A HaHa is (N)ot Art!

A Note from Hilton Hightower's Webmaster

2006-12-28T09:24:00.000-05:00

Hilton Hightower is gone. He was stolen away from his home last night without a trace. He will no longer contribute to the degradation of mankind.

Little Birdie

2006-11-28T21:57:00.000-05:00

O! Little birdie, little birdie
for what have you come to beg?
"A portion of wine, nickels fine,
and my wife's rotten eggs."

If only you'd look into the
goddamn middle, you'd see it's
only knives and missing fingers
in there.

There's no sauce, but quicksauce,
and no subjugation that ever ends.

Is there a name for chaos, or a fist? Or
is the understanding between flesh and
a stone in the same likeness as that between
syrup and a waffle?

You shall never know the toils I've toiled,
or the pants I've soiled, or the heads I've rolled with my shiny new blade.

The time has come for shapes and plums and the moaning orgasms of morning.
The bliss rolls out of ears and nasalways like blood from the bone of a calf.
Eat! Eat! Eat! Eat! That's what you want to do.

If this poem were any damn good, you'd know it as soon as you saw it, and
you feel it vibrate your clitoris and/or cock, whichever the case may be.

Check ONE: __ time __ casual __ frog __ kneecap

Take a fall, take a risk, one man falls and the other just dies. You'll know the difference
when you hit the ground.

Taste a perineum.

Art ain't no damn good these days?

Livery

2006-11-28T21:51:00.000-05:00

I have murdered the night
before this one,
and I will murder the next night,
and the bird's nest that sits just
beyond.

Over the hill, was a long story
about three children
and a liver that no longer
functioned,
what gumption!

Oh how the leaves will change
when they hear this fucking news,
motherfucker,
and how the tears will melt the corners
of a mother's eyes because
fuckers turn brown
and turds blossom,
roving towards the bliss
of sharing.
Needles in haystacks,
spots on livers.
Yummy.

'Neath the Tree of Collaboration

2006-11-28T20:55:00.000-05:00

'Neath the Tree of Relentless Bliss

2006-11-23T04:09:00.000-05:00

On the Streets of Para-Pernelle

2006-11-06T21:39:00.000-05:00

Jojo McGrubber
was an ole
Toe Stubber,
On his back
was a barrel-A-Rum.
The cork it popped out,
and the liquor did spout,
So he plugged the bung-hole
with his thumb.

Well a small boy
named Todd,
Thought that it was quite odd,
That ole Jojo done did
what he done.
But later that year,
with a Barrel-A-Beer,
He tried it himself just for fun.

Now there's Beer in the street,
and the Rum soaks your feet,
and the grass grows more tipsy than green.
For once a cork's popped,
the leak won't be stopped,
though there's nary a thumb to be seen.

Seed

2006-11-04T13:22:00.000-05:00

turd

Poor Tabitha

2006-10-31T10:12:00.000-05:00

Tabitha Sorrells-Squires
cried her way to the bank,
and tho she stank
from her nethers and her wares,
she was never aware of the beware
that was following her.

He followed her in, he followed her out.
He followed her down and round around about.
Then he read her a book about a knife
and an arm, a leg, and a spoon,
and a dish and something something about the moon.

Poor Tabitha Sorrells-Squires never came
out of that story breathing
human air again.

VoRdImPlOkStUbIpOrT

2006-10-03T19:11:00.000-05:00

NORUB

2006-09-25T18:20:00.000-05:00

The MeatHeads are Right On

2006-09-24T22:08:00.000-05:00

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 horse
nearly resulting in my own
trampling

etc... etc...

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

Something To Hate

2006-09-20T20:56:00.000-05:00

Profligates in Honor

2006-09-20T08:10:00.000-05:00

O
divest yourself
of this.
And shed yourself
of pancakes
and never peal
again. Never, ever peal.

And open the mind's ass
to the profligation of known
antelopes.

If you know me, and I know you,
then we both know what hatred
means. It's a story as old as time
itself. It's a story told, of bold, and
how.

. . . strange thing is, no one knows how it happened," she said. "He just up and walked out one day. He never came back, never sent word. He just left."
"That is weird," Linda said. "It's just sick how some people can detach themselves. Sick!"

So, the detachment of a head, or a finger,
or a luscious and brutal cock is really no
different than the loss of a memory, or a
drop of your gall.

How embarrassing it must
be to know how you measure up within yourself!

No Write

2006-09-19T18:47:00.000-05:00

Me no write
in Thailand
tonight.

