Category Archives: Poetry


It’s the taste
The taste of paste
Your diet’s based
On tasting paste
You live in haste
Your tests are aced
You rats have raced
For the taste of paste
Delusion based
Your life’s a waste
So get shitfaced
And taste some paste

Forensic Evidence

Forensic evidence
Left in haste
A calling card
Below the waist
It’s found in a girl
Who needed a spanking
And matches a sock
The perp used for wanking
A dollop of jizz
After taking a life
In an impromptu snizz
Carved with a knife
You find it in mouths
Vaginas and asses
Making David Caruso
Put on his sunglasses


Ingrown butt hair
Every follicle
Every molecule
Miracle Whip bubble wrap
Now part of taking of taking a crap
For when I shit
I need to sit
Too much to bear
This ingrown butt hair

Parmesan Girl

Parmesan Girl, don’t take amiss
No heartbreak of psoriasis
For compliments you won’t be fishin’
Once I see your skin condition
‘Tain’t poison oak or mites or fleas
That makes you slough your dermal cheese
Diagnosis autoimmune
Yeah, you’re the one I want to poon
Up and down I take a gander
At your lovely flakes of dander
We’ll have hot sex when I am ready
But first please top this here spaghetti

Those Ould Turds in the Liffey

This past weekend, I was rummaging around in my closet and found a notebook I kept during the sixth months I spent in Europe. I wrote this poem while I was in Dublin in April 1994.  I think it captures the spirit of what was in my head and heart at the time. Enjoy.

Those Ould Turds in the Liffey
By D. Leary O’Tremmins
Cabbage and potatoes and o’ercooked carrots
Pigs and sheep that are led to the slaughter
Digested by boyos after too many pints
Hang their arses off quays and unload in the water
As the river e’er flows taking them eastward
This dung that the soused lads have been shittin’
I pray to Lord Jaysus that the Irish Sea waves
Will whisk them godspeed to those Fuckpigs in Britain

Milk the Prostate of Human Kindness

Milk the Prostate of Human Kindness
‘Tis a vector for what’s good and fair
For I must state that what’s behind us
Is the nectar of our derrière

I press my digit against the flower
That’s in my tail, my honeysuckle
At first I fidget and then full power
Right past the nail and to the knuckle

Quite on a lark with deep affection
I sally forth, I can’t resist
She now is marked for my inspection
With a stripe due north of lips I’ve kissed

What are the chances my little birdie
Less sweetly sings as a soiled dove
And can a Sanchez be so dirty
If it’s a thing that’s done with love?

I Know Why the Caged Bird Singed

A flipped-out flapper, Zelda was
Born into luxurious wealth
But money mattered not because
It could not save her mental health

For reasons hers, she married Scott
Another lapse of inhibition
Together with that wordsmith sot
They thumbed their nose at prohibition

From bottoms up to bottomed out
The onset of insanity
While Scott got drunk, she’d scream and shout
‘Twas time to throw away the key

One night a fire took Zelda’s life
A taste of past and future hell
This tragic end for F. Scott’s wife
Burned crisp inside her padded cell

More Fun from the Early Nineties

It was perhaps unsporting of me in my last post to lampoon the appalling of writing in other people’s Usenet posts. Not only that, it was an egregious case of throwing stones in glass houses. Back then, when I was arguably still young and undeniably immature, I fancied myself a poet and posted my stuff on the net.

If anyone is inclined to blackmail me, they don’t have to have gotten a hold of that photo of me jumping naked out of a cake at Pablo Escobar’s bachelor party (which isn’t even all that damning because I had a cute butt back then). They need only do a newsgroup-archive search on Google to find poetry of mine that would make a Vogon blush. Can’t this information be sealed in the interests of national security?

Actually, there was poem I wrote back then that isn’t completely worthless. I think the reason it turned out to be something other than complete drivel was the subject matter. For once, I decided to shift focus away from my usual existential “woe is me” crap that plagued my other work.

Much of the credit goes to my friend Kirk for this. We were hanging out talking one night, up late after ingesting large amounts of…uh…caffeine, yeah, that’s it. He told me of a news story he read about a young girl who died on a merry-go-round.

What happened was that a poisonous snake had crawled inside one of the wooden horses before it was crated and shipped. When the horse was attached to the carousel, the snake was still inside. The girl got on and the ride started. The snake, irritated by all the commotion, decided to register a complaint in her exposed leg. The girl called out to her father, claiming the horse was biting her. The father, realizing that children are frequently full of shit, decided to ignore her. The ride ended and she fell over dead.

How awfully tragic. How delectably Freudian. Here was a poem that was just dying to be written. Enjoy:

The Biting Horse
“The horse keeps biting me Daddy,” she cried
As the carousel went around and around
Her father just waved as the horses swept by
As he heard her call out, he made this reply
“Hush yourself girl; try enjoying the ride.”
“But the horse keeps biting me Daddy,” she cried

And the horse that she rode went up and went down
Where inside lay snakes in the hollowed-out wood.
The motion upset them and they struck where they could
“The horse keeps biting me Daddy,” she cried
“Wooden horses can’t bite,” so her pleas were denied

And after that, she made not a sound
But the serpents kept biting and tears filled her eyes
As poisonous fangs penetrated her thighs
Darkness consumed her from a numbness inside
As she felt the horse biting on that horrible ride

When the ride stopped, she slid to the ground
Her father ran to her and knelt on the floor
The poor little girl was breathing no more
The words haunt his life from the day that she died
“The horse keeps biting me Daddy,” she cried.