Not My Presidential Suite

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

– – – – –


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

– – – – –


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.

– – – – –


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.


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

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

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”.




There’s cum on your knees.

No really.

You’ve got cum knees, Cheryl.

Why would I lie to you?


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

New Poems

A lot of people don’t know this about me because it isn’t true but I’m a poet. Here’s some of my new work. They will be featured in “The Stem and the Cum Quarterly” as well as “Crow Mother International” and “Sports Illustrated”.



Roses are red

Violets are blue

Give me back my fucking daughter.


You said I was a dick or a prick

or one of those ick words

and I should apologize to your roommate

The dumb bag of tits

What? Am I supposed to apologize to the toilet every time I shit?

It’s a toilet

What I mean to say is

Your roommate is a toilet


Too bored to think

too bored to stink

too bored to not be racist, ya chink

too tired to write

too tired to fight

too tired to go and do butt stuff in the night

too dead to do

too dead to be

too dead to lap up a young child’s pee

that’s all I’ve got, guys.

Black People Don’t Exist

The hetero-normative racist confusion smiddling about in the ethos of today’s giraffe community has made me question the validity of Dr. Hugh Janus and his dim-witted medical minions’ claims that include the notion that no cats have real teeth, all men named Terrence are on rogaine, and that black people don’t exist.

These egregious ideals are egregious. The most bold and filthy yuck-yuck part of Janus’ statements is the idea that we are supposed to just take this lying down, on our stomachs, without any pillows and a total lack of lube. I for one am not going to do that, Doc. I believe in freedom.

Underneath these Janus follower idiots’ rantings and ravings, however intelligent and lucid, is an insidious underbelly of being correct. No, a cats’ tooth is not comparable to that of a wonderful human’s tooth and that my friend is why I write articles.


Brief, Trite, Poop Ramblings on Depression

Imagine every morning as you wake up, someone takes a shit on your forehead.

Just as your eyes are crustily prying open and you waft into consciousness, a big wet turd greets you for the day. And instead of screaming in disgust and anger you just wipe it away routinely and proceed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And every so often, scattered throughout the day, at random intervals, poop is flung from out of nowhere right in your face and you just have to pretend like it didn’t happen.

No one else around you is getting doody-bombed every hour so they can’t really relate. Whenever you try to confide in someone about the constant dooky-flingings, it just seems like whining to them.

turds are coming

That’s what depression is for me. An overwhelming sadness that washes over my body throughout my daily life. I could have a wonderful lunch with a friend, be feeling light-hearted and level, and suddenly without explanation the tide rolls in causing confusion and misery. Raping me in the feelings with a gangrenous dick of bitter hatred and shame.

It’s like a contradictory drill sergeant commanding me to waste my life in a toilet of angst.


I know that misery can turn into a self-righteous cycle wherein you lie in bed all day and make yourself sad again and again by embracing your depression as a kind of a character trait but please believe me when I say that I truly do not want to be a depressed person. I desperately want to be happy, or not even happy, just NOT DEPRESSED.

But I don’t have a say in the matter. Depression is like a voice-over written by somebody else. I plead and plead with the director to take out the fucking voice-over because it’s making the movie shitty. But he’s a hack who went to NYFA so he places narration over every boring scene in the annoying film of my life.

depression vo 1

depression vo 2

depression vo 3

depression vo 4

depression vo 5

Sometimes my only choice is to embrace the depression. To melt into the quicksand and lie slothful in sadness. It’s like I’m wrestling with the devil until I just can’t anymore, so I pause the match so that the two of us can lie in bed together and watch the entire “Gay & Lesbian” section on Netflix.


I often struggle with figuring out if my depression is something that happens to me that I could eventually overcome, or if it’s just how my brain is wired. I can only hope it’s the former.



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