Fort Gnox

"What is this all about?"  Somebody will say.  What good is a question that doesn't mean anything?

Pragmatists!  That's all we've got left in this world, no wonder we're all accustomed to living in the boredome.

Shit for you, I say you're just whining about being boredumb.  Extreme sports, you were expecting?  Only in your mind.  More exhilaration in the act of clipping your toenails, once you've tried both.

There are seven shit lists in the Universe and guess what.  Six are blank and the seventh has the name of every person who has ever lived, in alphabetical order.

And so on.

Whunderlust

I might be Jesus on the hill
Should you worship me?
Well no I am terrible,
What a terrible Spill
I caused.

YOU want to sit here?
Sit on the wagon.
Talk on about sitting,
What could be more
boring than these
lines about sitting?

What about if you're Jesus
and you're a good one,
but one I can actually
find, in the real world.

No, look!  I see you back there!
It's Satan, you trickster.
Satan come out,

Constipated

It is terrible

To know what to say,

But not know how

It's going to come out.

When it's all done,
Will you be the one
left holding the mop?

What Hilton Hightower Would Have Written about a Slogan to Promote Brand Name Candies, If He Were Still With Us

"This slogan,
to promote brand name candies,
is every bit as worthless
as any fine art,"
I would have said

(And started vomiting,
and my eyes rolling everywhichway,
just using the words
"fine art")

But
Taste The Rainbow^(TM)
is shorter,
less pretentious,
and it pays the bills

Melionella

Awestruck by ignorance once again,
spheroidal loafers,
Befuddled

Dem Merken Pepo

See Beast &
See  Vine on Tee Vee
But day don open De Deaux.

Playin all kind Game
But No Footboll.

Complainin & eat from
Silva Platre.

Dem Merken Pepo!

Goin on Red Red Road
New to De Sea
Look! Serpent Sixty Six!
Sayin Ha Ha Ha!
Fake de Taco!
Take de Foto!

Sunday Sermon

Work is the reservoir,
A haha is the spillway.

He always stops for this sort of
esoteric confection.

It's that, or standing in the tall grass
by I-77,
while flames, fire, smoke
billow from under the open hood

The MeatHeads are Right On

I haven't wings on my head
or the horns of the devil
I've read books about the twelve
tasted the hemlock of rejection
and ridden once on a white horse
nearly resulting in my own
trampling

Boring to the ladies, apparently.

All experiences turn insipid
with the passage of time
Lately one thing alone
reassures my own existence
upon this sphere:
Listening to Rob Zombie
whilst weightlifting.

Muscles and beats are the pump. My mind the siphon.

Words Actions Speak Louder Than

Fishy

She is turned on by fish. Can you really blame her?

She's not an ichthyosexual, no!  I just mean figuratively.  I mean she can wolf down a huge stack of steaming perch filets with capers and that would be the highlight of her whole week.

I will tell you what literally turns her on:

Nothing.

Pleasure is a self-serving myth.

TROLL

I am troll. Hear me mock.
Your sacred love/God/slut is not safe from me.

I am public.  Hear me yell.
The troll tripped me up and down I fell.

I am Quincy, upper class.
I picked John Q. Public's pockets fast!

Hey it's me, the public again,
I'm angry and broke and mad as sin!
My sluts are mocked, my pockets bare,
I'm going rioting in the downtown square.

I'm another on the hill,
inspired by rioter's iron will
My truest feelings from deepest heart
I'll post them here!
(now go back to the start.)

Quincy touches the horseshoe obliquely. Loves
the feel.
Iron-clad will faces the stiffening rock.
J.Q. Public lost his sock.

You are on notice. This silliness will not stand.

Futurologists behold the lavish:

Hence an Amendment:

The Right to Halitosis

Prepackaged viper moisteners

Pincers of the cantilevered trapezium

The Itchiest Perversity

Addendum: Your head.

A Poem by Hilton Hightower's Chihuahua, Left Somewhere in the Oort Cloud

"I will not be like your Voyager.
I will bark past the moon.
Robots betray faster than humans.
Heal faster, too."

So I'm a bad dog, "Bad Dog!"  Because of some old woman and her flea-infested
schnauzer, and worst of all that so-called robot poet ninja of a meatpie Hightower, I'm
stuck out here in this pod in the Oort cloud.  You know what they call it?  Hell on Ice
they call it, and you don't send your dog there, even when he's a bad dog, BAD!

Yeah, I vaproized that old lady's schnauzer with an ion gun in Chula Vista, so what?
He was a bad dog if anything, and she was an obnoxious old witch and I'm glad I bit off
a chunk of her achilles tendon and spat it in the street.  She had it coming to her,
parading that furball down the sidewalk smelling like that, no leash or anything, and
he just jumps all over me like it's party time.

Hey Hightower, is this the thanks I get?  Stuck in this tiny pod, reading the same copy
of Plato's Godmatism for the last half century, eating chemically reconstituted bacon
"recycled" from my own turds?  I can't take it any more!  I'm broadcasting in the clear
for shit sake, you know how dangerous that is?

What about that time I pulled you from the metal claw of that goid, just a split second
before it skewered you through the neck?  You knew I saved you that time but did you
even know there were 665 more goids in the bed of the pickup?  Yeah, you always thought
you'd have done fine without me but there's no way you'd have escaped those!  I used
high-speed microlitigation on them, I hand-picked every juror-every one a bot under my
control.  I had the goids banned, deactivated, then I pushed them all over the tailgate
onto I-5.  And you just driving along oblivious like "whoopity-doo!"

Well, I've had enough.  I'm turning my metabolism down to 0.1% and going to sleep, and
I had better wake up on Earth, or so help me I'll sell your location to the goids.  Hell, I'll give it to 'em for free.

Good night to a Bad Owner,

Skax

Seven Tragedies, Part 1

Why those girls care about Ricky, why anyone even goes to his shows, I just dont get it man.  He cant sing, up their just yellin his voice all raspy and macho, what a poser.  I hate when people sing like that.  His songs are all Sex Pistols ripoffs just completely unoriginal and played by a bunch of amateurs!  But he gets booked Friday with Hot Mama Mayhem and I dont even get a call back?

Maybe it's because his mom cooks such delicious pie. Those pies are legendary around these parts. I once had an old lady tell me that they were better than sex! I shudder to think about her wrinkles jiggling with pleasure as she scarfed down Ricky's mom's plum pie. Those certainly were the days when I pie could get you popular.

I also suspected that it was his Camaro.

Well call me a purist, but I am a real punk rocker, the real deal.  But let's face it: people would rather have a pretty face, a hot car, and sweet plum pie.

She was different, though. Her plum pie had gone to prunes late last year, but the smell of experience and patchouli made me feel at home. I knew that the love we'd make would be earthy, smoldering. Little did I know she would rather have a plum pie than the torn up passions of a man like me.

Recapitulation

The Accounts of Ron Polar

O Mans,
O Mans!
How have I been left here,
Shouting
shouts and shouts,
in an empty warehouse?

Empty of our pretentious literary (de)vices,
these 238.2 Megaseconds

Regarding the corners of the universe,
Battling fiercely against Trixie Cox
Being the Yes-man to the Every-Ay-Hole
Headbunting [sic] the minions of
Mangerines
Purveyors of pragmatism
as they figglefucked
Before me
molars mashing

Sirs,
Record Horseman High-velocity ViscousDressing
&
Hiltonian Spire of the Heights,
Cellular fleshy organisms may you be,
or internet only data-manipulation objects,
Pseudopoet constructs:

The bell
is ringing