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.

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:


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.


Zoot Suitings and the no-pants zasm-dance


The music slithered from the speakers like a frickin’ jungle snake. A soulful anaconda that slunk up his movin’ and groovin’ anus and constricted his spiritual gonads until they oozed sweet, sweet melodius nectar that flowed out and down the inside of his hairy flanks, pooling in his sleek Italian leather loafers. The fluid squishiggered around his dainty toes, freshly pedicured, and as the mood juice filtered back in through his wide, hoofy pores, his toes began to flitter-gas-flopp-gus.

The flitter-gas-flopp-gussin’ journeyed on up, and got his ankles jam doggin’.

His ankles jam dogged further still and his shins started donker-honking.

All that donker-honking sweet talked his  knees into a real heavy zumbulation.

Zumbulating on up, kicking them thighs into a bad woppa-whomba that made his hips stand up and go, “Sweet Jeezum with them corn fries, Wade!”

All this super serious movement and his gastric sauce began to seriously boil over, sending bubbles of sick and sticky goopanooba floating up his gullet. And he frickin’ burped, “hot the damn sandwich!” And he frickin’ burped again, “holy mother of agglutinative pleasure!” And like a rucksackin’ dufflebag full of heavy lascivious cream that fell off a roof and splashed on the pavement sending all the citizens, who moments before were just going about their whatever, sending them all now into a real chubby mother of an arousing. Nobody was safe from his gambolic intensitudinous coulis. Minds were blowing like they was a rhumbatic tornado in a sambatic hurricane.

Man, this guy can move! Man, this dude’s a dancer! If only they could put him on teevee! He’d be a millionaire!

Ricky Rick’s Ekphrasis Bar & Grill

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan

V0011226 Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating to Susan Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Wellcome Images Dr. Slop with his wig on fire angrily gesticulating t Susannah who holds her nose near the wounded baby Tristram Shandy. Coloured etching after H.W. Bunbury after L. Sterne. By: Laurence Sterneafter: Henry William BunburyPublished: – Copyrighted work available under Creative Commons Attribution only licence CC BY 4.0


The space is long and thin and cramped like the fallopian tube of some giant woman that offers a blue plate special up inside her. The waitress, herself some giant woman, seats you at your table, which is covered in a fungoid mold unknown outside the blast zones of atomic weapon test sites. Her demeanor conveys a mixture of emotions that fit somewhere between blue and brown. Call it bluwn. Her teeth are like used buckshot, round and bloody and reeking of death, and the breath they filter is equally so. It merges with the ordure of the kitchen that floats through the pores in the drywall and slap-swingy doors lazily and lethally like a cloud of summertime Sarin, and hangs there in the air, daring you to breathe. It stirs your hunger like a cannibal chef stirs a massive iron pot of man-stew, strong and proud and utterly terrifying. The menu is a stupefying assortment of Sweet Holy Christ and You Want Me To What? Gravy is everywhere like a sludgy, grey dictator’s secret police. Will it come for me in the night? Tell my wife I love her. You order. The waitress in the sonic equivalent of a rusty rake disagrees with your choice, chooses not to give a shit, and blobs off, hacking a thousand cigarettes worth of phlegm into the fabric of space-time as she does. Rick himself, blurping and cursing around the grill and deep fryer like some kind of hell-pear, dumpy and and ovoid and violent and sweating as if he had been born with malaria and then went on to engage daily with what must be the anti-thesis of exercise. Dying fatly, I’d offer. He trowels out your hash as if it was an ancient plague, splashing the plate down with a vomitous “PICK UP!”. The waitress still phlegming at the mouth and so charitably raining it over your dish like a Rangoon monsoon, drops the plate before you like a dead pigeon and possibly mouths the dirt-bag version of bon appetit. I looked it up, it’s Go Fuck Yourself. You gag it down. And now you know now what trench warfare tastes like. Prepare to sleep the sleep of million rampaging bowels.

Ricky Rick’s Bar & Grill

324 West Ash Rd.

Open for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.

Reservations recommended.



The Min’ds Eye got pin’k eye.


68747470733a2f2f36372e6d656469612e74756d626c722e636f6d2f39313463666336376435373530356338386133613862353030396665646232662f74756d626c725f6f3162777a7744785a4831726f6d7639636f315f313238302e6a7067Here’s a verse I saw writ above a urinal in gentlemen’s entertainment establishment:

Put your finger in. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Wiggle it. Again. Do that fancy little dance you do when the deejay goes, gobbledy goobledy. Look, it’s a bird. No, it’s death. Flying south for the winter. Miami, USA.

It’s hard to keep it together with all that visual realist haiku mumbo jumbo bullcrud messing with our minds and spirits, you feel?

Whatever happened to the limerick?

You know the one about the mono-erotic guy with the huge freaking wang. Now that’s art. That beams in like a laser on the emotional spittoon that is my soul and just lets loose with a thick, horking loogie.