wandering around hospitals

on a ninth floor promise i can’t keep
is a feather falling faster
than you going to sleep
i’m leaning on rails that aren’t there
staring at things i can’t see
on a ninth floor in heaven
spellbound mouths huff the storm’s air
wings clipped unaware
angels puking, holding each others’ hair
in less than a hundred years
our bones will be a baby’s laugh
open wound to a two faced division problem
called me
unsolvable, inoperable, pulse altering
i am
on a ninth floor promise i can’t keep
thunderstorm programs its lightning show
my tongue constantly lapping at your feet.

 

Green Sheets And Chicks I’ll Never Understand

i’m subtle as a bicycle with flat tires.
treat weekdays like wars i lost
before midnight while burning self-notes,
you think you’re dragging,
i send my moles from their hills into mountains
the most-
problems larger than pyramids
piled one on top of another
mysteriously aligned with the gap
in my teeth, shoot a loaded smile-
understanding you has premature baby feet,
i have miles
upon planets upon universes
in which i need them to travel,
i will only see signs
telling me how much closer,
estimation of when i’ll get there,
how excited i should be,
understanding you has premature baby feet,
i’d rather be paralyzed than get there,
to see all the dead spots, ugly moments
you’d never let me reach.

 

7/20/09 I have committed to writing once a day. And hell yes it’s untitled.

idiot-proof highways get folks places
with very little, we piddle,
in lubricated ideas
complicated ceilings,
used to bump heads on
watch debris fall,
blame a closest whoever-
obsess over compatibility
unable to comprehend never
horoscopes drop
rescue ropes, held by soulmates.
for me, coffeemate
she died in 1609,
queen of an adulterous isle,
i get pissed off
driving a hazardous mile.
time machines, oxiclean
neither can remedy,
nothing’s wrong,
buried skeletons flowing along,
beds, graves, both military issue
admitting i miss you
until i’m scared, dead, gone,
we’re dying every singing second,
sky-
stars quitting without notice,
my-
life may be meant to choke us

 

Early Fall In Alabama, Like California With King James Bibles

weather
a slumhouse heaven settlement
remember the time, hidden sentiment
i sang off the beat
like an obese police gentlemen,
weather not autumn
stems of leaves get number
on a worn chair of leisure
called Thursday,
i might use your number-
remember my face
on a rugburned sunday in fall
it’s a gift of creamy graves-
even if my face is blank,
memory falls short like chinese names,
remember i’m rain
only weather that resembles god-
angels laughing their asses off
reading soaked science books with no shame
as thursday came,
i still found you endless gorgeous plenty nice,
we shimmer under city lights-
southside.
i subside
like a dead lighthouse bulb
requesting you crash your life
into mine,
for a short time,
if it gets dull,
remember me,
when it felt like Cali
for a week
in this burning bible called Alabam,
my parking lot in heaven
will have thugs and hook-handed strangers, crying clowns,
they’ll all slam
hands in the laughter stained gates-
and i’ll flood your mind
category five-
grown man flurry of hurricanes

 

Crazy Sex In The Bible/ Prayer Booths or Oral Booths/ School Lunches=Idiocy/ Weather/Freeball

Good mawning bishes.

Raise the glasses and bump asses, it’s the mourning mother of our weekly progression. Monday. A mangled myopia of modern misnomers that hog tie us from what makes us happy. Imagine if it were Friday….and we’re all still ass up on the edge of the bed.

Depraved Sex Acts In The Bible

Most of the crazy sex shit happens in the first book of the bible. Genesis. However, this did confirm my questions that the Song of Solomon is just about titties. Solomon was a breast man. That’s all he was trying to say.

That’s a picture of Cracked.com’s #6 act. Lot having drunken sex with his two daughters. I’d have to be pretty drunk myself. Click here to check it out.

This is also where I found the 25 most disturbing sex toys and this:

A baby Jesus butt-plug.

That’s in case you were going blank on what to bring to the Dirty Santa Office party.
And for Tuesday nights.

Prayer/Blowjob Booths

In Orlando, somebody got the bright idea to make these:

I’ve always felt kinda bad when she said, “I like going to the park, but my knees get all dirty and roughed up…..”

Now, the fine right-wingers of Orlando have eased all my guilt. Thank you Jesus. I say my best prayers when I’m on the verge of being saved by a mind-shattering orgasm.