The skirts of anger
brushed the airtight
stillness of a potential breeze.

The singers passed out
on tin trains -
whistle at the donna-
CHIMICHANGA!-
'Tis lucky we are free.'

Krabpoemp

2006-09-18T21:20:00.000-05:00

Where does space end?
What time precedes the repetition of our yesteryears?
------quicksauce responds----

"You dumb fucking fuckers!" Hilton screams,
unbelieving that two shits of such low degree
have ever graced the world of the breathing.

Bonk a tonka with Willy Wonka,
chomp a pomp-pom after a romp with Thom,
or honky tonk a wampum if it gets you to the prom.

sign on the dotted line within the alotted time
line on the rotten lime drawn from the spine
the vine begins to climb the mind of crime

Comes a time, in every rhyme,
where the rhyme reaches the end of a line,
and at the end of a line is only time,
and time is only mine.

------quicksauce waxes philosophical--

Chunka-chicka chunka-chicka woo-woo,
understand this. And stand by this.
And stand for this. It's chunka-chicka woo-woo,
or it's nothing.

Candy
--word by any author--

77 Parapernell 77

2006-09-11T20:28:00.000-05:00

I have not produced many writings of late
and this is meant to depict why
and when
the reader will lay down and cry
(again)

The pond of secrets belches
gas of decaying memories
for none but the Queeneer:

The whole of WHAT IT IS
shall be a book that is layed open
protein-DNA-RNA-receptor-gravity-magnet
love-death-growth-yearning-yawning
the universe does not exist and
you've known for some time
Stop fighting and read all the words
your glassed lashes flap like birds
if you've got eyes for vision
or a brain for understanding:

I have stopped lying,
please,
everyone,
stop lying,
Don't make me beg.

Library Courtesy Notice

2006-09-11T06:38:00.000-05:00

Subject: Library Courtesy Notice

09/11/2006 06:00 AM
Please respond to mail

Cuyahoga Falls Library
2015 Third Street
Cuyahoga Falls, OH 44221

QuickSauce

09-11-06
COURTESY NOTICE The items listed below are due tomorrow.
These items may be renewable online at
http://www.CuyahogaFallsLibrary.org/myaccount

AUTHOR: Plutarch.
Plutarch : the lives of the noble G
CALL NO: 880.8 Plu
BARCODE: ITMPL090734327
ADULT-NONFICTION DUE: 09-12-06

AUTHOR: Artaud, Antonin,
The theater and its double
CALL NO: 792.015 Art
BARCODE: ITMPL000926799
ADULT-NONFICTION DUE: 09-12-06

AUTHOR: Jagger, Mick.
According to the Rolling Stones
CALL NO: 782.42 JAG
BARCODE: ITMPL002728516
ADULT-OVERSIZE DUE: 09-12-06

AUTHOR: Peterson, Norub.
Touch my Tundra!
CALL NO: 522.07
BARCODE: ITMPL005993106
ADULT-PROPAGANDA DUE: 09-12-06

3:43

The Monastic Life (That Was)

2006-09-10T12:28:00.000-05:00

Oh, yes,
you’re Jordan’s Capri pants,
sniggling your way
towards Fustian
ecstasies.

Tanned and torn
stones
dribble down
the highway,
looking for that quick fix,
the 100-year youth.

Together,
we teach that
that one hand clapping,
is just the slapping
against what no one said
it was clapping
with.

Just Thinking Things Over (Yet Again)

2006-09-06T21:25:00.000-05:00

Hairy Pussy Backscratch Pra(w)ns

2006-09-06T14:32:00.000-05:00

"We are a gang," the men shout
and they smile at each other and
wave their clubs and machetes around
overhead and their dicks grow hard near the
pockets of their pants in anticipation.

There are twice as many napkin holders
as there are napkins in the universe,
and twice as many cafes
as there are cafe tables and chairs
and twice as many one-handed orgasms
as there are two-handed orgasms,
and it only makes sense if you think of
it in terms of weight vs. matter.

9% of 3,175 is inexplicable madness
in the debilitating mindshower
of blissful punchings and kickings
and flowering prepubescence.

"Just take a little lick," she said, and
watched with a grin as Melinda
did it.
"It was fucking groovy," Melinda was
overheard saying later, "Just groovy as gravy."

Oh that sapling grew up quick, and sprouted
seeds and all that motherfucking jazz
and life and life and life.

Once upon a time, a settler settled down in
this old patch of grass,
took out a gun,
and blew his head clean off his shoulders,
just like knocking a mailbox off a post
-- a thing of beauty quite literally.

