Socks worn with sandals
Comfort sure. But practical?
THERE SHOULD BE A LAW!
Socks worn with sandals
Comfort sure. But practical?
THERE SHOULD BE A LAW!
A woolly beast in the shadows of the night, perusing the delicacies of the trash can buffet they call the back alley. This thing, this wild thing, cannot find shoes that fit because its feet are so damn large. But it smooths to the sounds of the urban wasteland, as the jazz floats from the basement liquor bars and ricochets off the concrete mountains, these mighty structures like phallic gods that scream at the thing you are home now you are here now you belong now you have arrived go fuck yourself and it has come so far from the mystic mountains where there are the woods and the trees and leaves of green and beavers of brown. There is no brook to drink from here only the gutter where stinkwater flows to the sewers that sit like maws in asphalt. These are its caves now, reeking tunnels that lie beneath the metropolitan behemoth that towers over the creature that towers over humanity that towers over suprahumanity for this hairy beast with the massive feet is not human no it is above and between a man and a god and a wild and shaggy thing that feasts on the raw flesh of the city its rats and cats and hobos alike and when the red and blue lights of authority scream at it in the gloom and it answers back it howls a sound like a dying angel might at its realisation of its own demise. This is a sad situation. This is the Sasquatch. This is the Yeti. This is the Big Foot. This is the city.
Thinging my thing, wearing my thong, thinging along with thing-a-long thong, thing-a-ling, thong-a-long, thinging along with my favourite thong, strings so thin up the crack of my ass, then I broke the string, cause I had bad gas, thing all night, thing all day, thing a thong, thing this way, thing at the moon, thong so tight, thing-a-ling the thong of light, things for supper and breakfast too, thing thing thong I thing for you, ain’t got tanlines on my cheeks cause my thongs so thin, covers my balls so they don’t get burned, cause the suns so bright it like flaming worms, crawling through the dirt of life, thing thongs in darkest light, the worms are friends to birds and fish, like the thong to my thick, tube so smooth cause my tube is smooth, thickness things the thong-a-dong, my thing is thick and thong is long, thuper duper thuper thude, long live my thuper tube!
The Turd Burglar strikes
Again! But the cops don’t care.
THERE AIN’T NO JUSTICE!!!
I’m a Lone Wolf and I need a hair-do to match because when it is on and I am in it my hair had better look good so I went to the cuttist and said, “I’m a Lone Wolf and I need a hair-do to match.” She said, “I can dig it, baby, ’cause when it’s on and you’re in it you’ve gotta look good.” And I said, “And that’s why I came to you.” And she said, “I can dig that, too, because you’re a Lone Wolf.” And I said, “That I am.” And she sat me down in that chair and ran those fingers through my chocolate locks, and she nodded her head, and pulled my beautiful hair back behind my head and put a rubber band around it and said, “done.” And I looked in the mirror. And it was a pony tail. PONY TAIL! And a single tear with the emotional weight of billion newlyweds slid down my cheek and I jumped out of the chair and howled, “LONE WOLF!”
Because that’s what I am. And that pony tail was the last piece of the puzzle that when it was finished was a gorgeous portrait of a beautiful renegade that was me, because I am a Lone Wolf and then later that night I went to the club with my sick new hair-do and I hit the dance floor and the d.j. turned off the music and the spot light blazed on me and all eyes were on me including but not limited to the people in the VIP and I laid it on the line:
bones and sticks
can’t hurt me none
like a name
yelled in the heat of the war
hot piss and urine
used by the soldiers
to make soup
because they don’t got no hot water
and at night in dreams
making love to rampagers that
dance in the legislature
don’t look at me like that
because it’s no me
Yeah, I said my poem and the crowd at the club went nuts. And while I know my lyrical slamdown was dope, let’s not throw any shade on the sweetness of my pony tail. Because I’m a Lone Wolf. But you can call me “Eddy Bone.”
Theys has them hurtful boom tunes blurtin out them hateful pump boxes down on them beach where them naked weirdos do theys sex dances and theys dont seem a give a single care about the FACT that there a school with CHILDREN not more an twenty six miles away and you tell me how its fair a that THEY get all angered up if you call them out on it and theys say its ART and listen I dont think they seen art cause if theys think that that sicko naked music dancing theys call ART is art then I am confused cause as if thats even a actual thing cause I seen art afore and it aint that no way no purple penuses wagging in the plain air in front a my face when I seen it but sure now a big thick roger johnson done up like a electric torpedo for all to see is art and you wanna let it all out there on the beach with theys kids right THERE twenty six miles like they could smell the stench in theys school and now I ask you how or when kids dont need a know bout a penus or ladyhole ever I think if you wanna really imagine what makes the world so sick is all a penus and them with them boobs and the menstratin in public and the hardcore PORNO dances all over the beach and in the schools and in the legislature with the politics and the ECONOMY AND THE QUALITY OF A THEM HOT WINGS OVER AT BUZZERS SPORTS BAR WHICH COST $1 EACH ONE AND AINT EVEN HOT!!! SHAME!!!!! GET A NEW SAUCE!!!!!
Dear carnal buffet of wonder and taste,
I’ve got it bad from both sides. My jack is jilling and my Jill is jacked. I’ve got a motor in the moonhole and an engine in the stars. And they both run on gas, Baby, gas. And by gas I mean the sex. I take it pure and fluid and nasty as a Norwegian Swede at a Mississippi Swamp Jam. You heard me. So. Question one. You wanna meet me in the bog, baby? Cause I’ve got thick wrinkled mudflaps that hang all the way from hello to goodbye! And I need a hot splashbone to part my curtains and wash my windows. My skin is covered in sexual grease and I need a heavy dripper to scrape me off and dry me out like a Bedouin Jacuzzi. I wanna feel the harsh wind of a throbbing blunder nugget splitting my mottled thighs open like a mountain does the sky. Make my sex place a Montana licence plate and ride the beef fleet on in and in and on and on. Juice my lewd tube and make it send sticky clouds into the fleshy sky. I’m a deuce caboose front and back and side to side stopping at all stations from Ladyville to Mantown. My body is nude thunder and naked lightning all buff and smooth and wrinkled and creased like a midnight prune. I give it and take it and mix it and make it because I’m double-edged piece of Parmesan that you wanna sprinkle on your erotic lasagna. I’m spaghetti and meatballs, baby. I’m sweatpants and tightjeans. I’m a loose goose. I’m a slop dog. Lather me up and rub me down and use my multi-body to clean the grime off of the city with them officials down at City Hall sitting up in their crystal offices writing sex cheques their nut butts can’t cash and sticking the dirty costs hard up into the crowded holes of the commoners sitting all complacent in front of their teevees vaping bubblegum and eating pudding and smiling their toothless smiles and wallowing in ignorant glee.