A Note from Hilton Hightower's Webmaster

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

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

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

'Neath the Tree of Relentless Bliss

On the Streets of Para-Pernelle

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

turd

Poor Tabitha

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

NORUB

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

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

Profligates in Honor

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

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

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

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

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)

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)

Hairy Pussy Backscratch Pra(w)ns

"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.