Oh how I love the NORUB, and the twist of
a TWEAK of lime in the passage of time.

Chaos, chaos, sprinkle your name on mine.

This is the birth of death,
or the death of birth,
or whatever.

A Very Special Message From QuickSauce (Or the Beginning Of a Letter From Napoleon To an Unknown Mime)

2006-08-31T17:18:00.000-05:00

(WARN-ING: Symmetrical fish-to-fish con-figuration.)

Photo Taken from the Doctor's Office Lobby Trying to Explain Her Sensitivities and Actions

2006-08-28T13:34:00.000-05:00

Pass the Pea Man

2006-08-26T17:53:00.000-05:00

Pasadena Lacedaemon
you sit with your spear -
so punk and stylish.

When can I play
with your folders,
scrawled with the graffiti
of rock,
stoned epistles to boredom?

When will the griddles
of diddle
fry you an egg?

Ephor of cool -
spank me
and win
this damn war already.

8-25-06

2006-08-26T11:46:00.000-05:00

i have looked at the lamplights across the city
and wondered what sorts of things might
be happening over there
with clinking and motorcycles speeding forth
and animated blue-light conversations

Faith is like paper, and knowledge is leather
and wisdom is plywood although it seems
this whatever-of-a-knife has redoubled its efforts
and seems more-like-a-saw

forgive me if i am a blimp

Whatever midsleep scenarios have been
playing out, are now destroyed by
the conscious... was it beanpods?
Greensnakes? Silver dollars in my pockets?
Driving around with best friends long forgotten?
Crystal clear rivers and skinnydipping
with glances of admiration given and received?
candy? The oddness and delight of
foreign landses? Grand liberation?
I think them all on and off for a bit-
nothing fits, nothing is as good as
the it-ness that it was being

Back to plastic rolling and fluorescent
tubed halls, the everpresence of mortality
ad nauseum, my feet hot and sore
plump
a checkmark in every box
a task in every hour
a needle in every vein
each number followed
by the next

Superpower of concentration of
mindpower is mine-power yet
i think as a zombie
pushed around by unseen forces
propped up
by nothing at all

Involucratus involuntarii

Nugget Stolen From Vern's Pants

2006-08-22T20:38:00.000-05:00

Sunstain pangs
are not like
the poopstains
of Spain.

Terrible Atrocities in the Bullpen of Ferrara in the Infinite Space of Whisker Breath

2006-08-21T11:45:00.000-05:00

I have an
ankle full of whiskey,
and a face full of knives,
I poke my way along the street,
with fists of brisket.

Only grease knows the true
voice of the universe,
only whispers can
hear the disdain of America.

Has a tree ever fallen?
Has a man ever tried to save a life?
How many points can a drive for home score?

There are 9,000 little reasons in this
jar why I should poke you with a fist
of rage, and only 1 why I shouldn't.
I know the answer.

Writing on walls has never affected me much,
writing on walls has never affected me much.
There's a time and a place for everything.

Flip the card and learn your fate.

"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
"Garbfol estaramon ferarfill ans iptocumin!"
Those are the war cries of the unheard
of your nethers.

I have an ankle full of whiskey.

Rambling cross-country poem

2006-08-19T23:01:00.000-05:00

A stub of a poem which has been designed to be expanded ad nauseum by various authors, wtih the punctuation "..." indicating a portion as yet unwritten. I wreckommend typing as quickly as you can or better still dictating, followed by unrevised transcription.

Lick that look off your face

Vicarious joys which have been
X-perienced
one and another
through electric magic portals
and another and another
feverish flunky sets down
for an evening of
kicking of the self

topless, plopless
and limping

Watch this candle drip forth
with unknowing thoughts across
the body of junkies yet undeterred
by the filth of their scatterbrained
monopolies.
Never before has one cow set upon another
cow's apron with such a strong will
to drive to San Diego.

...

wherein and whereon and who-so-forth
shall settle within a circle
of designated colleagues
or predetermined footpaddles-
or chicory beverage manifold
friends-become-preachers
with continuous sermons
about she-she-it become
the man
and she-she-it remaining
where he-her-him
shall have to remain
we all have our duties

No no no NO no no NO NO NONONON O
If you scream into a bucket, no no no,
if you scram into a buccet, but no no no, that isn't
right either, so let's try again:
if you stream into a fucket, and then we're off again,
the normal pace of elephant swindling can resume.

"Take charge of your life," Childress said, breathing heavily. His nose
dripped crimson and whistled.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" the kid answered, picking himself up and heading for the alley. "I got my junk
now, so I'm happy right? Fuck you, Childress!"

