We're bringin' it back
Making the five-seven-five
In a new decade

I could blame my own
genetics, but irish and
temper, cross to bear

brain waves ascatter
two heads upon a platter
how shall I decide?

these captcha visions
are better than Burroughs' clips
inert poetry

I herein declare
thank Janis for your archives
these bytes don't crumple

gin saturation
tissues expelling toxins
within molecules

ahoy ye matees
I abandonded ship for shore
yet missed the tumult

Ash with a chainsaw
Evil Dead in two-ish weeks
Man date with my bros

it's a tradition with
the gay stormtroopers comments
I should say I know

Nippress and Ash
Gay Sex
All day long

Bob should be joinin'
Soon enough he'll be coinin'
A five-seven-five

all work and no play
almost make me a dull boy
and then Grimes reminds

Haikuin' again
Rekindling this romance
Just what I needed...

heh heh heh heh heh
oh shit, no comment sometimes
you just gotta hear it

Nuclear-powered masturbatory reflexivity elongation enhancement.
Get it now while supplies last.
Satisfy your wife and 6 mistresses tonight with your glow-in-the-dark swollen spongy tissue.
Thank you Wal-mart.

too many goodbyes
too many goodbyes, to folks
the words always hurt

mouse ears. beach movies.
america's girl next door.
you'll be missed Annette.

thank you Margaret
for your service to the world.
goodbye iron gal.

you see that wave that
is the icon of this site
the wave keeps going...

david rushkoff said
the reason soap operas
do badly is the now

generation lost
the sense of narrative, I
say, "The Real World" then

and so the world turns
the ending of dark ages
a new day dawning

your angry wit is
a dose of medicine to
a world gone dormant

that is what I want
to see, this place to keep the
tradition alive

the wit of the net
as it once was, not this thing
sanitized, made flat

I'm so serious
Someone is sitting somewhere
and this is their job.

So that ViaSPAMgra
Pretty sure it's not a bot
Mechanical Turk?

You know what I love
About this old old damned site?
Just its existence.

not just at easter
in one form or another
we all bear our cross

well at least old me
hasn't lost the art of that
beloved trick the typo

I liked the idea
people had memories but
now social chagers

want to change the one
great meaning what it means to
be "human" dear grace

well as long as I'm
here irritating people like
I've done for years then

maybe the insult
meter can keep the natives
finding new ideas

my inspiration
has become less vigorous
on many levels

but must the story
end, the narrative die and
the words stop coming

this place is dead

just like kerouac
said to bill lush, you can't quit
the shakespeare squad man

well this is how it
becomes quieter, the board
becomes a ghetto

alright then, fuck it
morons abound and robots
I quit, goddammit

Terrorism

Cultists unleashing
into underground tunnels
canisters of sarin

Anaphylaxis

Mast cells releasing
into human blood vessels
granules of histamine

today's generation
someone said we are the last
to know what albums

are, and so Gen Y
seems to like albums for
some reason...

God bless Gen Y about albums

in the world of run
away machinery don't
we miss "irony?"

I resign to show
up the pariah gives his
regards, spam as art

essence in absence
a vacant hallway, no doors
still I remain... torn

t'ignore the spammer
becomes easier with age
I miss Drophammer

plumes of smoke ascend
kiss the ring motherfucker
from my wedding vow

eat, smell, fuck, fart, shit, fly, be free.
Where stinks the tuna land, I do love the.
Upside backwards, keep rolling still.
Pop the green, 10 milligram, fun-loving pill.
Whiskey guzzle, nuzzle muzzle, brown liquid down.
This rhyme, do shove where honey goes, and become you will a clown.
Yell do not these words to be a flame fiery.
Picked you did, 8 boogers of Syd, else a liar be.
Down them gobble, bobble wobble, wallow in the lard.
Too wild you be, and we you free, out into the yard.
Your pretty butt, now you do strut, out in the world to roam.
Confined never more to the fucking bore of a greenhouse silicon dome.

some guy named forest
gump sat on a bench and said
life is like a box

and he was stupid
or so they said but he was
buddha, 1990s

from freaking alabama

Poetry is dumb.
Like, it's just so like stupid.
It's like, y'know, dumb.

It is a pleasure to
Be greeted by
Harry in the morning

Country music is
not uncivilized. Problem's
the whiny twang sound.

Cat steps on my boob
She puts all her weight on it
Oww oww oww oww oww!