PHONEZONE (into the communicators[beyond the future realm])

nokia-7600

dial it up
what is the number
now it is ringing
the dial tone’s bringing
me
to a magical place
phonezone
voicemail’s of mystery
phonezone
punch in the zone code
phonezone
what is the number
the signal is busy
the connection is whizzing
me
to a mystical place
phonezone
operator assist me
phonezone
electrical whizzwhee
rotary dialing
touchtone compiling
stay on the line
while the wizard completes you
enter the digits
calling inside you
phonezone

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Emotionally Concise and Spiritually On Point

0ff283b0e1817ecc47de1b6b88c08963--hairy-men-hot-men

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
“SHWA-NOOOOOOO!”
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

pic-6-last-week-i-posted-the-worst-album-covers-of-all-time-here-is-part-ii-31857

(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!
WITH MY LOVE!!!

Awesome lays upon the rug in the back of the van

van

The van is a place where the incredible goes, where the amazing come to ride in comfort, to be taken from the here to the there. They get in the van, these pieces of holy moly in their bright jams and flip flops and they kick back into the plush and they be, man they just be. These are the marvelous and this the van. And in it, they ride, my lady, do they ride. The incredulous hang in the back as they cruise the night streets, the tunes are set to smooth and the fridge is stocked with chill. The wonderful dig this van, man, they dig it because it is everything they are and more. Because the van has the storage space, dude. You can load a couch in there and still have room to lay out. And the prodigious are all over that. It’s their jam, right. They like the cool vibes you get from a plush and mobile interior. Wall to wall bear skin rugs, fridge, a place to put your beverage so that it won’t spill are all the things that the splendid are into. They like to ride. They like to relax. They don’t want to separated from both. So the van, man, the van.

When Nature Swabs my Body

zonitedouche

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.”

Eye of the Terlet

Italian-American

Gather ’round, dudes, and perk up them ears, buckarettes, this here is a poem that slithers in the night lake a snake on bad grease.
No, seriously, it is smooth like the skin of a baby’s bottom, and it glistens like a blue moon on buckskin sandals.
There’s so much truth in this here ballad that Nun’s be pimpin’!
Breathe in, Breathe out, and a here we go:
Peppermint chaps covering my loins, crotch open, it is all hanging out.
And my buttcheeks? Well, pardner, them’s being massaged by the gilded wind.
Is that you, God? Old buddy, old pal? Up there next to the sun, cheeks crimson like Satan’s thighs as you’re blushing away in the blue, blue sky?
You bet it is.
I can see you, chum.
Don’t be embarrassed.
You gave me this dong.

Sex Poem 1435 BCE

He had a cock with the head of Anubis.

She had a honey pot called the “Well of the Souls”.

When they screwed it was like 

the Pharoahs had returned.

(Had they even ever left?)

(Nope.)

Building hot and fleshy monuments

To the erotic-Kings and sensual-Queens

That had come before. Oh so triumphant.

While out in the desert it was

All grunts and groans.

Like a million ass slaves

Was moving huge stones,

And not getting paid.

But instead of making pyramids

They was making love.

And instead of the Nile,

It was a cum-drenching flood.

Oh Egypt!

Oh Chaldea!

Oh Beefcake!

Oh Sweet Mama-mia!

Since the dawn of civilization 

People have been banging

Hard and sweaty and soft and fierce

And just like the Pharoahs

When they step out on the gallery

To address the throng—

Her meaty vagina.

His throbbing dong.

Witnessing their sex is liking seeing God(s)!

BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN! BOW DOWN!