Category Archives: Poetry

Summer Reruns

My brain is a bit frazzled so I can’t come up with any fresh material today. Just so I don’t leave y’all completely in the lurch, here’s a poem I wrote a couple of years ago making its Poison Spur debut.

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Edward Scissorhands at the Petting Zoo

Pools of fresh blood
With fur afloat
Sliced-up llama
And lamb and goat
Punctured bladders
Are spewing piss
His friendly touch
Has gone amiss

The bleats of pain
Have made him weep
Arteries gush
And organs seep
“There there,” he says
And pats its head
Which comes clean off
Another dead

O woe to him
With scissored hands
Now caked with gore,
Sinew, and glands
Do not assume
A spelling error
When reading this:
‘Twas shear terror

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Going out on a Limb

I don’t like it when pandas die. I know this may not be a popular position, but I have never been one to shy away from the tough issues. Several weeks back I read an article about a panda who was released back into the wild, and died shortly thereafter. I wrote song lyrics about how this tragedy affected me on a deeply personal level. I would like to share these words with you now so that you too will see how important it is for cute animals to survive. Enjoy.

I just polished off another cold beer
I get in my car and I put it in gear
Plowing through pedestrians, I feel quite ecstatic
Got my hand on the stick though I drive an automatic

Get drunk, beat off, and kill
By Jove, I think I will
I’m just that kind of guy
But dead pandas always make me cry

Take albino from the bar to the tanning salon
I lock her in the booth and turn the power on
Some onanistic lovin’ as I’m laughing at her plight
She is not the only one who is bubbling white

Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Your holy water’s swill
I answer Satan’s call
But dead pandas always make me bawl

Chugging down a 40 in the pediatric ward
If a machine saves lives then I’m pulling out its cord
And if you haven’t guessed, it’s not just happenstance
That I’m doing all this with my hand down my pants

Get drunk, beat off, and kill
I’ll never get my fill
I am the one you scorn
But dead pandas always make me mourn
Get drunk, beat off, and kill
Indulge me this one thrill
Forgive my homicide
For dead pandas show my tender side
They do!

Rhesus Reveille

My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
I fling poo
My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
I fling my poo at you

Oh do you like to fling poo?
Oh yes, I like to fling poo
Where do you like to fling poo?
I fling my poo at you.

My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
I fling poo
My bowels filling up
My bowels filling up
I fling my poo at you…

A Poem Inspired by the Art of Thomas Kinkade

Frottage in the Cottage

No mere glass could dare suffice
For toasts of Season’s Cheer
‘Tis jug and box of Gallo wine
Before I draw you near

My red-stained mouth makes me look like
Some sated woodland beast
Though belly filled and senses dulled
This wolf has yet to feast

For though the hearth with amber glow
Warms all within the room
Frigidity inside your heart
Makes it feel like a tomb

You treat my touch, my rubs, my gropes
Like some atrocity
Not even my most heartfelt slap
Can bring you back to me

I know you wish to spurn my love
Go running for the door
It’s only fair I let you know
Of all that lies in store

‘Tis many miles through the snow
Until the nearest town
Beware of Jack Frost’s famished heart
His love will hunt you down

His chill will numb and sap your strength
I know the way he’s sinned
So shall you, he’ll part your thighs
With scythe-like wintry wind

And when you’re found by passers by
I have no doubt they’ll say
“What a tortured, selfish face
She’s better off this way”

Nowhere Near Godliness

I finally broke down and spent my hard-earned money to have someone do what I am apparently incapable of doing myself: cleaning my apartment. I love how my place looks. Betty loves how my place looks. My cat is less enthusiastic. She hasn’t seen the place in its current condition for quite some time and it must seem barren to her.

I’m not quite crazy enough to ask my cat’s permission to hire a cleaner but it would be nice if she had some opportunity to speak her mind after the fact. Unfortunately, my cat (like most) is incapable of uttering anything more intelligible than a plaintive meow, which could mean anything from “I have fleas” to “I have cancer.”

Because of this, I have decided to channel Dr. Seuss on her behalf.

I do not like this nice clean flat
I do not like ’cause I’m a cat

I like the stains from vomit spewed
I like the fridge with year-old food
I like the dishes in the sink
I like that lovely bathroom stink
I like the bread crust hard as rock
I like that crumpled spooged-in sock
I like the drain that’s clogged with hair
I like the trash strewn everywhere

But I do not like this nice clean flat
I do not like ’cause I’m a cat