Statement of Ultimate Facts 2018


My name is Chef Pierre and I’m my favourite guy I love the food I make in my restaurant I love my food it is the most tasty taste and when it’s in my mouth I’m my favourite guy and when midnight comes my name is Chad Peters and I make the sex like a flesh monsoon and my best sex move is The Snake In The Pantry and I do it smooth it feels like slippery love and my other name is Sombrero Jones and in the morning light I sing the song of freedom it sounds the sound of a million birds all whistling proud the accomplishments of their children in various activities and it makes me feel like my favourite guy who is me because I’m that guy and I do my best everyday. Peace out y’all.

Emotionally Concise and Spiritually On Point


Tonight is forever
and tomorrow is tonight
The moon is shining
And the beach is eternal
Because you are my woman, baby
And you are the rainbow
In the sunshine of the night
And the winter snow is falling
As the warm breeze blows
Through the flowers in the field
And you make it morning time
when the clock strikes midnight
and the butterflies are riding high
and the stars are waving ‘good-bye’
And you are my baby, woman
Making freedom sing its song
And eternity is just a day away
I can’t wait because
you bring the summer vibes
baby woman forever girl
You are the best horse  in the race
and I am the Wizard King
alive and well and busting his nut
in his mountain palace
and you are chief of the love police
spitting squishy justice out
from Central Headquarters
And tomorrow is forever tonight!

Rutabaga Loving


(Note: Sing to the tune of the saddest song you have ever heard in your goddamn life)

Rutabaga, sweet rutabaga,
oh rutabaga, you’re the root of my misery
you’re a big fat turnip
and I can’t get you into me.
You taste kinda bitter.
But the night it comes
and the stars come out
and my tuber floats free from the soil
So I cut a little hole in you, rutabaga
And ease myself inside.
‘Cause you’ve stole my heart
like a midnight train.
A wax-y turnip-y renegade.
Got my loins on fire
like a moonlight roast.
But I can’t get you into me.
‘Cause you taste so bitter.
Oh how your yellow-y flesh-y
is slippery and slidey
and when I make love to you,
Rutabaga. Oh gee whiz,
It’s better than sex.
From the top of the mountain
to the bottom of the sea
to the dirt in the farmyard
where you live until I dig
dig you up
and slide on in
and grease your loving root vegetable
being, with my love!
With my love!

Orbiting the planet of broth


The lizard man, in his little ship, hovering above the earth, looking down, and wondering, why is that child crying? Does it want some candy? Does it need a hug? Is it because we are stealing the water for our alien soups and stews? Don’t knock it ’til you try it, kid. It may smell bad but it’s nutritious and it’s not easy to make. Especially since our world gone and done dried up. It’s really made everything taste s bland. So we came here to planet earth, to check it out, and fornicate with your women, and jack the juice and squirrel it away and use it in our alien cuisine. Which is good eats, I tell you. You have to try it, little boy, it’ll change your life. Trust me, your palette will think it’s died and gone to taste heaven. Of course, us lizard people know there is no heaven per se. It’s infinitesimal mud hut full of slobbering reptilian sex organs that pleasure you for eternity. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, kid.

Love on the Highest Sea


They stood on the bow of boat, looking out at the velvet sea coated in a satin sheen of silky mist.
“Ooo, ‘twoos foogy, me sweets, soo foogy,” he said to the woman beside him.
“Ooo, me coop’n, twis’ soo foogy, luke dooo oopon thoo oopen seeeeea,” she said back, looking up at his burlap face. His gaze dropped down into hers like two pieces of sexual guano.
“Ooo, yoor root, thoore, it’s luke goooey doo oopon thoo oopen seeea, oot remoonds me ooof thoo noots we spooont oon the toont ooon tooo booooch oon cooboo sooon looocoooos.”
“Ooo, thoot wooos sooo hooot oond stooomy, I wooos soo swoooned I coood nooot wooock fooor a wooook,” she said and set her eyes back upon the furry ocean. Inside her heart, it skipped a beat and prayed.
“Ooo,” he said, “mooo tooo, me loooins wooos blooostered luke choooorcoool brooooquooots ooon unnn booobeekoooo.”
He fell to one knee, taking her hand and turning her to face him. Their eyes met like baby doves crashing down upon the shoals. He took a breath. She bated hers.
“Ooo, wool yoo mooory mooo?” He said.
“Yooss,” she said.
The end.

When Nature Swabs my Body


I get up
And I stand
in the mud mud mud
And I stare up
into the Sun Sun Sun
And when the rain
Tinkles down
It is fun fun fun
and the bees come tickle
my nose nose nose
And then the dirty hippy reeking of patchouli slopes up for sure high on the drugs and loafing around, jobless, like a peace-niking, nose-picking slug and does the damnedest thing. He freaking rips me in half, and sticks my bloody torso behind his goddamn oily ear with my entrails getting all tangled up in his stinky dreads that are hanging down his back half-way to his ass and then he says, “Wow, man.”

Sing like the Golden Hammer.


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.