Sunday, November 13, 2011


My wife tried to make you a hurricane pancake,
but I think it just looks like meatwad dancing.
Dancing is forbidden. Blueberry eyes that cannot see
are not eyes even symbolically, they’re adorable slut wear.

Bless her heart, those plates are hideous.
Morning laughing fishes hideous, to get the troop
ships to look like a chicken trying to escape.
The road is precisely a step too wide.

This plate is Finnish design: Arabia’s Paralysis
(Paradise in English) Yes, Finns are coma crazy.
Once you reach a certain wife level there, you stop wifeling.
Just take up your maps and go home to the crab boat.

The pig has stopped breathing. But not shaking.
Once broken apart it is embarrassing to reassemble
the pig in view of a public that wants more heat, more noise.
Pigs are doing their duty. Who told them what that looked like?

Forgive that pun, I was overcome by your pancakes, sir.
I think your wife is trying to distract you from the mixed
breed strychnine diet she’s putting you on. Look to it.
There might be a book there.

Ice on my fingers and my toys, and I’m a Taurus! Jesus!
Dancing is stupid. I would say re-wife her but the ship is too
confused, the world has the same plates as my childhood.
My entire relationship with my plinth has been based in lies.

Flexing sun pancake thing showing off its “OH face”.
Do I look professional? (shakes out hair)
That dishware makes me want to slap you
into a sex retreat for spectrum couples.

I want Goliath to slap you now. With a wind
that starts out still and splits into various hurricanes
with drumsticks, taffy and sleeping jerks.
Insert a celebrity name-drop here, I’m bored with it.

Give his boat chocolate chip eyes, give the sand
a carpet of marshmallow anus. Large pile of mustard.
Meatwad wants a stupid turkey to slap back that chorus for him.
Meatloaf for dinner music again. This is every man’s lot.

It’s the path that’s laughing, the voteups get the money, the bitches,
the hour is the same hour as the wisdom of drivin’ in my car.
Something else is pounding. Something else standing.
A black cloud on the horizon. Burnt flannel batter. Grunge-ola.

Here’s a fruit roll-up. I was gonna make you a casserole
for your loss, but uh, but, I didn’t. A no eyed girl is waltzing,
whispering “Porky…” to the potted miracle product.
Genderless creamy pink puke that spreads like ham-like food.

Huddled in long black coat, low drawn hat, disfigurement.
Probably himself. Wanting to eat himself.
After eating those (cellophane) feedercakes.
You should have seen the 9/11 french toast sticks.

A noise like a boot coming out of a bucket of cum.
I have to admit, I did have fun
trying to put the chicken back together.

Now go home and wait forever for it.

when a hurricane pancakes over a church
it’s a government sanctioned form of incest.
When a pancake forms a close cropped afro
over a whorehouse fronted by the Pelletier Touch-

Free Carwash in Pelletier, VT, it’s breakfast
for non-poets with ID, eggs your style with choice
of two bacon strips, sausage patties or links and two silver
dollar buttermilk handjobs. (pork based death cycle on request)

The Pelletier Touchfree Carwash is technically
in Barre. Possibly how they get away with
the fuck yourself empty here signage.
Possibly money has changed hands under the booth.

We thought it was a sense of place in time, but weather
is the clue we’ve been missing all along. Preferably weather
outside. Something with a temp and breathable in the minute
before the mushroom cloud pancakes over the Pellitier

psychiatric hospital in Waterbury.
It’s always obvious, in front of your face, always
the nose right over your thing.
And I am a big nose man.