A near whisper from the lady next door, asking them to keep it down. It
was the third night in a row there'd been fisticuffs in the courtyard. She
was going to call the cops, goddammit, if they didn't go inside right this minute
and cut the shit.

But that seemed eons ago to the man standing at the top of the stairs. He laughed and
stroked at his arm, his fingers running lengthwise over long, blasphemous scars. Light
years ago, he'd met the people in this apartment complex, and from the first minute, he
knew he'd murder them all. There was nothing else to it.

...

So Fidel Castro has been here
and he's eaten pancetta and steak wraps
from Buffalo. So he's also played
volleyball with her majesty's ailing eyeball
and his pancreas ain't what it used to be.
So, that Chavez is in town to drink shakes and
make friendly friendly chattity chat chat.
Up yours punkass mother bird! Mother fucking
fucker birdass punk!

The wind!

...

Down 'bama way,
I bumped into a boy
who threw a quarter in
my face and
flapped his jack
till the cows came home
again.

...

pan-gong-song
while people are sleeping
is sure to anger
even the doormats
and shitmice
The rattle
of prattle
closed the door on cattle,
so keep closed
your orifices of pie
and seal them with
a few rolls of
Stay-Shut

...
Sunstain pangs
sunpang stains
and the world spins
round and round
and ohmygod I've
fallen prey once
again to the kidney
eater from the alleyways
of Budapest,
the Budapest Barber,
twas his name
and number.
Call upon the redbreast
and the red beret of
appeal to catch a glimpse
of doctor poison.
...

Feel the electric magic
Lest you be laughed at
by the tragic
and scorned by the rabbit
in the corduroy jacket
Walk a talkie
down to the seaside
bee ride
(akin to teabagging)
La vida is not a miracle
or a spectacle
it is merely another habit
passed down from Mom
like so many mitochondria

...(insert portion about
cell phones coming to life
and using persons as food)...

Whatever shall your eyeball behold
such as:
fights, quarrels, squirrels,
marriage, things-that-should and
things-that-should-not-be,
brothers of compost,
sisters with extracephalic ears,
skirts and their contents,
piano wires used as exercise equipment,
people on drugs,
people falling in love with
each other and themselves
underneath gay autumn leaves,
rolls of television,
...
riots over who owns the sun,
fish without fears,
when it is known they should not be so,
cows feeling pressure to fit in,

Ne'erdowells, and he'erdowells
and sce'erdowells, and fle'erdowells,
and ne'er upon the name of
torrents torrential love affair
will I commit the name of
my father to a sinful
disgrace.
That is for your pride to handle and not
for this.

Whatever shall your earhole
listen in upon
such as:
automobiles and their
wheelspinning,
birds sinning early in the morning,
the thud of tangerines,
argumenters argumenting in the night,
the national past-time,
...
...

Predictions of where we are going
have clearly been predicted using
a pie chart showing where people
have been kicked in the past
though we all raise an eyebrow
to the percentage regarding
private parts

...

...

Let the railroads work on
themselves,
Let the weasel perform some
task more useful than mere
going of "POP"

Have you ever imagined
imagined
imagined
imagined
imagined
imagined
imagined
a game so fucking boring!

The handle of a candle
cannot be used
as a sandal

The wick on a stick
will be used
with which to lick.

etc...

A Note Written by Chubs and left at Stonehenge in a Velvet Envelope!

2006-08-19T21:13:00.000-05:00

Vern:

When inspiration strikes you,
don't strike back.

Swallow your pride and your gumption,
after you've spat your teeth on the ground,
call a plastic Taco Bell cup a chalice,
if it makes you feel better.

Chubs

Polem Dancer

2006-08-15T19:46:00.000-05:00

Dance the dance[s]

2006-08-14T21:37:00.000-05:00

In the interest of expanding A HaHa is (N)ot Art! to include more types of media, I have composed the following dance. You will dance by performing each component for exactly 2 counts. When you get to the end, you will either start over or you will shut the music off and stop dancing right away.

1. stand on yer left leg. Remain so until step 5
2. yell
3. put both yer hands straight up in the air
4. stomp twice with yer right foot
5. stand on both feet and look around
6. look at the floor and jump up twice
7. look up at the ceiling and jump twice
8. turn your head to the right, shrug your shoulders, thrust your hips leftward, now flap your hands like a bird.