I know you’re thinking, “Damn….he needs to get laid again…”, but read the instructions. They’ll even make you think they’re talking about nobslobbing.

Come to think of it, they need to put directions for sex in public in lots of places. Parks, restrooms, airplanes, clubs, churches…..schools, auditoriums, among other things.

And the #1 reason why I think these are blowjob booths and not prayer booths?
There’s no donation box.

Here’s the source of all your fear.

School Lunches

Remember that fucker who dipped his pizza in so much ranch dressing that it made you gag?

Or the guy who kept an extra 2 bucks on him so he could get 32 chicken nuggets instead of 6.

You always knew you could get a dollar out of a fat kid on chicken nugget day, especially if he wanted to finger your locker after the football game.

But look at what the hippies of Berkely are bringing out:

Roast chicken, cauliflower, mashed potatoes, and what the fuck?

Since when do we have roast chicken and it’s all homemade?

That’s more like it. Except they forgot the mashed potatoes and gravy and what the fuck happened to chocolate milk? A bag of carrots. Are you kidding? I’ve chewed through soupy panties more appetizing than that.

Whatever happened to making us aware of what’s fattening and what’s not at an early age?

Are we so fucking ignorant that we can’t tell the difference between a plate of tofu, some scallions and red pepper, with a little brown rice and plate of fried chicken, a biscuit, mashed potatoes with gravy, and some coleslaw?

This is another example of where we’ve went the wrong direction with solving a national problem. We’re all fucking fat. Well doesn’t the media do enough to discourage this?
Everyone you see on tv is fucking skinny except for those disturbing women’s ads with some fat chicks in them?
“Oh that’s beautiful…..big boned women on a tv ad…..God bless them….”
And as soon as that person says that, they’re thinking,
“Damn…look at her thighs….I could take enough cottage cheese out of her ass to feed New Orleans…”

But whatever. The mindless, two-faced America of today would rather you not have to think about what’s healthy. We’ll just ram enough tofu and falafel down your fucking throat and hope you don’t go back to this:

Don’t forget the box of fudge rounds for dessert.

Because that’s what you should eat since you saw it on tv, junior! Yeah, all the fine boys are eating it…..mmm mmm. So don’t worry if your tits are bigger than that girl you have a crush on…..she’ll love you for what’s up here…….besides all the ear fat.

Monday’s Weather

Today,

a high of flaccid fingers of Fall feeling their way around the loneliness of our homes, taking in just what makes us so alone, reminding the single folks of their singularity, weighing down the worse of those who have a better half, and if you understand it, you’ll find yourself waiting to kiss the fate of whatever “last chance” meant.

Tonight,

a low of extended breaths on the neck of all that’s ahead of your foresight, my muscles have seen many a sore night, but the remedy is in the bones of everything that’s never grown. Manufactured moonlight and artificially flavored sunlight take their toll. Even if you think you’re right.

freeball

a risky bet rests
inside dirty jeans
thrown over the sofa
of a frozen dream
a tender hello
stretches its feet
then folds them
to forget its lines
in a diatribe
given by the gleam
opening our eyes-
a meeting of lips split between concrete
relationships resemble rips
at our seams

©

blah,
c

 

Presidential Elections, Dollar Bills Cut Into Sections, Live-in Girlfriend Collections, and Freeball

Good mawning bishes.

I have been on hiatus for most of the summer due to the fact that I fucking hate summer.
Now, it’s fall and I’m feeling equally shitty, but not because of the weather.
We’ve experienced a worse drop in the markets this decade than we did in the 1930s.
I know things are different, but still……the markets only dropped 9% in the 1930s. This decade, the markets have dropped 17%.

I sat through the whole debate last night. At one point, I found myself standing at the fridge trying to see how fast I could down one of my girlfriend’s tallboy Budweisers and contemplated whether or not oral sex would be appropriate to receive during a debate. To my dismay, I found out that I’m not the one who decides such things, so I chugged another tallboy while looking for medication that causes drowsiness.

The problem I have with these two is that they’re too fucking different. It’s kind of like my coworker said this morning, “If you haven’t made up your mind yet, then you must be in a fucking coma…”

This is true.

However, the differences between the two are so extreme that, sometimes, I find myself thinking that I just don’t like McCain because he outlived some of my grandparents who would look better than him if you dug them up today.

My idea?

