Bulls have taken to the streets,
and pantaloons make balloons
ready to pop at the call
of a horn.
(W)holstein, deprived of past, yer
hotwired/reprogrammed.
Cow: "QUACKquackQUACK."
It is a future where
antelopes elope
and tampons tamp on the manholes
of the pavement.
Ducks fart chocolate bunnies
in the future of ours.
If only we and Xargniflox
could convince Mgmt Clan
of the necessity of uselessness,
we would sweep by
and hum a Trolla-lolla-la.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
1st Person Plural Poler Poem Public Anthem
We are
Ron Poler!
Pie-Holer!
Hooray for us!
We hate pretzels,
Damn Pretzle-Purtzles!
Stompity STAMP!
Stampity STOMP!
Now read em and
SWEEP,
Little buddy!
Ron Poler!
Pie-Holer!
Hooray for us!
We hate pretzels,
Damn Pretzle-Purtzles!
Stompity STAMP!
Stampity STOMP!
Now read em and
SWEEP,
Little buddy!
The Same Old Ron Polar Poem Told from Yet Another Point-of-View, That of the Second Person Narrator
You are Ronald
Polar, or Arnold LaRop,
depending on the circle
with which you square.
On this fateful day,
you find yourself with a map,
a grocery list,
and your list has only these items on it:
your way down the SALTY FOODS
aisle, which is a dumbass name for a
food aisle,
you find many varieties
of hard, salty breads
twisted into unique shapes.
Sadly, many of these breads,
called the pretzels,
have been strewn about in front of you.
You are an important MAN, however,
a MAN who carries important documents,
like a Blockbuster video card,
and a receipt from the first block of meat
you skewered.
You have no time for altering a course
this late in the game.
Some call you a BIG-shot! How far of
them to throw your name!
As you turn to look over your shoulder,
you spy a creepy,
acne-ridden teen
with a pencilled on mustache
playing pocket pool by the magazines.
He has the look of ANGRY and
PORN JUNKY all over his hands
and face.
You smirk at his weaknesses
and hope that he gets to work soon,
damn slacker!
So, you decide to walk very intentionally
and deliberately to smash the fallen pretzel
corpses into a fine
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
all over that gleaming
tiled floor.
And a few you kick out of sight for the mice
and varmints.
As you depart the store, with your bag of olive
loaf and mustard, you smile at the thought of
that grocery store boy
sweeping debris
in angry tones
and thinking of you
and your fancy shoes.
Polar, or Arnold LaRop,
depending on the circle
with which you square.
On this fateful day,
you find yourself with a map,
a grocery list,
and your list has only these items on it:
- mustard,
- pickles,
- olive loaf,
- combustible jams and jellies
your way down the SALTY FOODS
aisle, which is a dumbass name for a
food aisle,
you find many varieties
of hard, salty breads
twisted into unique shapes.
Sadly, many of these breads,
called the pretzels,
have been strewn about in front of you.
You are an important MAN, however,
a MAN who carries important documents,
like a Blockbuster video card,
and a receipt from the first block of meat
you skewered.
You have no time for altering a course
this late in the game.
Some call you a BIG-shot! How far of
them to throw your name!
As you turn to look over your shoulder,
you spy a creepy,
acne-ridden teen
with a pencilled on mustache
playing pocket pool by the magazines.
He has the look of ANGRY and
PORN JUNKY all over his hands
and face.
You smirk at his weaknesses
and hope that he gets to work soon,
damn slacker!
So, you decide to walk very intentionally
and deliberately to smash the fallen pretzel
corpses into a fine
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
all over that gleaming
tiled floor.
And a few you kick out of sight for the mice
and varmints.
As you depart the store, with your bag of olive
loaf and mustard, you smile at the thought of
that grocery store boy
sweeping debris
in angry tones
and thinking of you
and your fancy shoes.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Ron Polar Speaks out about this Pretzel Business
My name is Ronald
as luck would have it
I have charted a course
for mustard
and sundry foodstuffs
What stands in my way?
