i still write you love letters.
post office says they won't deliver them unless i take the bombs out. but if i took the bombs out, they wouldn't make any sense. they'd just be sheets of pronouns.
and i'm out of stamps.
.
a poem about prole's dog
gozer is a little hound
with fuzzy paws, and teeth
and you can pet his fuzzy coat
and feel the dog beneath
i let him on the bed with me
although sometimes he pees
but when he's good he snuggles up
and sleeps between my knees
he will not bite your little child
unless your child attacks
happily, he'll share his kisses
and fleas that he attracts
he's still a little puppy now
but will cease to be so tiny
but even when he's old and grey
he will always be mine-y.
thank you, no, i have not been drinking.
sitting on a lawn bright green in the twilight i am swaddled in a gauzy thing that floats when i sit and puffs fake clouds around me that block the horizontal light. i am half asleep stoned on something and someone else is in charge for the moment. i can sit here without needing to plan a next move where everything is vaseline blurred and sweetened as if nostalgia had already passed over it. i am alone and i feel safe. the grass wants to reach up and touch my face and everything is so so soft. this is the end and there is nowhere else to go. i am happy to be frozen here on the doorstop of the apocalypse. ask me would i rather succeed in moving time or stay here in a place that becomes death because our clocks have marched past it. the truly forgotten past, the one not remembered by photographs that stands still in its dugout never to be called up because no one was here to see it. i want to go there. i want to stay there. i want to stop wondering.
Up and doing!
Dear Friend,
If you would like to make love with one (or more) women who are almost crazy to have sex with you, this will be the most exciting message you will ever read.
JavaServer Faces
Acid2 Test
American Apparel
Camera Obscura (the band)
Fitz of Depression
Enoch Bolles (rather tellingly, there is a node for Enoch Root, ya bunch of nerds, you.)
swiss dot
American Thighs
the self-fulfilling prophecy
the shaman whispered to his greatest warrior that someday quite soon, events would change their lives as had been foretold, and the gods would be pleased. the warrior's people lived across a valley from a poorer tribe and the prophecy described a river of blood dividing the two. "but no blood is spilt. we have been like brothers for centuries," the warrior protested. "the gods must be satisfied," the shaman insisted.
from a tree on the way down into the valley, the warrior plucked a large citrus, the kind that never grew on the other side of the valley. very little grew there, and the people were often hungry.
the first member of the other tribe he laid eyes upon was a woman, young and foolish and thin with hunger. he smiled as he walked up to her and she looked upon him shyly. he produced the fruit and her eyes grew large. such gifts moved from tribe to tribe, not between individuals, so the captains of hers could be sure those benefiting from the neighbors' generosity were those who needed it most. she touched her lip, and he nodded. she held out her hand.
he turned and took a few steps away from her, then looked brightly back over his shoulder. confusion on her features renewed itself into joy, and she skipped up to him. again she held out her hand. he withdrew the fruit, his smile turning icy. the woman made frustrated grabs now, mirth slipping from her eyes with each attempt. he moved the item further and further from her until she was almost climbing him to get at it. and then he slapped her, hard enough to knock her down.
she looked at him and steel forged in her eyes. as her posture changed, her tribe assembled around her. they fell upon the warrior and ripped him apart, and both tribes saw this and descended deep into the valley to make war.
finally they were all gone, but the shaman, who remainded rocking himself back and forth on the bloody ground, laughing, "i told you so, i told you so.."
where the airplanes all have horns that play la cucaracha
senor perdedor gave me some space for some pictures you could look at: http://goatcam.net/~prole/
!!thank you, mr. perdedor!!
mellow out or you will pay
baby,
you've got to be more discerning
i keep my poetic license right next to my concealed weapons
permit.
two sips from the cup of human kindness and i'm shitfaced
Suck on my fingertips until you kill all my prints
So your boyfriend has no clue
Of how much I've been touching you
i want you to know, the rays of a mullet are straight.
not guilty, i said, you've got the wrong man
nothin' touched the trigger but the
devil's right hand
I know your heart can't grieve what your eyes won't see. But you were my favorite moment of a dead century.
i don't care if they miss me, i never remember their names
you can keep the reward, i'd just as soon stay sick
love like you don't need the money
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(they were out of milk, so i brought jug wine) |
