MolotovJust a lighter, aMolotov
tissue, a forty and Molotov dreams and I could start an infernal variable some pyrotechnic fooly cooly and no, not a riot.
Just a staff, a shuriken, and a plasma rifle, and people would start bleeding respect from cubed holes in their hermaphrodite bodies and no, not a video game.
Just a butcher knife, a broken timer, and an oven mitt and I could bake my life away, batches of doughy-soft crusts of fuck-it and no, not suicide.
Just a condom, twenty to suck, and a mechanical
SuckerChiseled, the girl that moves in my cathode ray tube, chips collecting on my tongue as I sit on this rustic recliner and zombify.Sucker
You stride in as a pony would and hop on my unbalanced lap, laughing softer than I could ever be.
I half-smile explicitly as I drool over the question of how I want your flesh: steamed, scrambled or jubilee.
ButterscotchCome on, I want toButterscotch
see your portals, your candy
pink vortexes,
unleash sinew stretching beasts
from the virgin tissue of
those chubby cheeks and unpuckered mouth.
You have the chance
to leave my gouged-out chest
on the floor and
my wrists floating out the door
in handcuffs.
A chance to say goodbye.
Instead, smog; opaque,
that familiar smell.
I haven't been smoking. Yet you can see it
rising from my heavenbound knees
like illuminated sulfur smokestacks
in your room at 2 a.m., a
The Guided PassionI would like to have a word with my fellow Christians for a minute.The Guided Passion
The week that Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of Christ makes its official debut is now upon us. As you likely well know, the film has created quite a stir in both the religious and civil rights communities. Yet while some groups have eagerly reserved entire theaters purely for the showing of the film, other groups have criticized it under the fear that it promotes and will inspire Anti-Semitism. The debate rages on.
It is not my business to tell you whether The Passion is Anti-Semitic or not. As many others, I have not seen the film myself. But there
Grim Penance It was raining, pouring like a Biblical event on the sinners. Rain hit my face, slid off the edges of my hat in waves. It felt Biblical, certainly. I wanted to turn my eyes upward and let the water beat twin holes into my brain. I imagined I’d feel it happen with a child’s look of wonder pointed at the clouds. A stupid, silly grin too. The day I met Jack Silver, and by association Conrad Reynolds, was memorable not for the God-wrath behind thunderclaps, but for the way it smelled. Old. Musty. Missing that rebirth in air composition I associated with storms. So I blame the smellGrim Penance
--
--
living reflection of a dream
PYON
over here now.
--
Don't tell me what the !poets are doin'...
thanks.
HERE'S THE UBER RULES!
1. DEAL WITH IT AND SHUT UP!
2. DON'T PASS THIS ON OR GOD WILL KILL A BABY!
3. YOU MUST IGNORE THIS MESSAGE!
4. HATE PEOPLE IN PUBLIC! PUNCH A PREACHER!
5. YOU SHOULD MOST DEFINATELY SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY!
REMEMBER, THIS IS ABOUT ME HATING YOU AND YOU DEALING WITH IT!
SO GET OUT THERE AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!
*this hatred was started by ~Jesus
--
it's the beginning of the song god forgot to write.
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