Twisted stale bread
with salt and salt
and no flavors
I'm a card-carrying important person,
BIG-shot
without time for
alternate routes
that would avoid crushing
a few dusty pretzels
That kid over there
with the burgeoning mustache
will have an opportunity
this very day
to do his job for once
Or perhaps I'll be gracious
and kick them under the
freezer-ass food section
where he can pretend
they were out of his view
as luck would have it
I have charted a course
for mustard
and sundry foodstuffs
What stands in my way?
Twisted stale bread
with salt and salt
and no flavors
I'm a card-carrying important person,
BIG-shot
without time for
alternate routes
that would avoid crushing
a few dusty pretzels
That kid over there
with the burgeoning mustache
will have an opportunity
this very day
to do his job for once
Or perhaps I'll be gracious
and kick them under the
freezer-ass food section
where he can pretend
they were out of his view
Monday, July 31, 2006
Poem Written from the Perspective of the Bag Boy Who Had to Clean Up a Bunch of Stepped-On Pretzels
Whoever
in the fuck
smashed all
these goddamn
pretzels all over the floor
will pay for this!
I've got to clean up
fucking messes all the
goddamn time, and I'm sick of it.
A smashed jar of pickles,
a carton of eggs,
a fucking box of frozen hamburgers that someone
left in the chip aisle,
and then these fucking pretzels.
And they kicked a bunch under the frozen
food section.
They will pay if I ever find out who did it.
I suspect it was that goddamn
Ronald Polar!
in the fuck
smashed all
these goddamn
pretzels all over the floor
will pay for this!
I've got to clean up
fucking messes all the
goddamn time, and I'm sick of it.
A smashed jar of pickles,
a carton of eggs,
a fucking box of frozen hamburgers that someone
left in the chip aisle,
and then these fucking pretzels.
And they kicked a bunch under the frozen
food section.
They will pay if I ever find out who did it.
I suspect it was that goddamn
Ronald Polar!
Alas At Last, Or On Tim's Difficulty
The palm of a hand
is a beautiful
tool of
slapping necessity.
A tool of meat
beating and bludgeoning.
She came whenever she could,
but Tim was a
different story.
Coming always felt natural when
the sun was setting,
but upon the rising was a completely
different story.
He wondered
what the sunsets and sunrises were.
How they would feel on a
day when coming felt natural.
Tim always laughed it off,
but thought hurt feelings later,
there was no way to moo
for the milk.
No way to trot
his trot.
She walked with him
into the woods
and tried to help him
find his way, but he came to no end.
Lungs gasp, hands grasp,
and they'd always end up talking philosophy,
about the ponies of Reggie from Cleveland,
how they surpassed his doppelganger in Philly,
and about how
Nietzsche was a treeloper,
a dangler of fire.
When Tim died,
she cried.
Then laughed and danced and
came as often as she wanted.
And the ash of Tim
was more exciting
than the palm of his hand.
is a beautiful
tool of
slapping necessity.
A tool of meat
beating and bludgeoning.
She came whenever she could,
but Tim was a
different story.
Coming always felt natural when
the sun was setting,
but upon the rising was a completely
different story.
He wondered
what the sunsets and sunrises were.
How they would feel on a
day when coming felt natural.
Tim always laughed it off,
but thought hurt feelings later,
there was no way to moo
for the milk.
No way to trot
his trot.
She walked with him
into the woods
and tried to help him
find his way, but he came to no end.
Lungs gasp, hands grasp,
and they'd always end up talking philosophy,
about the ponies of Reggie from Cleveland,
how they surpassed his doppelganger in Philly,
and about how
Nietzsche was a treeloper,
a dangler of fire.
When Tim died,
she cried.
Then laughed and danced and
came as often as she wanted.
And the ash of Tim
was more exciting
than the palm of his hand.
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