Tag Archives: penis

Penises Look Weird

8 Jul

Penises Look Weird


an obvious statement

like water isn’t lava

or life is an already packed suitcase

(you look pretty tonight)

or Trump lies more

than dickless chickens

have no dongs

My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth

25 Mar

My 45 Year Old Penis vs. The Penis Of My Youth


Where do we start here?


Do we start with girth? Ok, Wait! This poem interrupted

By today’s news that Trumpcare failed to make it off its own runway

Or into the connected sex pool


Or through the front gates of its cold hearted corporate owned

Slaughterhouse of money-first-doom

And now Paul Ryan looks worse than sad Ben Affleck


After the shitty reviews

Of Superman Martha’s Batman had poured in

Trump’s been forced to double the dose of his daily denial enemas


In an attempt to convince himself and everyone else

That he didn’t just lose BIGLY! because losing is for losers

And he’s not one of them guys, he’s a kung fu narcissist


Which means he couldn’t have been defeated so BIG LEAUGE! today

Unless he really wanted to be

Which means he must have planned it this way


Which means: HA!


And if that wasn’t enough

Mayte’s written a memoir of her love

and life with Prince?!


I had no idea how much

I wanted to read this thing

Until I just now found out that it exists



I mean shit, I’m in such a good mood right now

I don’t want to do what I’d just sat down and started doing


I just wanna listen to a whole bunch of Prince tunes

and read Vonnegut and write something else after

something else


I don’t feel like talking about my dick right now

We can talk about my dick later

Today was a good day


Tiny Notebook Poems

13 Feb


Tiny Notebook Poems


I Want You To See My Underpants


I want you to see my underpants

But I’m not wearing underpants

So where does that leave us?


What are we looking at here?

My weiner or

The end of the world



Adam Duritz Letter To Santa Clause


Dear Santa,


I need a raincoat, a sunburn, and a new car. Mom says I’m too young to drive and that the sun can be dangerous, but fuck that. She has thus far voiced no objections about the raincoat. Also I kinda want a puppy. I’ll name her Baltimore. Is that asking for too much? If you’ve just nodded your head yes then I don’t know, forget about the sunburn. I realize now I was being unrealistic with that. Sorry, I’ve been day drinking. Let’s just stick with the raincoat and the new car and the puppy. Thanks man.



Yr pal Adam



Saving Private Ryan 2


A post World War 2 Matt Damon

Falls asleep on the bus to the Denver Art Museum

And somehow wakes up in Cleveland


His family becomes worried when he doesn’t come home

For dinner that night because they had all planned to send

One of his twenty fucking grandkids to pick up a bag of


Taco Bell Doubledillas

Matt Damon’s favorite

So they call the police and report him missing


12 people die horrible deaths before they eventually find him

Standing in the TV department at Sears mumbling shit like

“When did Sylvester Stallone start doing tampon commercials?”


As World War 3 falls from the sky

Like cats dying

The end



Your Love Is A Boomerang


Your love is a boomerang

And I don’t know how

To throw a boomerang


I’m lousy at it


I have failed

many times

again and again

August 16, 2016

17 Aug

Get in the car Helen


August 16, 2016


“I’m not sayin’/there wasn’t nothin’ wrong/

I just didn’t think you’d ever get tired of me”—MB Twenty


So it’s August 16th again


I’m fine with it


Just put the parade back in your pants

about it, will ya?


Because that parade looks miserable


The floats don’t seem to be floating

The marching band’s been replaced by

a trombone full of rats and

what the hell have you been feeding those balloons?


August 16th, home of cold Taco Bell and insomnia

land of these long assed shark infested serenades


A lot of things have happened on oh 8 sixteen

over the gut shot course of all these years

some substantially less heart breaking than others


Bukowski/Madonna/Paul Soter was born

Elvis died

I married Helen


Probably in that exact goddamn order

I don’t know

I’m too moody right now to do the math


August 16th 2003, that was a big day


She stitched the date in the back of my shoe

I still have it

(not Helen, the shoe)


I still have the shoe

and the memory of sitting

in a Westport hospital waiting room

next to a long haul trucker with a busted arm

and an unattended head wound

who really loved Elvis


That’s how I know Elvis died on the day he did

This busted armed trucker told us all about it

while I sat there with Helen waiting to get our blood drawn

so the state of Connecticut could confirm

that we didn’t have syphilis


Because for some reason it’s the law out there

You’re only allowed to get married in Westport

if you can provide documented proof

to Paul Newman’s pastor that you don’t have syphilis


“Do you have syphilis?” I asked Helen, after she’d

told me the news that the government wasn’t going

to let us get married if we happened to have syphilis,

between shots of Canadian Mist


“I don’t have syphilis. Do you have syphilis?”

