Ways To Tackle Anger

vast feathery wings
if I had you
I could fly
away from it all.
As everything grows
fainter and fainter,
a part of me
on happy days
will fall asleep
like a baby dreaming
a heavy
spiral
dream.

Losing One's Marbles

I like to walk upside down
on the ceiling of my cranium
until the blood flows
into my head
and little pieces
of marble fall
scathingly out of my ear
each of them turning
their green marble faces
towards my giant eyes
to stick out their little tongues
and squeal, "sayonara, asshole!"

Too many cigarettes

Summer night,
even the stars wilt with your heat.
Even my nails begin to shred
silk-skin from my cheeks in strips
that curl like smoke.
Even love even rapture,
like dried ricefields fade,
like old paintings fade.
I even out my days
with matchsticks unevenly kept
on my table and I
have to light my cigarette
with the tip of an incense stick:
Two dim orange-drizzles glow,
Their smoke waltzing towards the ceiling
as my fingers spiral upwards to kiss
the curled silk-skin hanging
from my cheek even as I
breathe even as I
draw the smoke from
my cigarette even as
the inside of my mouth begins
to despise its own taste,
my lips begin to curl
at a passing girl.

Summer

For an autumnal love
Summer is a difficult time
Even the sunlight forgets
To cascade gently into my veranda
I remember
it used to slope down
Straight onto my nose
Like a tower of blinding light
Like a blinding kiss brightly spun
from the cold cold sun.

To walk again

When the day
Is done and gone
I'll wait again
For the sleeping dawn
To arise from flame
Like a phoenix bird
To walk again
Is not unheard

A dream about you

This is a story on drifting.

It is midday and I am dreaming. A summer wind hot with sleep has carried itself to the depths of our house, through rooms and corridors and windows that rattle like those old trucks you see sometimes when you're on the highway. It is a violent rattle. The sunlight followed in places----where it existed, it painted the walls with warmth, and one could feel the earth steal a slow sigh of comfort. And you in the bedroom, reading. I had given the book to you long ago, and you had been meaning to flip by it. You were just finishing off a stray page when I came in, but you did not look, and you did not smile. It was so beautiful outside I imagined everyone cartwheeling across the city in joyous celebration, it could have been so. I wouldn't have known, because I was looking straight at your eyes, and they were a little sad. Your pupils moved slowly as you read the page, like as if you couldn't concentrate. Through the curtains the sky shone a smiling white, vast and intense and fading into a creeping redness that seeped in through the corners, riding atop cigarette-smoke clouds. You had left me by now. The sound of your suitcase creaking as it swung, fading moment after moment is still fresh in my memory, I had bought the suitcase. It was green but you painted it colourful and wrote your initials on them in a handwriting deliberately unlike mine. I had chuckled at the time, and said how beautiful it looked. It did look beautiful, it is faded now. You are still here but you never leave the bedroom, you are a shackle, you are a chain. Nowadays I don't bother, I am a coward, I am a snail.

When you snore I creep silently out of the second floor window and drift. I have been to many clouds, I have named them. They disappear often but they always come back. They are the souls of stars. They have given me wishes and taken me closer to see the stars twinkling like giant white orbs of a million overwhelming moments, and one after another they hit me straight into my heart through the centre of my forehead and then I smile and say, "I am alright." They are true friends, the stars. I am especially fond of Orion, for they are there every night for me, whenever I look up. They are smiling and smoking cigarettes. I sing to them. They like drifting. In the mornings you magically disappear from your bedroom and I can smell your perfume on the pillow. It makes me soft and fuzzy and I grow blue and wish it was night so I could have a smoke on the terrace. And look at the stars.

You are now a creature I don't understand, and it confuses me. I fear you might be growing a tail. Sometimes I feel that disheartening bump on your ass. Your teeth are longer and you have produced hair on your pupils. I think I can safely say that you are different. And like a wild beast that hunts in the shadows of jaguar rain-forests, I fear you may disappear, slink away quietly into the night while I am busy drifting. Things have a knack of changing abruptly, especially atmospheres. I am now falling, and I can see the stars flashing across my face like bullets of light shooting upwards around me towards the sky. It is all too overwhelming----

I wake up and am thoughtful.

Eat

pussy

As you were by the door

I saw you walking the pavement
Your head lowered blank in a thought
I'm sure you were thinking of lovers
And all of that love that you bought
With the beauty in you that reverberates true
Across the walls of my living-room
And in the middle I sit trying hardest to fit
Into a chair that is not there
And I loved you so true and so bare
Your words they are so unfair.

Your feet they have taken you further
And you've seen what you can't ever touch
Or is that just a lie for me to believe
Does that, my love, amount to much?
The birds in the sky are just waiting to die
And fall whizzing into your hands
They're talking, my love, "come with us, above---
Flying in the bluest of sands."
But you have no belief in the air
Your breath is a diamond to share
Your words they are so unfair.

One day I left you forever
But you pleaded with me to come home
I laughed and I said, "only a matter of time,
How long can I be expected to roam?"
And then you stood by and said your goodbye:
"I'm with you wherever you're thrown."
But if that is so true and has anything to do
With you, then why do I feel alone?
But one must not give in to despair
And one mustn't believe in your prayer
For your words they are so unfair.