This dance can be used for songs such as "Yankee doodle dandy," "Pop goes the weasel," songs from The Very Best of Cher and most songs by Megadeth. But dancing it to any sort of Coldplay songs would make you look like a jackass. It is good also for parties.

Yet another bet to be placed

2006-08-14T12:20:00.000-05:00

My spite

has become the spittle

of torrid debaters

rotting underneath the Saturn

tune.

Did Nietzsche grimace

into the face of that horse,

or were his sighs

just a feign?

Lip

2006-08-14T12:08:00.000-05:00

Rambling cross-country poem

2006-08-10T15:45:00.000-05:00

What a fucking letch!

2006-08-08T21:08:00.000-05:00

Sometimes,

I'll admit it.

I'd rather look at lovely,

precious,

booty,

than be so

arty.

But sometimes,
I can't decide. So,
I do
both.

UpCHUcK the Boogie Woogie TipTop Pole; or The View From Up Here

2006-08-08T20:56:00.000-05:00

If Only the Popcorns Brewed More Smoothly Under Sunnage

2006-08-08T20:24:00.000-05:00

Too slowly
runneth all speaking
for me:--into thy
chariot, O storm, do I
leap!
And even thee
will I whip
with my spite!
Spake Nietzsche
with a grimace and
a grip on wandwood
of essence.

Asparagonzola was
thrice, twice
the age of that
nitwit when she
opened the doors
of virtue and
despoiled her own bit
of essence.

But that was then, and this is
steak. You must keep off
the grass in these times
if you wish to idolize another's
marbles and volleys of,
"Oh, say nothing," and "Don't you wish."

If only the breathing tides,
could wrap you up,
and choke your breath
away from your neck and
head and lungs,
would I then smile
and rub my meaty hands together
in triumph.
They are worn hands, tired of living,
and calloused with wounds from my enemies
and pounds added to the heads of enemy hosts.
The hands smell of old nectar at this moment,
old nectar and the goose pectin from yesteryear.

Don't open that cake,
lest Ted Bundy will exercise
freely in your face.

Oldy But Mouldy

2006-08-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

Grabbing the Bull By the (W)holstein

2006-08-04T18:32:00.000-05:00

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.

Tales of an Office Gigolo

2006-08-04T14:34:00.000-05:00

Hi, I'm Ted.

I'm the Office Gigolo. You may remember
me from here. I know, I'm quite handsome.

You may think being the Office Gigolo is really
cool, and mostly it is. But it also has its drawbacks.
Mostly, it's hard to get any of my reports done on
Fridays. Fridays are big sex days around the office.
Internet browsing and sex--that's all people want to
do on Fridays. And when I don't get my reports done,
my boss is up my ass . . . literally.

Here's another drawback:
Today, I'd just filled up my coffee--two sugars and drop of cream--
when Dave Nix from Accounting called. He wanted another blowjob.
That's three this week! So, I went down to his office and worked my magic.
Just as we were finishing up, that asshole pulled out and ended up
coming straight in my coffee.

Fuck!

So, I had to go get a new cup of coffee. And the cheapskate didn't even tip me.
It's that little stuff that makes me wish I'd never started this little
side project.

1st Person Plural Poler Poem Public Anthem

2006-08-03T21:01:00.000-05:00

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!

The Same Old Ron Polar Poem Told from Yet Another Point-of-View, That of the Second Person Narrator

2006-08-03T10:30:00.000-05:00

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:

mustard,
pickles,
olive loaf,
combustible jams and jellies

However, as you perchance
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.

If I Could Just Get Around this Strip Polem

2006-08-03T08:24:00.000-05:00

STRIP POEM TEMPLATE PLOT

2006-08-02T17:45:00.000-05:00

Ron Polar Speaks out about this Pretzel Business

2006-08-02T17:12:00.000-05:00

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

Past lives of Tim Management

2006-08-02T17:06:00.000-05:00

Portrait of Tim Recalling His Own Young Sexuality (and Confusion)

2006-08-02T09:04:00.000-05:00

A Portrait of Tim Management

2006-07-31T17:55:00.000-05:00

Poem Written from the Perspective of the Bag Boy Who Had to Clean Up a Bunch of Stepped-On Pretzels

2006-07-31T11:23:00.000-05:00

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!

Alas At Last, Or On Tim's Difficulty

2006-07-31T11:17:00.000-05:00

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.

A Group of Words Meant to Simulate a Poem From the Perspective of Ron Polar At the Grocery Store

2006-07-29T17:08:00.000-05:00

Saw some food. Got some food.

Damn pretzels on the floor.
Should I kick them
underneath the frozen food section,
or let that bored-looking bag boy know?

