Marsha Marsha Marsha

These selections were featured in “The Contemplative Carrot Quarterly” as well as “Pizza Bagel Magazine” and “GQ”.

– – – – –

Date Thoughts

I’ll have the branzino (I hope she likes fish)

and your finest bottle of pinot (I hope she likes wine)

What are your specials? (I hope she’s special)

Sounds good but I’ll stick with the branzino (but not like retarded special)

and some more bread, please (Do I smell? Can she smell me?)

So what do you do for fun? (I really should have showered before this)

Ah, and do you make the candles yourself or just sell them? (just didn’t have time)

Well I would buy your candles for sure (can’t tell her about my hobbies, gotta lie)

I fuck raccoon snouts I was just doing it earlier I forgot to shower which is why I smell I do it all the time and yes they’re living coons I don’t fuck dead snouts that’s unsanitary I’m aware of the health hazards but it makes me happy and my friends tell me I gotta let loose so I’m trying to do that I’d love to make you watch sometime but I could only get hard if it was against your will so I hope you’re cool with that we could do it tonight after dinner I know a good dumpster where the coons hang and we could see if I could wrangle one I’ll hold you by the hair while I hump it’s stupid snot tunnel and shoot my viscous load down it’s rodent sinuses and gunk it up hey why don’t we just skip the dinner and go do this right now I’m all excited I can’t wait for you to meet my roommates (oh darn, the truth slipped out)

– – – – –

I Am A Toilet And This Is My Song

I am a toilet and I like my hot treats

Burble every morning while he sits on my seat

When my boy drops his stuff, man, it just can’t be beat

I wonder what he ate, it’s probably meat

Whatever, could be cheddar, as long as it’s sweet

On a Mexican night, I know he’s bringing the heat

I love to be a toilet, man, it’s so dang neat

– – – – –

An Actress, A Prison

My conjugal visit with Marsha didn’t go as planned

She stared at me blankly

I could sense her seething

We only had a half hour

so I started to take my pants off

She shut her eyes in disdain

I pleaded

she was silent

“Marsha Marsha Marsha!”

That used to cheer her up

Like I was Jan Brady

but she didn’t blink this time

She slid me a letter

it read, “I’m not Marsha”

I looked up and asked, “Judy?”

She slid me another letter

it read, “Nope, not Judy either.”

I scratched my head and then it came to me

“You’re Anne Heche.”

She slid me a final letter

“Bingo.”

“Where’s Marsha?”

“I’m playing Marsha.”

So that’s where she’s been.

“Wanna fuck?” I asked.

We fucked

The whole time she kept repeating,

“It’s all for research, it’s all for research”

She let me cum in her

The baby’s due in April

she’s naming it “Research”

– – – – –

Anne Heche


Allergies

Allergies

I will cruise through Beverly Hills like a hillbilly hijacking a hearse

shooting snot through a booger cannon,

a mucus drive-by,

blasting “The Beautiful People” by Marilyn Manson

wearing water wings and blackface.

I will smear the makeup off my face and into the blonde hair

of the ladies walking their bulldogs and their burberry bags.

I will scream like I’m on fire

and everything around me is also on fire

and all I can do is scream

and hope that somewhere,

water becomes sentient and capable of listening.

I will uglify this place

so that finally

the outsides look like their insides.

I will kiss the police when they arrest me,

grope their whose-it-what’s-its,

stick my tongue between two fingers and drool

bend over and hope they’re as horny as they are sadistic.

I will fling my shit like a chimp in the jailhouse,

plop it on the booker’s keyboard,

laugh like a toddler catching his breath.

I will speak eloquently at my trial,

wear a suit and tie,

squeeze chemicals in my hair,

whiten my teeth and sit upright

so they all know that I intended what I have done,

that the “Booger Bomber of Beverly Hills” is no psycho

but just a boy on the brink of banality

desperate for clarity through insanity

begging to be boxed away.

I will read like hell in the slammer,

Dickens, Dickinson, Dick Tracy.

I will fill my head with law knowledge

better than a Stanford grad,

become dangerous with words and persuasion,

discover loopholes and oversights,

crevasses and clerical errors.

I will dazzle my parole board,

make em laugh, make em cry

make em joke about hiring me at the clerk’s office!

I will be set free and immediately get my law degree.

I will be hired by billionaires to sue the little guy for slander.

I will win for them,

toast scotch in the executive lounge with the big boys,

get sloshed beyond reason and start to cry,

bawl my fucking eyes out

because what a fucking sell out

and the big boys will be baffled and slink away slowly

but I’ll sneak up behind my client on the walk from the bar to the escalade

and wring his bratty neck until blue and bruised

and as I stare at his empty eyes on the pavement

I will shoot a snot rocket into his mouth,

onto his rolex and pinstripes and comb-over.

I will live on the lam

hopping from freight train to freight train,

hitchhiking from city to city,

terrorizing CEO’s and poodle-women,

falsely tan rich kids and young execs.

I will be cornered by the cops in Columbus.

I will get gunned down in gaudy glory.

I will perish.

But

hey,

justice and history will be forged:

I’ll be talked about on blogs.

beverly-hills-sign


The Burn

Today’s selections were featured in “Farm Sauce: an anthology”, “The Glib Warlock Monthly”, and “Home and Garden”.

– – – – –

Rinse Cycle, 2015

Artists filter

bad experiences

through their creative lens

to make life more bearable

which is why

I put your cat in the washing machine

because that cat

was a bad experience for me

and the washing machine,

ahem,

was my canvas,

which killed

your fucking shit-town of a carpet beast

and made you cry

and so

life, more bearable.

– – – – –

Shmike & Shmike

My ex boyfriend,

let’s call him Shmike,

is dating another guy named Shmike.

