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Mechanistic Lover

by Veronica and the Mental Foreplays

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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.
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?
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.
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!!!!!!!!
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.
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.
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.
CK1 02:09
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.
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.
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!


words by Brandon Follett
music by Veronica and the Mental Foreplays


released August 11, 2011

Brandon Follett on vocals
Josh Kindelberger on bass
Isaac Bonn on drums
Allyson Wuenschel on viola


all rights reserved



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.
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