Maybe I shall crush them underfoot
and then let the poor kid clean it up.

But I won't watch,
I'll just chuckle
at my own imaginings
of his pissed-off demeanor.

A Poem Written from the Perspective of DJ Quicksauce on a July Morning

2006-07-28T23:35:00.000-05:00

The sight of a rainbow tiger
or circles of dancing skulls
remains our of reach
or out of focus beyond
these files

I have knowledge and knowledge
and knowledge
without knowledge
of what it is for

In fact that knowledge
is not
I would say

Words and actions
interchangeable

My footsteps on the sidewalk
have taken me further
this very morning
than the vapor trails
that criss-cross the sky

I have taken the long road
with one foot and
carelessly tossed the shoe
from the other

Alas

2006-07-26T20:05:00.000-05:00

wondered
what the sunsets and sunrises were, what they were like
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.

Lungs gasp, hands grasp,
but the ponies of Reggie from Cleveland,
surpass.

Nietzsche was a treeloper,
dangler of fire.

And the ash of Tim
is more exciting
than the palm of his hand.

Free Diggle

2006-07-25T17:31:00.000-05:00

Upon Tim Management

2006-07-25T15:12:00.000-05:00

Tim is dead.

Mary always thought he was nice.
Said, "Maybe if you could focus more
when you come,
you'd understand the difference
between sunsets and sunrises."

Tim always laughed it off,
but thought hurt feelings later,
like she didn't like the way he
was coming, or worse . . .
didn't like the way she was coming.

There are only so many moos in
a day and so many gulps in a lifetime.
So many gasps in a lung, and so many
pokes in a finger.
Every drivers license falls apart someday.

Edit-me PLEASE -- I have one time, Mr. Polar.

2006-07-24T20:58:00.000-05:00

I will get your rivets?
Will you get mine?

"Are you getting rivets?" she asked, and "What's the
time?"

Electric horse field?
Or nether regions?
I'm not sure which is divine,
in this line of work.

Reggie stands grunting, grunting
phunting with musphunts and
caruphumbuses on one foot.
On one Cleveland toe, which you shall
just leave behind me.

"Get on the lopsided elevator, prick."
"Are you being born? Or do I simply
own you and everything you thought
you believed?"

Nietzsche was a treeloper,
and a barralogist,
over time, he will pass from
us as urine usually does.

We'll go through the fortress
of the jack
of all
fakers
or down
to the town
of Wonderjerks.

Tiy wants to know
the name of the
name you gave him
at the restaurant.

The Lovely View At Work

2006-07-21T16:56:00.000-05:00

This
is the view
from the top
of the world.

O! What is manbeast for

2006-07-19T21:03:00.000-05:00

?

That's it.
A question is all
I have for you,
beast
manbeast
man.
In the name of all that is
yours?
Why,
beast
manbeast
man?

A Poem written from the perspective of Hilton Hightower were he to visit South Texas in the Summer

2006-07-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

The only things fatter
than all these fat-ass
people

are their giant
shit-heaps-on-wheels

Stimken Vs Whole Grain

2006-07-18T16:39:00.000-05:00

No barometer
kills the stink,
man of whole
grain cereal.

The cracks
between
and the cracks
below.

Yellow belt of
courage
worn by the high
priestess.

What with this
girdle of the sun?
Where how does
its glitter
make Pangloss
tremble?

But the passions
of Stimken
outweigh all
suffering,
beit of manbeast
or moon mistress.

Stimken, with yellow
eyes and
lavender beard,
feminine eyes
and toothy grin,
give us the fiber
to forget the whole
grain
of purity! -
the idle pursuit
of perfection,
and let stenches
outweigh suffering!!

The lavender beard,
like the skirts
of a Panamanian
street vendor,
SWISH and SHO-SHU
across the range
of his chin.

The Capricorn Phantom

2006-07-17T22:00:00.000-05:00

I feel fancy
when I go dancy
tiptoe at teatime
prancy prancy

Just A Dirty Old Dick of a Man

2006-07-17T20:55:00.000-05:00

You are a dirty
stinkin'
sonofabitch,
grandpa!

I hope you
rot in hell
you slimy
old prick!

I can't believe
you yelled at
grandma
for rippin'
that massive
stinker!

After all,
Everyone's got
a butthole.
That much
you've shown me!

