1. |
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She’s almost beautiful,
Her touch hard but squeezable
With enough body friction
plastic becomes somewhat
malleable, feelable and almost
Pamela-Anderson real.
She’s a machine.
I’ll call her Veronica.
She trained me to be the lover that I am
like the Nintendo game that taught me to be Super Mario.
Veronica has 3 speeds:
slow, medium, and fast
powered by double D.
Before each practice
standing naked in front of a picture
dreamily looking at the ideal girl parts
I mentally prepare by chanting a mantra,
“Veronica’s love reservoir will not
vibrate me into premature ejaculated ecstasy.
I must learn to satisfy the woman
with multiple orgasms.”
Squirt, Squirt
Damn It!!!
Practice after practice
I finally prevail.
I can now wear down the vibration
before the vibration wears down me.
Like the video games that teach kids
to be efficient killers.
Veronica taught me to be a better lover.
I am now ready to point my mechanized sex pistol
at something real.
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2. |
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I watch Leave it to Beaver.
I watch I Dream of Jeannie.
I watch a dead decade.
I pay for each syndication.
I listen to the Beatles.
I listen to the Doors.
I listen to a dead decade.
I pay for each new box set.
Pink Floyd, the Eagles, Page/Plant tickets
I want to relive a dead decade.
I pay top price for floor seating.
Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, John Lennon
make more money now off their dead decade.
I financially support a dead person.
The 90’s are passing me by.
This decade can’t die
leaving behind its little contribution of gay rights, Generation X, age of information and 90210.
How am I suppose to market my generation
with this 90’s rubbish?
I need a revolution, a dead politician, a Vietnam, psychedelic rock, and free love.
How am I going to steal my children’s money
with my blasé dead decade?
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3. |
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Sometimes my thoughts
embarrass her
like a little kid who still
pee’s in his bed at age 12.
Whose sleep and dreams
are too peaceful
to be tossed away for protocol.
I’m an adult.
I still piss on myself
but in my head.
My mind mentally pisses
a stream of thought
after thought
after thought
into the toilet ears
of normality.
I would rather piss
on myself
and lie
in a urine soaked bed
of imagination
than be disturbed
by the dictates
of social norms.
My mom
however
always blushes
and with her apology worded wash cloth
cleans up my mental mess.
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4. |
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lets strip mine the mountains, lets burn the rain forest, lets dam the rivers, lets kill nature
LOVE OF COMFORT
lets kill 6 million, lets rule the world, lets burn books
LOVE OF FASCISM
lets make nuclear missiles, lets kill charlie, lets kill indians
LOVE OF CAPITALISM
lets destroy our body, lets break moms’ soul, lets overdose
LOVE OF DRUGS
lets pioneer gulf war syndrome, lets be chivalrous, lets kill Sadame
LOVE OF OIL
lets kill puppies, lets kill kitties, lets kill the unborn, lets build more rest homes
LOVE OF ME
Love is killing humanity
Love can’t get me home by 6 for you
Love can’t get me to draw a bath for you
Love can’t get me to buy a $2 rose for you
Love killed our relationship
because I love someone or something else
Love invented divorce
America loves new Sony TVs, CD players and VCRs
America loves new Chevys, Fords, and Chryslers
America loves Carnival Cruise Lines, United Airlines, and Circus Circus
America love Nordstroms, TheBon, and Neimun Marcus
America loves the nonafordable
America loves credit
Love birthed inflation
Pharisees love of God killed Christ
Christians love of church is killing our perception of Christ
Love replaced spirituality with man made isms
Too much love makes the world go mad!!!!!!!!
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5. |
Rotting Democracy
03:00
|
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|
Smell that smell
coming from the White House basement.
Bush says, “It’s broken sewer line.”
But its rotting democracy.
He puts on his clown face
for the American people.
There’s a serial democracy killer on the loose.
He’ll throw fancy picnics
with a buffet of tax cuts,
war,
immigration law,
and revised medicare plans.
The consumers stuff themselves
on processed fatty government.
While the fruits,
vegetables,
nuts,
and grains
of civil liberty, environment, social medicine, and education
are nowhere to be seen.
The nation has been convinced a healthy democratic diet
consists of Krispy Creams and AppleBees.
There’s something rotting in the White House basement.
There’s a serial democracy killer on the loose.
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6. |
Love at Age 8 and 28
04:25
|
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|
Every time Mom said she loved me
I’d get a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Mom’s gone now.
Dad says, she’s in heaven
where all good people go.
Dad says, Jesus is love.
Jesus doesn’t give me a hug or a kiss on the cheek.
I don’t think he loves me.
I miss her a lot.
Some times Dad and I watch home movies.
Mom laughs, smiles, dances, and makes faces.
Dad calls her a goof ball.
I wish she would hold me.
____________
20 years later
the numbness of loneliness
replaces what should be pleasant bedtime dreams.
I sit in a lawn chair
along Fairview Ave.
in front of an Airstream.
The occasional car
drives an empty street.
The combustion engine
provides nothing.
If I could
I’d refall in love
with the one woman
who never broke my heart.
Mom’s smile wipes away the remnants of a bitter day like a warm coffee.
Her embrace comforts like those vulnerable moments
after sex when a new lover takes you in their arms.