Make sure that Obama can’t lift his arms any higher than McCain and let them fight it out, UFC style in the octagon. This is America. We don’t have the attention to just sit there and listen to these two whiny bitches fight over America like two gay men who’ve been played by a smooth-talking straight guy that likes ass sex.
So yeah….let those fuckers duke it out and then see if “Pockeystan” wants some. Cheezus.

Moving on,

The real reason why I haven’t been writing is that I’m not as singular as I used to be and my fascination of human behavior and heartbreak directly fuels my creativity.
Which means not much is going on if I’m regularly having sex.

Since you’re reading this, you can assume that I haven’t had sex in awhile. This is kinda true, but not in the essence that you’d think.
I’m relatively sure that I have a wonderful girlfriend. However, I’m also sure that the all-night sex and fascination with each other is quickly exterminated if you move in together.
How do I know this?
I ought to be a fucking expert on this by now. My buddy’s wife asked me the other day,
“So…she lives with you?”
And my buddy was like….
“Which one HASN’T lived with Clint?”

And that’s a good fucking question. I guess I put off that “move in with me” vibe. I don’t know. And trust me, I have cracked and told a couple of them to leave. Why?

Because I realized that they’re never going to produce anything in society that’s worthwhile and having my baby is not something I’d consider worthwhile to society. That would be the same thing as going down to the garbage dump, throwing an empty styrofoam cup on top of the pile and declaring,
“I have changed something for the better!”

Do any of you have this “move in with me” vibe? I don’t mind it so much as I don’t understand how it happens. I don’t have this need or ambition to move in every woman I swap fluids with. (I have a studio apartment, not a locker room.)

Anyways, politics, economy, and relationships.

How about…poetry? I’m just going to throw together some random lines I’ve been saving over the summer and hope that it jumpstarts the rest of me to actually write something longer than just a few lines.

Freeball?

We’re all whining like drunk bitches
teetering on the curb,
listening to two suited assholes
talk about how well they serve,
as my dollar bill splits itself in half
cursing and spitting at each other
playing who didn’t cut up the credit card last-
ain’t life good?
The air is constantly thick,
I hang my clothes on cigarette smoke,
feeling heavy from the choke,
She’s beautiful when dressed like shit,
jogging pants, a stained t-shirt,
and no bra covering tit,
I wonder if our love is stronger
than the dollar split in half
or the wood floor where we sit,
then I realize that we have nothing to do with this,
I’m just a check casher, republican basher, market crasher, multi-tasker,
pot passer, middle class taxer, and insignificant bastard,
I take down the government mirror,
pick a flower after the rain stops its assault,
and allow everyone to touch my over-sized lips
with their own
because we’re all so lovely to one another,
but it’s never offline or off the phone,
only face to face
if we need a fucking loan.

blah,
c

 

Saran Palin. She’s a MAN baby….YEAH!!!!!! and a non-related poem for irony’s sake

While I kind of want to rant on and on about politics, Putin tranquilizing an escaped Asuri tiger as cameras were rolling because he has the worst case of little man syndrome in world history, the possibility of a non-question asking creationist, pro-lifer, “I Wear The Pants”, lifelong NRA member, hunter, fisher, “drill alaska, kill the polar bears,” and other liberal bullshit that I could say just get the point across to you that…

She’s a man just as much or more than the rest of the men in this nation.

Did she saaaay, “She wanted to kill all the polar bears?”

No, she didn’t.

She probably would say that after a few beers and blowjobs given to whoever you blow to be governor of Alaska.

Point is, Irony is beautiful. Hilldawg(Hillary) looks like a man. This bitch IS a man. Aren’t we all fucked? Yay.

That’s from www.vpilf.com.

Go there for all the news on him.

Personally,
I agree with the bumper sticker that reads, “If We Don’t Vote, Will They All Just Go Away?”

I wrote this Saturday morning. It cliches into time bullshit and I hate it. I hope you feel the same.

life has condoms with no reservoir end.
if a win eventually grows into a loss,
trees explode before they bend,
we’re being patient for a reason
seen looming at graveyards, abandoned hospitals.
i gag as i try to make a change,
a stench rises from the pennies, nickels, and dimes
crying in corners of children’s piggy banks,
spent on laughter formerly free.
some consider autumn mundane
but to me,
it is when water was re-discovered,
oxygen scratched the chalkboard of night-
i am too young to realize
repeats of what we consider years;
suddenly by pure accident,
i cannot breathe because i have tasted the bitter
of time-

 

Why Hugh Grant and I Get Laid/ Get Drowned..er…Baptised Today/ Things I Did Last Night

After a severe drought of the daily rundown, we’re back. We may disappear again, but for your sake, hopefully not. Welcome back!