Manbeast vs. Stimken1 Round 2

2006-07-17T10:20:00.000-05:00

¹Please note that Ron Polar brought the lack of use of the word "Stimken" to my attention. For that, I respectfully thank him. - QS

In Case You Forgot

2006-07-16T19:59:00.000-05:00

Tom Cruise
drops his pants,
the red glare,
the smell of burning flesh,
like holiday barbecue.

In the swing of moonliness,
Diggle is hopping fences like cracks
in the sidewalk.

Killers emerge from every corner
of this dark space
called thought.

POeM D(Raf)T

2006-07-16T19:54:00.000-05:00

I
am
the
problem
child
of the
masquerade
party.

And no one noticed I was
in
constume.

Manbeast Vs Stimken

2006-07-16T19:16:00.000-05:00

All else is forgotten

2006-07-15T12:59:00.000-05:00

No Cake For Us, Thank You

2006-07-15T09:53:00.000-05:00

No mere mortal
will ever force
his cake upon me,

or my comrades-in-art,
Mr. Polar and Mr. Quicksauce.

The cake is not for us,
and it is not ours for the baking.

A cake is the mortal man's
best horse, and our worst
lemur.

Spurnings of Nutmeg

2006-07-15T09:48:00.000-05:00

Night is
of the fruit pie.

Tom Cruise
drops his pants,
howls at the nutmeg
in his spurning.

I hollow
out the dewdrop
and carve into it
a niche whereby I
might pass the night.

And Charisma Carruthers
a dayplant personality,
wilts in the baggage of
wood floor refinishers and
unfolding card players.

It is amazing how
snurpt the purns can become
when the yight of wacamorni
has set.

16105 B

2006-07-14T16:11:00.000-05:00

rocket-propelled confections
of conflagration and detonation
write wisps of white clouds
above borders

davoom

the red glare
the smell of burning flesh
like holiday barbecue

technology empowers
certain animals, specifically,
the ones who find no better use
for an olive branch in fruit
than to beat each other
over the head

All Else is Forgotten

2006-07-14T09:10:00.000-05:00

16105 A

2006-07-14T08:48:00.000-05:00

The time of
night is clear.

It is the time of
becoming all things
and maintaining the
status of nothingness.

In the swing of moonliness,
I leap from the night
of mankind and
utter foul-mouthed phrases
at your lack of
unintelligible
squabbling.

If ever cities fall
while you are still
able to see,
you will be surprised
at your own longevity.

17b

2006-07-12T21:10:00.000-05:00

From There To Here

2006-07-12T20:18:00.000-05:00

SHUSHU and SWISH-PLOP
go the skirts of
Panamanian street vendors.

Details lost in mayhem
and thoughtless repetition

Scratch-plunk of the spade
in sandy earth
gold bars in dreams buried
stolen
hopping fences like cracks
in the sidewalk

And somewhere,
in the wool sweaters
of Ohio,
a melting pot
gets the girls stoned.

Speaker. Triangulation.
Fist soft against brick.

In the Streets

2006-07-08T22:17:00.000-05:00

Scrotum of Death

2006-07-08T22:15:00.000-05:00

The night smells of P.O.R.K.
A killer hangs at the crossroads.

The crossroads hang the killer.
The bang whispers.
Killers emerge from every corner
of this dark space
called thought.
A trip? At rip? Of this we cannot be sure.
But of this, we can:
a marmalade man is a marmaduke made of aspenglade poppenjulius.

And Kilroy is above all the mastermind of devial connistigulations.

McMammallus et Polonium

2006-07-08T22:02:00.000-05:00

Distostrophy - McMammal Exposed

2006-07-08T21:58:00.000-05:00

Meatmen Epistemologically Explained

2006-07-08T19:16:00.000-05:00

If the maggot shrieks,
wear it,
and let the dandruff dust
the pocket town
with frosty ace holes.

The despair of the mushroom,
lacking light and luminous (sound is not vision),
pods spores of boredom.

If feces are dead statistics,
then why does your shit stink?

Onomatopoeia Poem which was Performed by a Cockroach that failed to Evade me as I ran on the Street Last Night

2006-07-08T15:23:00.000-05:00

bap!

Notes to self

2006-07-06T20:59:00.000-05:00

Incessant waffling issues from Flabble-lips. She has paddle-toes, and giggles at flakes from her own mind. Blibbledy-blabbledy! Chester P. Gothic pouts blackened lips at the intersection of Crackpot and Filth. Death metal and M.O.P.E rock issue from his mumbling pie-hole. Dun-dun-DUNNUKUH!

Note to self: STOP WHINE-ing. A stone is a stone. It does not play the banjo.