Which is vomit-inducing

but

hey

I’m happy for him.

Happy for the shmikes.

Which is why I’m writing this poem

because I’m just so fucking happy.

– – – – –

The Burn

“My cunt is on fire”

She read to the class from her diary

“OUCH HOSE ME DOWN”

A woman alone

hungrily clawing to be saved

screeching her inner laundry out at her students

How does one get to this point?

How does a person reach such inner hell

and frigid loneliness

to literally cry out for help

in the form of a fireman dousing her vagina in hose-water story?

but a better question would be,

why don’t they screen for origami teachers better?

– – – – –

painting-cat


Not My Presidential Suite

These next poems (poems) were featured in “The Chartreuse Aunt” as well as “Crease Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –

Easy

If you buy me a drink

I’ll fuck you

If you say ‘hello’

I’ll fuck you

If you glance in my direction

I’ll fuck you

If you tell me you love me

I lost my phone

– – – – –

Not My Presidential Suite

I wanted the honeymoon suite

Yes, just for me

I like having a lot of space

for my birds

and my potato sculptures.

Yes, I travel with them

they are my light and joy.

I didn’t ask for this.

Not what I wanted.

Also Bush did 9/11

– – – – –

ESL

Repeat after me, class,

My horse-dad came on my baguette.

These clams have married my niece.

Leonard exploded and now I have all this cream.

I’ve lost all my pasta to Michelle and her grandma-husband, Phillip.

Please remove your pelican blog from my gong bath.

Steal nine grapes!

The mustard prince shares a Volvo.

Tell Brian to force lemons on the injured large boy.

– – – – –

presidential-suite1


I Poemed

These tiny word turdlets AKA “poems” were featured in “The Brownstone Bustier Quarterly” as well as “Old Wooden Spoon Monthly” and “Cat Fancy”.

– – – – –

Deep Down

If someone hurts you

makes you feel wrong

makes you feel alien

if they bully you

call you names

make you feel small

just remember

always remember

that deep down inside

of the farthest left cabinet in my bedroom

is where I keep the crossbow.

– – – – –

Every Life is a Miracle

I found a baby

Does anyone want it?

Yeah me neither

– – – – –

Steven’s Pissed About It

Claude is the name of a Frenchman or a hermit crab

that’s it.

There are no other kinds of Claudes.

There are tons of Stevens

but only two Claudes

and that’s why we gave Claude the prize for best name, Steven.

He’s suffered enough.

It doesn’t matter if “Steven” is objectively better as a name.

Claude doesn’t have anything

can’t you let him have this?

Christ, it’s a “Best Name Contest”

This doesn’t even matter.

Fine

go berate the judges, Steven

I’m sure that’ll help your case

I mean honestly it’s all political

If I had my druthers

I agree

Steven is a better name.

Sorry dude

Claude’s just a cooler guy

and yeah

I know

it’s not a “Cool Guy Contest”

it’s a “Best Name Contest”

but dude

– – – – –

pie on a windowsill


These are the lyrics to “Faith” by George Michael replaced with the word “Cream”

– – – – –

Well I guess it would be nice
If I could touch your cream
I know not everybody
Has got cream like you

But I’ve got to think twice
Before I give my cream away
And I know all the cream you play
Because I cream them too

Oh but I
Need some time off
From that emotion
Time to pick my cream up off the floor

Oh, and that cream comes down
Without devotion
Well it takes a strong man baby
But I’m showing you the cream

Because I gotta have cream
I gotta have cream
Because I got to have cream, cream
I gotta have cream, cream, cream

Baby
I know you’re asking me to cream
Sayin’ please, please, please, don’t go away
You say I’m giving you the cream

Maybe
You mean every word you say
Can’t help but think of yesterday
And another who tied me down to lover cream rules

Before this river
Becomes an ocean
Before you throw my cream back
On the cream

Oh, baby I reconsider
My foolish notion
Well I need someone to hold me
But I’ll cream for something more

Yes I’ve gotta have cream
I gotta have cream
Because I got to have cream, cream, cream
I gotta have cream, cream, cream

Because I got to have cream
Oh yeah, cream
Got to have cream

Before this river
Becomes an ocean
Before you throw my cream back
On the cream

Oh, baby I reconsider
My foolish notion
Well I cream someone to hold me
Cream I’ll wait for something more

Because I gotta have cream
I cream have cream
Because I cream cream have cream, cream, cream
Cream gotta have cream, cream, cream

– – – – –

George "creamboy" Michael


These Poems Are All About Cheryl

This next series was featured in “The Beans Are For The People” online column as well as the new literary publication, “Sharon Gless is Anyone’s Guess!” Also featured in “The Penny Saver”.

Cheryl

Um,

Cheryl?

There’s cum on your knees.

No really.

You’ve got cum knees, Cheryl.

Why would I lie to you?

Fine.

Do what you want.

You’ve got the cum knees regardless.

I’m getting you a towel.

Two towels.

One for each knee.

– – – – –

All This Will Be Yours Someday, Princess Lulu

She makes candles

and jewelry

and sometimes soap.

Visit her website

they are very expensive

and when she dies

her pomeranian will inherit everything.

Lucky bitch.

– – – – –

I Found Them, They’re Mine Now

I have several of your donuts

and I will not be sharing

because I deserve these

for existing all these years

without physically harming you.

And you,

you deserve to watch me.

Watch me eat all of your donuts.

and cry.

We’ll both cry

because we’ve both been wronged somehow.

But my tears will be tempered

with the glaze of your donuts.

Fuck you, Cheryl.

Wipe off your god damned cum knees.

– – – – –

sometimes soap


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 458 other followers