Survey Question

Who has found the g-spot since my lesson accompanied by an articulately detailed g-spot map?

If you missed it, let me know. I’ll dig up the link. If I wasn’t rrrrrrrrreal fuckinghigh right now, I’d do it for you.

Site of The Day
Things I Did Last Night

Since the wordpress nazis have disabled it here. Go to my other version of this blog where we’d rather be dead than alive under their oppression: Click here for it.

Person Gets Baptised, Drowns, Haunts By Form Of Underwater Farts

Watch the video if you’re so fucking lazy or giving someone a goatee(flavor saver) ride, or too dumb to fucking read below.

RIO VISTA (CBS13) ― Rescuers have called off the search for a 22-year-old man feared drowned during a baptism in the San Joaquin Delta.

The Hispanic man disappeared under the water late Sunday afternoon near the Brannan Island State Recreation Area, northeast of the San Francisco Bay, according to Coast Guard officials.

A Sacramento County Drowning Accident Rescue Team (DART) joined the underwater search for the missing man, whose identity has not been released.

Officials called off the search Sunday night.

How Hugh Grant and I Get Laid? Here’s the science bishes.

I’m kinda glad I’m not in the picture with the pony size version of Carrie Bradshow formerly named Julia Roberts, the girl that played that whore that got a sugardaddy that didn’t beat the shit out of her. Is it called Notting Hill? The porno with random skanks called Not Inda Hilt was the only film I’m familiar with in regards to the similar name.

Besides, they’re both about the same thing. The movies that is.

Article from Daily Daily Mail

The MOST effective way to get a woman into bed is by running yourself down, say scientists


By Olinka Koster
Last updated at 8:52 PM on 27th July 2008

His wry, self- deprecating humour is as important as his floppy hair and English charm at ensuring he always wins the heart of his leading lady.

Now scientists have discovered the technique used by Hugh Grant’s film characters can bring the same romantic success offscreen.

Taking the mickey out of yourself works far better than clever jokes, which might be seen as boastful and put women off.

The findings were outlined by anthropologist Gil Greengross, who conducted a two-year study into the role of humour in seduction.
Grant-Roberts

Chemistry: Grant understatedly charms Roberts in Notting Hill

He discovered that the type of humour used by Hugh Grant in the film Notting Hill – in which he attempts to charm Julia Roberts with the poor contents of his fridge – works the best.

‘Many studies show that a sense of humour is sexually attractive, especially to women,’ he said.

‘But we’ve found that self-deprecating humour is the most attractive of all.

‘It is a risky form of humour because it can draw attention to one’s real faults, thereby diminishing the self-deprecator’s status in the eyes of others.

‘But based on the idea that verbal humour evolved to function as a fitness indicator, self-deprecating humour can be an especially reliable indicator, not only of general intelligence and verbal creativity, but also moral virtues such as humility.’
Grant’s bumbling character charms MacDowell in Four Weddings and a Funeral.

In Four Weddings and a Funeral, Hugh Grant’s bumbling British bachelor character charms a sexy young American played by Andie MacDowell.

In a best man’s speech, he says: ‘This is only the second time I’ve been a best man. I hope I did OK that time. The couple in question are at least still talking to me. Unfortunately, they’re not actually talking to each other.

The divorce came through a couple of months ago. But l’m assured it had absolutely nothing to do with me. Paula knew Piers had slept with her sister before I mentioned it in the speech.

‘The fact that he’d slept with her mother came as a surprise but I think was incidental to the nightmare of recrimination and violence that became their two-day marriage.’

While Americans are said to adore the British tendency towards self-deprecating humour, experts warned that problems could arise when it was used to seduce a member of the opposite sex from a different culture who might not understand it.

The report, ‘Dissing Oneself: The Sexual Attractiveness of Self-Dep-Humour’, which will be published next month in the Journal of Evolutionary Psychology, also warns that the technique should not be attempted by those who are already unpopular.

The reason why the writer of this article should be bludgeoned by a bag of dicks biblical style…read the closing sentence to the article below:

It could make ‘low-status individuals’ appear ‘more pathetic’ than they did before.

And on top of all that, he/she forgot to mention my superlative awesomeness that I possess called cock.