Helen laughed back. Damn she was amazing.



“I don’t think so.” I told her. “Let’s find out.”


[Historical Note: By ‘find out’ I meant let’s have sex

right now and see if our private bits fall off’, not

let’s go sit in a waiting room and learn a whole bunch

of stuff about Elvis]


So even though we were pretty damn sure

we didn’t have syphilis there we sat

in that medicinally scented waiting room

waiting to find out for sure

waiting for the blood to be drawn

and the tests evaluated

so the doctor could bust through the door

with chocolate donut stuck to his face

smiling with his arms spread wide

and declaring in a voice loud enough

to project across the tiny room

“Good news, you two! You don’t have syphilis!

That’ll be 50 bucks each. Good luck on your std free new life together.

You can pay the lady I’m definitely not banging

at the front window on your way out.”


[Historical Note: She was totally banging him. The entire office literally reeked of cliché]


The Elvis loving truck driver congratulated us

on our living in the modern goddamn world

and not having syphilis, the entire time looking like

he should have bled to death hours ago


I mean fuck, that head wound

it was Viva Las Vegas


But damn, I liked him

and he knew a lot about Elvis


Did you know Elvis Presley

was actually allergic to peanut butter

and his favorite band was Matchbox Twenty?


His favorite color was Pricilla

and he only slept on his left side

because if you sleep on your right side

all the time you’re gonna eventually run out

of right, which only makes sense, right?


Becaise what happens when you run out of right?

You start doin’ wrong

and when you start doin’ wrong you blah blah

blah blah blah


and then fuck, what do I know?

Tonight she’s been gone for the exact amount

of time that we were together


What’s that got to do with syphilis?


I don’t know anymore

It’s fine

Just call me nostalgic


Because if nostalgic means

a person who’s overly sentimental

about certain things that are irrevocably gone and also has an

abnormally large penis then sure,


Fuck it

I’m nostalgic

You win

Unmellow Yellow

8 Aug


Unmellow Yellow


Han Solo had a 10 Parsec


long dong

vertically hairy

and Black Vest-idly



He named it Chewbacca

and 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


winds up believing

in the fantasy


There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

30 Jul

Trump pants


There’s A Big Cloud In My Pants

(another translation of a poem by Mayakovsky as if mistranslated by Donald Trump)


There’s a big cloud in my pants

when I’m not with you


People assume the bulge

is my penis

which it is

but there’s also a cloud in there too

a really big one


Because when you’re not around

frankly, I get gloomy

ergo: my crotch gets gloomy too


How gloomy?

That’s a ridiculous question

Let’s just say


You wouldn’t want to be playing

golf down there, in the type of weather

that goes on in my pants

when I miss you


We’re talking storm clouds and thunder

and once in a while it rains gravel

which my doctor assures me is normal

for a man of my age

and self confidence

which is just the Russian English way of saying

my pants wouldn’t fit like this

if you’d just stopped going away like you do


Where are you right now?

Are you even listening?


There’s a cloud in my pants

and it’s raining cotton shaped opera


Believe me,

my cumulo starts going nimbus over here


Exclamation point

exclamation point

exclamation point


Every time

that you’re


Your Backbone and My Flute

24 Jul


Your Backbone and My Flute

(translation of poem by Mayakovsky as if mistranslated by Donald Trump)


I’d like to build a wall

around my penis

and I’d very much like for this wall

that surrounds such a thing to be

your vagina


That’s how special you are to me

The media doesn’t get that

If you’re trying to build an ant farm

you’re going to fuck up a lot of ants


before you get the rest of the ants

locked in there……what is that?

Plexiglas? Doesn’t matter


That’s just how it goes

I just happen to be really good

at stepping on things

What can I tell you?


But that’s only when I’m being Blue Collar, baby

In the bedroom nobody knows where to put it

like I know where to put it, believe me

I know where to put it


We’re gonna make so much love

with my flute, shooting Beethoven

all over your backbone,


that it’s gonna take a cleaning crew

half a week to get that place

straightened out again


I know this, because

I’m a job creator

Believe me


I’m going to fuck you so good

that Mexico will have to pay for it


and if Mexico says

‘Screw you’

then I’ll declare the following day

National Fuck Them Day!


and we’ll just order another jar

of lube up from room service

and charge it


to France