Global Thermal Haikuclear War VII

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The fleabag motel
Not so many stars. But you
Can get blown real cheap.

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From the Office of the Demiurge

gorgar-pinball-machine-1979-williamsHello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.

Bluestocking millennial soft sensual and brutal confusion. By Sally.

cocaineads_18Sally really was a ruined poet, a symbolizing idealizing soul who inherited too many problems. And did she ever make a point of laying it on thick to the rest of us. But don’t take my word for it, see for yourself. I’ll let her work speak for itself. So to begin, check this out:

“Soul of slabidinous jelly
Odious as the rankest crud nugget
Mother, oh Mother of mine.
Dearest Mother, GET YER FINGER OUTTA THERE!“

Are you kidding me? That’d give Joyce himself a bad case of the Double Dublin Gastric Spastics.
And take this prime example right here:

“Bowdlerize my cunt
You thief you thief you thief
Of (brown) bagged lunches.
Take my crackers and cheese
And P and B and J
And off with you
To suffer my doctrinaire piss curtains.“

Jeepers, what’s with the brackets? More pointedly, what’s with all that malarkey outside them?
Another example:

“Fly! Skyflyer! Fly!
Fly high in the sky!
Set cruise control to maximum zest
And shatter the impossible truth.
Pull up! Skyflyer! Pull up!
Take it to the limit
And push! Beyond!
Because there is no fucking envelope.“

Fun fact, Skyflyer was Sally’s nickname in high-school. Self decreed.
Fun fact #2, that poem stinks.
Here’s another choice cut:

“Tongue
Slurp
Eye
Poke
Toe
Jam
Soul
Journey
Incomplete.”

Seriously though, it’s like mental stool softener. Mixed with actual stool softener. And curare.
Just to be fair, and to give a sufficient representation of Sally’s oeuvre, I’ll leave you with one final piece of bardic wisdom:

“Our Heavenly Father Sol hung limp like a flaccid cock as the ring that had held it so engorged for so long that was the orbiting molten planet called Mercury having slipped off to travel on in adfinitum ad infinitum in a serious kiss off to gravity and meanwhile as a veiny dawn dragged itself over the horizon here on earth drops of moist sun like stale semen made life and death and whatever it is in between sticky and hot and there were no cold showers that day I tell you.”

Yup, that girl Sally sure is a maroon. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to figure her out. But you know how it is with all those mysterious ways your wonders to perform be. Am I right? Me neither.

Throw another poem on the barby

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Never send to ask for whom the frankfurter cooks. It cooks for me.
As we held our kabobs to cook in the futile heat of the ignis fatuus
The full moon cast its light like a silver anus over the swamp.
Dark shadows. Deep. Like Simon Peter as in his molasses and pancakes.
The night grew heavy like someone’s too good bad idea for bacon wrapped jalopeno poppers.
Put some Mortadella in there.
O, how much is too much of a good thing?
Like a sermon that has gone seven hours too long.
All the best bits have been masticated and swallowed.
And now it is only gristle.
That need be chewed and chewed and chewed.
O, lest it choke the life right out of you.
And soiled plates of paper.
Some barbecue that one.
Too bad no one told the holy man on his holy mountain.
And so as the ululations of the gathered grey skinned hags floated
Amongest the savory scents of grilled meat
And boss sounds of southern fried guitar rock.
It became like a marinade most foul applied far, far too late
In the game.
O, who brushes it on after the chops are already grilled?
No one.
That’s who.
Not even sweetest Jesus.
O, what next?
Mosquitoes joined the lamentations
Joined the soulless journey
Joined the grand inevitable.
Tell me not for even as the question was asked we knew the answer.
Put some beans on it.
Still some barbecue.
Some barbecue.
Barbecue.
Cold meat and hot coals and a spiced rub
Made by the maker for the carver to sleep soundly at night
Knowing his cuts die well in a good place.
Cooked through.
Blackened skin.
Juices running from within like wine from the stomach of a gutted drunk pig.
O, how one wonders how the heck it got into the vino.
Did the fella touched by God forget to latch the pen?
Or did the angry spirits of the night give it wings?
Did they coerce the fat thing into the cellar?
Did they unstopper the Nebuchadnezzar?
Did they give it a bowl of olives?
O, spirits, sure you are angry. But do you need to be so frigging mischievous?
Ye, good question.
And the woman wailed on.
The mosquitoes feasted.
The children stared up and wondered about the cosmos.
And the men?
They grilled on.
And the night.
O, the night.
Turned its back on the sunrise.
Some barbecue.

Sing like the Golden Hammer.

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The rhythm of the night came down hard last night.
Like a goddamn soulful atomic hammer.
Gave me the night passions real bad and heavy like.
Had me on the toilet well past the midnight hour, deep beneath the unblinking silver eye of the moon.
Moving my bowels to the nocturnal music like a bowl of spiritual chowder on a ship of flesh at sea on an ocean of emotion.
Each drop of melody splishy splashing on my body like God’s Golden Rain, moistening my skin to a resplendent musical sheen.
Bee deep bee dee beep.
That soulful sweet sound of toe-tapping rippa tippa all up inside the brown canal.
Yeah, that’s the stuff.
Like the mailbox that fell in love with the glove compartment.
Their forbidden love had eyebrows raised all over town.
But just like the rhythm of the night they took their tomy doored container passions and stoked them sweetly in the shadows until, like a cannon in a coal mine, they blew the roof off the thunder barrier.
Boom boom boom beep deep doom doom.
Love licks erotic songs like the infinite tongue in the sky.
And that taste you’re hearing? That’s the smoke of love.
Whiff woofer whomper whomp.