What Iraq War? Shrug, I’m Getting Laid.
Today’s Freeball

woke up dead
fifth time this week,
rosemary in apartment’s courtyard
reminding me of throwing up A-1 Steak Sauce,
I’ve never thrown up A-1 Steak Sauce,
but my right to do so
is a will I’m wronging
by a toggle switch tongue
switched to ON,
gardens grow with patience
fueled by my impatience-
i’m worried about indica plants
while bomb gardens wear desert costumes-
kill my peers-
uniforms already issued with death in the fabric,
kerosene soaking the stitching,
before it’s put on-
With one presidential candidate saying he’s a change magician,
other president is crippled and has a plan;
including dying before his term is over-
morose outlooks reserve tables for the good cooks-
i am merely in love,
i met a petite-figured possibility
hurricanes and fires will force us into salsa dancing
with the patience we could never claim-

 

An Explanation For Our Hiatus/ And A Little Something To Back It Up

Good afternoon bishes.

I haven’t been giving you the daily run-down because of 2 reasons.

1) I have been busy at work.
2) Summers in Alabama don’t inspire me to do the daily blog. The blog was doing really well, but my main goal is to get poems published. Not give you toilet humor on a daily basis. Don’t worry. There will be a return to the daily rundown and the toilet humor, rants, and rhyming weather forecasts. I’ve submitted a few poems. Just trying to find a publication that digs my style at the moment. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Bleh.
It’s like this every summer. The rundown will return in fall or a little before. It’s just that the daily crawling of the carpet doesn’t satisfy my creative goals. I appreciate you all for reading it. And I know poetry sucks and its dead. But my poetry doesn’t exactly suck. My mom told me so. So wish me luck while i try to get something published. Maybe even paid. When the leaves turn, I’ll turn over out of this bed called “My Annual Summer Writer Slow Down.”

The latest drivel which is a rewrite of a previous post:

twenty four year old scratches on a hardwood floor

sitting on the stoop of an old bungalow i own
in a hometown i despise, bought for purposes
justified by my penis-
my friend rents it out, now, allowing me to revisit
a surreal continent of my past, with present-time’s laughter mass
being furthest from memories playing a sulking rhapsody-
life is a box-set of on again off agains
unsent sins dancing with mail box bombs-
appreciating little things,
bad dancing, misbehaved children,
a beautiful woman in my future’s bed-
touching myself on secondary’s primary ransom ,
thinking about halls of 10th dimension
reality in which i am watching myself;
we’re all constantly watching ourselves-
smoking a mind to numb a pocket full of navel-gazing,
summer exploits worldly fragmentation,
my nucleus has swamp pit stains,
humidity surrounds stupidity,
choking on cigarette smoke,
beer cans held with each extremity,
unknown to most of us,
a time delay,
at least 3 seconds,
dominates everything we do, say, or hear,
tv, ear, to radio-
i drive around the gay park, dog park, and play park,
on Highland Ave,
living in a box called a studio apartment;
researching how to prevent off again on again,
scraping lines with jagged fingernails
on my self-made cobbestone wall,
“we’re all just like ground,
littered upon by whoever mistook us as a ditch”

 

soon to be “when” we used to live together

the title is sarcasm. if you didn’t know that.  fuck you.

we live in a world war II era building
converted into studio apartments
called The Corners.
close to Southside, but
in uppity Highlands, Aptly named in regards to its location
on the corners of 11th ave south
and 29th st south-
depending on who you ask or
whether or not
they have a pretty mouth-
gay park, dog park, play park
in that order,
yes i have been hit on at the gay park
i returned after that occurrence
just for a self-esteem boost;
parked on lunch break,
vodka miniatures blurred rinse,
before returned to do something,
when explained,
won’t make any fucking sense-
she draws her dreams
with a pencil in pink dress
on our bed with its four-legged frame
called future,
absorbing thoughts do the sheets-
we weed out and let it stain them
drip, drip, drip,
IV filled with a combination of half eraser
half delete key,
staining the sheets due to unpaid fees,
pianos sold with no keys-
burned like us by the cigarettes, they smoke us-
i look at her exposed thigh
loosening my tie of focus-
we live at the Corners,
only thing that adorns us,
ourselves occupying four corners
of a box,
a lack of adornment
made up for with love
unspoken, but meant,
her dreams drawn have color,
we’re both straightly and significantly
bent.