Dango

The Great RocknRoll Mash-up

There came a time when 12 record producers
realizing that twelve rooms of recording engineers
couldn`t help them rehash hash
turn shit to Smash

searched for a Singer of Merit
such that real-view men and women
who fed non-stop from online hawkers
file-sharers and pajama-wearing flim-flam men
would look up in awe and reach for wallets

finally devising a plan to construct
composite-DNA Super Groups via
scrapings of Bob Dylan`s epidermus,
Beatles`hair samples (later identified as
those of a John Hall Jr. from Abilene, Texas),
nail clippings from the third toe of Jimi`s right foot
(cut by one of his quick-thinking, good-time
drug buddies as his body turned blue)
a flake of drool from Elvis`
pill-debauched easy chair

Oh the record men cast their nets far and wide
and came back with many fruits of their labor,
developing a way of cloning the swerve and sway
and sense of menacing danger that had drawn
fans far and wide to buy their lps,
mashing these traits with those of
the business minded lapdogs
they preferred to lunch with.

That`s how we got Maroon 5, your Honor.
And that`s the honest truth.

An Oath in Seven Shades of Blood

Pei Mei has inspired me and the tutelage
under which, famished, the Bride learned
to punch through wood and use chopsticks,
I will use as a model for perseverance,
cutting a bloody swath through underworld
gangs of Tokyo with cool names like
`88 Nintendo and Yab Yum Honey.

Nothing shall dissuade me or in any way
detract from my effort, men in black robes
shall bow before me and reveal their secrets
as to their maker, the chinese characters
arranged like insects on a griddle will
show their true colors, no longer a riddle
It is all part of my plan
and furthermore, my fate.

closed for winter vacation

Please take this time to aquaint yourself with poems here and there, reaquaint yourself with old chestnuts, and those moldy b-sides. Merry Christmas.

google

these are the bulk of my paltry hits
`roppongi, massage , girl`
`sexy blonde showing tits`
`half white half philipino`
`fenway girls flashing tits`

with itchy fingers I`m sure they dont linger
to read philosophical bits

should I add a few pictures
and market a site for dimwits?

Tough Guys Weekend

The computer dial is big,
the tension is high
Bronson with a thick black moustache
looking mexican, playing a russian
KGB, highest office
utmost secrecy, cold war rules
feint and pull back, distract.

Permed out blonde with ample breasts
and straight blue eyes, russian spy
(american double agent)

torn between
love of country and
passion for a man
who won`t play nice with her
but has a thick black moustache.

hitmaker 3000

He`s sitting in the mixing room draped with paisley bedsheets, huge clouds of ganja stank loops of Prince reeling to distant funkadelic groove armaddas sailing Babbylish seas. A little silver Ellington lining crisping the tuxedo and adding elegance to the affair, maggots under the skin at a state wedding. The accoustic he picked up a couple weeks before in a fit of Blues delta surf passion, all reflections of hot sticky `lanta bouncing off in clear funky waves. Clearing throat and singing a high falsetto in no particular time or key, work work work it in later, hey ya.

the writer`s options

There were several versions of the same self and they all competed indiscriminately at first, jumping off the walls in a race to see who could get ahead.

There was the sensitive nature lover, austere and rosy cheeked, jumping logs in a wild quest for the holy egret.

There was the ladies` man, suave and uninstilled with the fear of others that the pale faces along the outside boundaries had taught his sleepless self to be, rich and brooding over lost and supposed great fortunes.

There was arrogant Mr. Ixp who never waited on the red carpet and whom all the press corps followed from destination to destination, sweeping glances and ill conceived snapshots into their pockets like mice after crumbly cheese.

There was the archaeologist and wine-swoven adventurer who crossed the desert recklessly once on twin camels and a pack of Lucky Strikes, Bogart style.

There was the artist who swirled and mixed cray-pas into wistful hippy chaste madonnas and circumnabulous clouds.

The realist who threw up his hands and said fuck it, live for the day as there won`t be many others.

The deep penetrating sensationalist who wrapped himself in the pleasures of a throbbing hard-on.

These were a few of the parlour tricks played by this overactive mind, twiddling its thumbs in the late afternoon, looking over fields of cotton through waves of hazy bourbon farts. Charlie K. sighed and slipped limply on to a sloppy finish.

to midnight raver

have you ever noticed the space between a breath and an egg, driving in a upside car, down the glitchless road, pavement on asphalt tires like train wires, guiding. Did you realize once or twice when you stopped for breath that the air was heat and threatened to shrivel you, spineless, pail and scatter your ashes. It is easy to forget those days, when we felt superhuman, a nova of pure light and techno pulsing through mind addled easy street.