Asked for something with a bit of a bubble,
To accompany a shot of Bullit;
But she decided to pour a double,
Now my finger’s on that glass trigger, getting read to pull it.
Well Mama always said “Darlin’, sugar makes you sweet”.
And I took that so close to heart, I now have diabetes.
But I’d rather be violently kind to everyone who meets me
Than keep both of my feet.
Sure, you’re looking super slick, kid,
But I hope you’re crazy quick, kid,
‘Cause even though you’ve got a thick lid
Those inner voices are awfully wicked.
My mind is like that of a priest,
So pure, and ne’er with thoughts demonic.
I’m a gentle lover, far from a beast,
So my heroic archetype isn’t one Byronic.
And I’m always genuine and sincere,
My personality – the opposite of sardonic.
These are all reason why, my Dear,
I’m so talented, respected, and iconic.
(And just in case it isn’t clear-
This entire poem is completely fucking ironic.)
On a mundane Monday morn
Molly Mahone was marked for murder.
But her husband hadn’t hushed his horn,
And so he hand’t heard her
By than blue-eyed, black-haired bastard Baxter Barney.
A crazy cretin
Who killed a couple Catholic kids in the Kingdom of Kilarney.
I never go spelunking
I’d much rather be damn-near starving,
As it makes the heart more vicious in beating,
And fingernails sharper in their carving.
Oh yes, before exploring any cave
So perpetually warm, and cavernous,
It’s the hunger that makes me crave,
For it makes the sex rather ravenous.
There’s a troublesome tumor
Growing beneath my denim.
Stealing all the blood from my limbs,
And leaving them numb.
So I’m frantically seeking the anti-venom –
Being that little noise you make
Right before you cum.
I spend a lot of time trying to not
Spend so much time lost in thought,
So I empty my mind by staring at clocks:
Which is pretty much a perfect paradox.
Although these poems to some may be
No more than cluttered clumps of words,
My advice in reply to the Peanut Gallery
Is “Save some nuts for the fuckin’ birds”.
You’re from California?
Hop on the gold I-5.
Heading Southbound, just fuckin’ drive.
If you make it to Baja,
That’s not quite far enough.
Ya’ gotta go to Mexico to pull off the bluff.
So your from sweet Chicago?
Head down to O’Hare.
Buy your ass a ticket, destionation:
And while your flyin’
Away on that aeroplane,
Know that in a new city, you won’t have to explain.
Born’n’raised down South?
City of Tallahassee,
Found yourself hitched to some sweet lil’ lassie?
Well, you can sell all your shit, and buy yourself a boat.
Hit the sea – all alone,
For as far as you can float.
Or if you –
Burnt every bridge; back home in Colorado.
You can move to Boston,
And be afraid of your own shadow.
Drown yourself every night in gin and rye,
Just tryin’ to finalize
Your good ol’ fashioned (All-American)