious infection going on

it’s puffy and looks like Trump’s legion of political ass goons


There is no Paul Ryan, only Zuul




No, fuck that




It was exactly one year ago today

when I woke up in the saddest part of an early morning

and found you unbearably stiff

eyes gloomed wide at the foot of the bed


and I knew you were gone

your death having fused with that night’s dreams


I still tried like hell to refuse to believe it

but let’s not go into to that again right now

It’s too sad

and I’ve already all the time since then relived it


It’s a bad anniversary tonight and

I miss you, goofball


I walked out into the backyard where you’ve been buried

and it was dark

and the neighbor’s dogs wouldn’t stop barking

and I can’t take it out there

so I walked back inside


Where Superman’s mustache

cackles and eats everyone’s dinner


What are we supposed to do?


Hell if I know

All I know is that you made everything

less horrible


You made everything better


Damn it





I love you, kiddo

you got me through so much

you got me through damn near all of it

Thanks for that, etc.

I miss you


you reverse Hitler mustached nut-ball, you