Saturday, July 30, 2011

Upon Meeting a New Woman

He covered her face with the cottage creamy cheese and raspberry *truffle* ice cream they had ordered together, and now he stood back to determine his artistic prowess.

"Please await a sexual harassment suit," she said, and then she said:

"Did you put any of the strawberrie-"

"Raspberries," he interjected.

She nodded, and peered into his eyes to check whether he was speaking the truth.
"Raspberry ice-cream, maam," he peered back at her. "Nothing less for your excellency."

"Don't ever tell anyone," she said.
"Don't tell anyone which aspect of this?" he replied. She was leaving him, and he deserved to get at least that edge.

"Don't tell them what we did with the raspberry ice-cream."


Years later he was staring into that same scene. He knew it was possible that he had started to emulate aspects of her. Hell, let's just be upfront about it -- he was emulating her entire personality every night. Every characterism, every bodily movement of hers, her thought pattern he had been able to grasp during their short time together.

"I will never tell them what it's really like," he said to her.
"Selfish," she said, being cheeky, but clearly feeling secure.

There was note by a flute player, and then she was disappeared.

"Bring it on, fiesty-tits, bring it on," he said, unconsciously.

"My job is just serving the coffee buddy," said the new woman. "Good luck."

Friday, July 29, 2011

Cherry Tomatoes

A tear trickled down a cherubic cheek,
intimating this gross betrayal.
Quick to follow, the baby's painful shriek,
rejecting food 'cos of the tomatoes.

On halcyon days its mother had enjoyed
in groves of lemon thick as pies,
the largest of reddest fresh tomatoes
and fed herself slices from a glistening knife.

So panic now fully spread, who'dda thunk,
after those whole nine months bred?
That this baby would hate such tomatoes given,
'n weep with fury and see only red?

"It's a tomato, baby," says the mother,
trying to learn what the hell is wrong.
The baby flings the slice like a frisbee
that lands on his father's computer-side cheek.

Now both parents, panicking,
tend worriedly to their little king.
"Help me try and understand, dear God,"
says father, putting an arm around the mother's bod.

Finally, first words come from the baby's mouth:
not 'mama' or 'dada' or 'bubba boobboo';
but a pellet-like shot straight to their guts
it says, "I prefer the cherry tomatoes."

Curious, dumbfounded, they ask, slyly, "Oh, really?"
The baby just nods. Another tear down cherubic cheek.
"And why cherry tomatoes, not normal, nicely sliced
tomatoes like mommy likes?"
asks the mommy.

"Cos they *pop*" says the baby, smiling happily.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

inspired by a poem that was inspired by ween

so offline sky is totally dark,
no worries, just plug in the stars.
stars are in the cartridge you kept safe

what are we waiting for? let's put in the tape.

all i watch on netflix anymore is the universe
when they finally bring my hearse, let the lid
have an interior panel from the nice guys
at the planetariums i always go by.

coffin has a coffee-stand and a bed and a chair.
string looming from the roof that i can pull in case they need to know i'm not really dead.
i connect online in my grave and then peer at a wall;

at somewhere behind there, someone poorer than me's bones.

Got to find out what the GF is doing
now that I'm dead, it's all open for her.
She can do anything. So I send her an email from a pseudonym,

complimenting her.
Saying she's awesome.
Everything I should have done

before I actually died.

Response to the Elephantine

Nasal twine sleepy like child mind merely shaky.
Harrumphs are for grandads, not you or me.

Poison everyday, deep inside my soul
injected by, I thought, simpletons
then realized -- other souls.

Combative stance was held, for an hour or two.
Then the women from the woods came
and said "This party is boring."

So then I had to go.

(for the record:)

This party didn't register
that highly in my mind.

Guess since my mind's always partyin'
very hard to register any Time.

I just run to the beat of the clocks
or I run to the beat of the casiotone
or I run to the beat of Andromeda dancing with the Milky Way.

Or I run to the beat of nothing so cosmic,
I just run to anyone's daily panic.
Like I'm some kind of Superman,
except just in the mind.

Gotta cough really special some time in the future now,
better than all the other trite.
Heh, I'd love if that becomes my constant mantra
when I finally lose my mind.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Thurman's Error

Thurman's error is actually just a pretty funny non-sensical errorl, but I feel I need to document it due to the fact that we ended up with me posing a real knife at Thurman's neck, that night, when all the electricity was gone from Manhattan.

I'd spent the earlier part of the condition with good friends, who I noticed were having more fun together. Why I ever went to the bar and had to deal with Thurman after that was that it was, I guess, a pretty dark night, and I could have talked to anyone (honestly, how important was it?).

Instead I spent time debating with Thurman on Apples and Oranges.

I, as a software engineer, was the Apples (lulz bill gates, try as hard as you can, you will never make clever enough things. Wait. Bill Gates makes Apple computers, right??? Whatever, they probably fucked each other in the 80s.

I tell Thurman that I am an apple to his oranges. He doesn't take it well.

That was his error. He should have taken it.