Manbeast Ten Times

2006-07-06T13:10:00.000-05:00

Shrieking maggots
know the difference between
snowfall and dandruff on the remains
of a manbeast laid low in the summer heat.

"The meat tastes
divine," says the shipshank,
"but those shrieking maggots have
shirked their duties again! I'll have their
heads, those miserable little grubworms, damn them."

Dog is Still a God, Dawg

2006-07-05T15:57:00.000-05:00

Statistics and feces are dead
composites of an ace in the hole,
mirrors of insipid vehemence.
A mushroom of despair.

"Ruffles have ridges, "
says the rigid strand of DNA,
that rides high upon the castle wall,
bucking and kicking his way
to the pleasure dome.

"Sho 'nuff," God whispers and draws
his gun like a whispering sea otter.
"It's goin' be piles a sawdust
or strands of membrane I'ma dancin' on,"
and spits out the side of his mouth.

God is still a dog and a fish and a flimsy three-way tie
in the reckless minds of human relics.
You're a dog's dog, and that's a damn good
dog to be.

Working Not Jerking

2006-07-05T12:08:00.000-05:00

Sitting at work.
Working.
Not jerking.
Greener pastures,
Browner manures.
Chomp chomp.

God is still a dog

2006-07-04T09:21:00.000-05:00

What is a dead body?
A statistic
or a ruffled
DNA strand castle
made of sawdust?

God is still a dog.
Can I be your dog?

Short Meditation

2006-07-04T09:07:00.000-05:00

Vulture comes between the rose and the morning,
sipping the vaulted -
Vulture comes twixt the night and dull pasty
glow of an ashy, drunken -
A child crows and a river murmurs
essences of SHUSHU and NOMONNOMN.
A roar childs its way over valleys
most pretentious in the eyes of poets.

A cry for Polonium

2006-07-03T21:00:00.000-05:00

Pagan Utterwise

2006-07-03T19:54:00.000-05:00

bash
delete
template
corrode
undersc. . .
ten times
90 seconds
fluff c. danger
pain, pane, pain, payne, pagan
underscore
utherol
etherol
eternal
itherol
zither
suck
blla

Civilizations Trolla-lolla-la

2006-07-01T15:32:00.000-05:00

A cow's breath:
burst of steam in the air
a slave to farmer Joe
And his cool cruel suction machines

Meanwhile back at the ranch:
you laugh
not hysterical
a chuckle - robotic
bathed in blue light

(W)holstein, deprived of pasture
Hotwired
Reprogrammed
Cow: "QUACKquackQUACK"
Dead and dying
inside fat-pot-bellies
Fasting unheard of
Shuffling in stalls where
you grasp something

O weary beasts of old:
leather
milk
beef
glue stick
downtrodden
down and down

O lo how this has happened you shall never know
But now you must escape
When pigs fly
Or bulls take to the streets
Escaparon
Desaparecieron

Something tangibly hot:
kings
gods
milk in dead jugs
Xargniflox and Chuck
the mighty ones
and all the others
Suckle at your teats
like helpless pink babies

Distostrophy -- Fill It In

2006-07-01T09:43:00.000-05:00

Consider It Dealt

2006-06-30T15:26:00.000-05:00

The Cup Runneth On and On

2006-06-30T10:34:00.000-05:00

Neighborhoods Trolla-lolla-la

2006-06-28T11:58:00.000-05:00

hot cow milk laps at the dead jug
you laugh
not hysterical
but subtle (QUACKquackQUACK)
and shuffle feet
quietly away from this place
dead and dying on fat fasting planes
of alter-reality

you know in your mindbrain that
Xarnigflox has captured your medium
and is in the restraining processes
o lo how this has happened you shall never know
but now you must
escape
excapa, as they might say
down and down
twirling down through plane
after plane after plane
of existence
until you can
grasp something
tangibly hot, like milk in a dead jug,
to pull yourself up
and create terrible strength
to fight
bacitracin

A Cup Runneth Over and Over (and Over)

2006-06-28T08:47:00.000-05:00

Not art you say

2006-06-27T20:28:00.000-05:00

touching softly the manhole / a pink cake collapses
writing on the underside of furry pouch / interdisc...
handle the piston / interdisciplinary
back of a hot-rod / bring bagels for everyone then, putz
bologna of thought / a sausage of pink thrust
a quick fix / a punch bold cock blast cold
rock and roll waste band / on a regular schedule
blood, sweat, and numbness / proper forms and mailers
text, secs., and tachycardia / shuffling with black coffee

something a little less pretentious? / to start things off