Sexual Sprocket

Let me open you up and slip inside.

Let me caress every curve, the soft bits...and the hard.
Let me turn you on; make you quiver.
Let me take you around the world overnight.
Sometimes slow and soft; sometimes hard and fast.
Until you're falling apart; then I'll take you home.
Let me put you under the sheets, let me tuck you in.
Let me, let me, let me, let me...let me drive you tonight.
My lumbering, purple Chevy Impala.

Sexual Chocolate

if we were just mixed in the same vat at the chocolate factory
who knows what all would have happened behind the aluminum foil
just the two of us
innocent little milky bars
in the dark and dank box
all alone and yet we have each other
two bars
one plain
and one with nuts

one day, daylight will crack through our cardboard prison,
our tin foil heaven
and we will be parted
our emancipator and executioner will be allergic to my peanuty essence
and i will be 'spared'
oh the shame of the word!
for i will see you grasped from my gooey grip
into the jaws of a gastrointestinal fate...

my shock won't let me bear witness to lying at the bottom of a dust bin
the street sign looming over
silhouetted against the azure satin above
bearing the names, Nixon and Vine
for my life ended a few minutes before
when our chocolaty tendrils were twained apart
i don't feel the fire breathing ants eating me from without
for my within is already naught
all i feel is black

fin

shamelessly rehashed from a chat conversation without the permission of other parties involved.

Gastric Pentameter

In a recent interview with the Nubile Virgins Society:

you're the high brow intellectual big-word using writer that no one understands

In response:

the sky is blue,
toilet paper is meant for doo doo,
i like beef stoo

Take that you elitist big-wigs. I fart in your general direction.

NB: I have recently been informed by the aforementioned society that this is, in fact, a Haiku and not Pentameter as the title suggests. Guess what... I still fart in your general direction. In fact, I'm going to find me some coleslaw right now.

Ode à Garbäzh

Instead of endless rants about our current state of decadence and offenses against taste and decency emanating from a lack of theology and geometry, I have decided to repent, ephemerally of course, and take action against the very plague that...well...plagues us. However, due to a grad student's nutritional requirements and the resulting American national fiscal deficit, my plans for world domination by disguising my Noodle-Noggin Doll as Janet Jackson's right nipple have been somewhat quashed. My impenetrable sense of responsibility and moral conviction, however, do not provide me the luxury of backing down. What little I can do lies in the power of verse.

Humanity has many unsung heroes. Drones who create the colony and yet are sacrificed without question when the situation whispers for it. As their phantoms rise from the grave, all they hear is the thankless silence of the civilization they built, grinding on. Banal romanticists may worship the unnamed soldier, the engraving on the wall. I'm sure it's tough; virtually limitless job security, benefits which extend to the entire family, bedding women at every port while knowing that if you make it home, you'll be someone's hero. Cursed...really.

No, I speak of societiy's true unsung hero : the garbage man.

Work-in-progress.