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.
Addendum: Your head.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
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
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.
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.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
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
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
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