Bitches, please, please make a sandwich and then, then
just look at that sandwich, the tasteful thickness of it,
oh my God. Oh my God, it even has a watermark.
Any of you bitches know what time it is?
Little hand says it's time to rock and roll: hey,
I'm just a happy camper, rockin'-and-a-rollin'.
Life sure has a sick sense of humor, doesn't it?
The air got dirty and the sex got clean: I want you
I want you to clean your vagina.
Do you like Huey Lewis and The News?
They only live to get radical, and sex with gods,
you can't beat that. Do you like Phil Collins?
Pumpkin, you're dating an asshole. I'm leaving.
I've assessed the situation, and I'm going.
I'm going. Vaya con Dios, Brah.
Friday, December 7, 2012
It's not a haircut but an expression
by way of which we will compose moments
to circumnavigate mouthfeel and underthings.
God willing, our voices will bang ragged gesticulations
out through decompressing files that, God willing,
will know the relief of bit rot before we know our own.
Two blondes by the sound system:
didn't we just wanna have fun?
Two fleshy faces to ring a truer hangover:
more or less in some clanging morning light?
Who will mend the tik tok clock
when the tik tok clock is right twice a day?
Who will feed the warrior dog
when the warrior dog comes home?