Mother’s melodic voice sounds gentle
like waves that lap a Northern California coast line.
____________
When I cry Dad reminds me
Mom still loves me.
She’s just in heaven.
If God answers our prayers
I wish I’d never been hugged
so Mom could still love me
in the quite pictures,
and captured video moments.
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7. |
Where is My Heart?
02:50
|
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|
The combination
to late to change.
Smiles, laughter, a hug, a touch, you
You unlocked the door.
My heart it’s stolen
GONE.
My heart has been stolen before.
On an occasional sunny day
a long legged girl with a cherry red Revlon smile
will steal it.
Till she rounds the corner or my eyes get distracted.
There’s always the endless party
too sober to have fun
too intoxicated to drive.
A girl spinning, twirling to the Reagan era
will steal my heart.
Her drunken kiss.
My drunken boredom.
My heart always returns in the morning.
My heart never came home.
Has she put it in her tampon box
taken out once a month
after 3 weekends of sour dates?
Is it in her cigarette tin
taken out for an occasional fix?
Could it be in her underwear drawer?
Lacy, frilly, fun to touch
until a new Victoria Secret catalog comes in the mail
then tossed away?
Maybe she put it in her music box
openend at bed time
falling asleep to it every night.
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8. |
CK1
02:09
|
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|
We know longer sniff each other
as dogs do.
My pungent natural order
does not state identification.
Language has given me a name
an odorless of who I am.
Where dogs still do sniff
I spray CKI to smell like you
the stinky.
I met a bum the other day.
He smelled like the city streets, dirty clothes, and stale cigarettes
The other day I met a rich man.
He smelled like potpourri, fresh paint, and leather.
God created man equal except for what he or she buys.
Today my armpits smell like mom’s deodorant.
I smell like baby powder.
Who does this make me?
A poor man steals a rose for his woman.
A middle class man puts a rose on a visa card for his woman.
A rich man pays cash for a rose for his woman.
Regardless of how each rose is bought
the scent and beauty inspired smile is the same
to the classless heart.
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9. |
Whyske Jacques
02:08
|
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|
a girl ass, a guy ass
rest on the back of a chair.
My chair, I sit forwards.
The bar packed with asses
lucky for me I snagged a table.
Plop
besides my beer, an ashtray now there’s an ass.
A nice firm female one.
She places a toxic concoction beside her right cheek.
I wonder is this nonverbal communication?
“Please, Please take a drink.”
I try try try but I can’t do it.
I’m an optimistic day dreamer
without balls.
One of the ass owners sitting on the chair
has a frisky hand.
The hand is rubbing my back to the tune “Call Me” by Blondie.
I get excited then realize
my moment is being shared with the ass being rubbed at my back.
I take out a pen and paper
as I write down this ass moment
I notice my elbow messaging the ass on the table
as my pen goes from right to left.
If this weird ass play keeps up
it’s going to turn into a bizarre elbow, ass, back, hand, dry fucking
to the rhythm of my pen
to the rhythm of the music.
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10. |
Drugs Drugs Drugs
03:14
|
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|
I’ve been quite a fan of self medication.
Monday, my cat Boo kept me awake
wanting to play.
My cat and I both split a Valium.
Tuesday, Little House on the Prairie
drew a tear.
I steal a Zoloft from my roommate.
Wednesday, I watch Days of Our Lives
while walking on the treadmill.
After the strenuous workout
I was tired.
Crank really put the pep
back in my step.
Thursday, yesterday
I used up the last of my Grandmothers Vicadan?
for her broken hip.
Today, I got a paper cut,
luckily there was a fifth of whiskey.
Friday, I felt creative
bought a Mickey Mouse coloring book.
I drew a blank couldn’t decide
which color to use.
I drop two hit of acid.
Saturday, got some love in.
It was mediocre.
We then did a line of coke.
It really makes her moan,
and me, I feel like a man.
Sunday, went to a church potluck.
Normally, I find the food isn’t delicious
and the people are boring.
Pot makes the food tasty
and people hilarious.
I will admit to never
truly liking this ghetto life.
Sometimes I’d go to Barnes and Knobles
to read literature: People, Comso, Shape, and GQ.
The magazines inform me
of western culture and thought
through beautiful designer ads.
DRUGS DRUGS DRUGS
I want to be middleclass!
This is a dream I can indulge in
if only I had insurance.
A month later after the epiphany
I became blessed
with a well paying job
and benny’s.
Goodbye dealer!
No longer slinking in allies or
trying to make a deal
with people on dope
as they play their play station.
I deserve dry, air-conditioned lounges,
with diplomas framed on walls
instead a picture of Bob Marley
taking a toke.
I now got the perks
to afford a self medicated
middleclass life style.
Monday, I worked out.
Tired.
Gee, I think I suffer from ADD.
Nothing like snorting a little Ritalin
to get your day going!
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Veronica and the Mental Foreplays Cambria, California
Neither "Veronica" nor Brandon Follett can break the rules, because there simply aren't any that apply. They are
innocent.
Veronica and the Mental Foreplays, IS her imaginer Brandon Follett. It's as straightforward as a one to four person band, named after a blowup doll called Veronica.
... more
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