The Obnoxious Transvestite Society (Lithuania)

HELLO I AM MULA FISCHER DUNCAN. I AM THE PRESIDENT OF THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY FROM LITHUANIA. HERE AT THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY, OR OATS, AS WE LIKE TO CALL IT, WE ARE TERRIBLY OBNOXIOUS TO EVERYONE WE MEET, ESPECIALLY STRANGERS LIKE YOU. WHICH IS WHY IT IS PERHAPS APPROPRIATE TO STATE THAT I AM CURRENTLY WEARING A YELLOW SOCK ON THE END OF MY PENIS WHICH IS BEING HELD ALOFT BY A MIDGET. WE DO THESE THINGS TO STAND OUT FROM THE CROWD BECAUSE HELL YEAH! WE'RE OBNOXIOUS! AND IF YOU THOUGHT THIS MESSAGE WAS AN INITIATIVE TO RECRUIT MORE PEOPLE TO OUR SOCIETY, THINK AGAIN. WE DON'T WANT YOU. WE'RE OBNOXIOUS. NANANANANANANANANANANANANANANANA LULULU I FARTED. HERE AT THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY, WE ARE NOT TRANSVESTITES. IT'S JUST A NICE WORD. SORT OF LIKE "RUBBER" OR "UNFATHOMABLE". THIS IS MULA FISCHER DUNCAN FROM THE OBNOXIOUS TRANSVESTITE SOCIETY SAYING FUCK YOU! IT'S MY SANDWICH.

MINE.

The Winkle Foundation

Hey there. This is Lewis Von Winkle from the Winkle Foundation for overly attractive women. Here at the Winkle Foundation you, an overly attractive woman, will receive first and foremost the warmest of welcomes, even warmer than your family or a weekend in Egypt on a hot afternoon in June. But that is besides the point. What else would I get? Is what you are probably thinking. And if you weren't, well, you're definitely thinking it now, aren't you negro? I'm sorry, but in my country, 'negro' means 'beautiful'. So where was I? Ah yes. The au naturalle foot massage. The personal beach with a bubble-bath sea, and best of all: a night with me! Yes, here at the Winkle Foundation, the grandest prize for you, overly attractive woman, is a night well spent at the Stuff It Inn with your very own Lewis Von Winkle! Oh and I love you, and it was me who stole your tea-cushion. No, I'm not sorry. It makes for a great festive hat. And I like it. It keeps things festive around your head. Like eating a can of bread with the sharp end of a spoon. Ha you fell for it, didn't you? Here at Lewis Von Winkle, we share a laugh before we spy on you. This is the Winkle Foundation, saying peace out, fleece in, mexico, pelvis girdle, space-tha-fuc-disco shit-graze dig mother bitchin'-funk-a-doodle-doo!

Cream Cheese Sex Clinic

Hi, I'm Marcy Chadman from the Cream Cheese Sex Clinic. Here at Cream Cheese Sex Clinic, we clinically cheese out your sex cream, with an innovative alternative to a vacuum cleaner and we call it the Mexican. The Mexican comes in five sizes: tequila, tequila, tequila, tequila and large can of tacos. Not just that, we also have a special lump of a prize for all our patrons and slaves! Breast cancer! It's the new way to evolution! Here at Cream Cheese Sex Clinic, we spare our radioactive waste for your beautiful glowing skin, to glow brighter in a fluorescent manner for millenias to come, even after your death! And so much more for your most vulnerable areas: we have, for example, the rarest, most expensive form of herpes! Get herpes from celebrities and politicians! Be the new cool infected terminally ill pop-sock of our society! This is Marcy Chadman broadcasting from the Cream Cheese Sex Clinic observatory that is shaped like a drunk vagina, saying Hitler was a sweetiepie and my nipples went to France! Tune in next time for more creamy cheesy sex pick up lines for the clinically-impotent.

Men (for) Talking Boobs Organisation

Hello, I'm Mark Zachary from the Men For Talking Boobs Organisation. We here at Men For Talking Boobs Organisation have a very long traditionally ingrained method of having a lively and wholesome conversation with the breasticles of our significant others. Now, many of you out there will say, "oh, dear god! A talking boob?! Preposterously sick!" But hear me out here. Imagine the scenario: You wake up one morning with your brain far up your butt because of all that damn tequila you drank last night. You didn't brush your teeth before you passed out so now the inside of your mouth tastes like the asscrack of a greasy fat man who stuffs bits of pickled garlic in between said asscrack. You get out of bed and limp to your toilet, which reeks of vomit and filth. Inevitably you miss the latrine while you absentmindedly take your cock out for a piss. The carpet turns a darker shade of its own colour as your stray piss accumulates around it. Right at this moment your wife comes in, swearing like a fucking dragon-slayer from the ghetto. You realise suddenly that she pays you no respect and makes you no breakfast. You slap her and she falls on the soaked piss-carpet. From then on she is quiet and listens to you, but you for the life of it cannot squeeze out a single word of conversation from her. However, she has sex with you for she is afraid you'll beat her. Quite alright. While you're down to business you gaze philosophically down at her luscious titties...and they say "hello!" You're amazed! Baffled! Turned on! You spend the rest of your life treating your wife like shit and having the conversations you can't have with her...with her own boobies! Through these years we have seen many breasts rise up to fame and flatulence: Squishy the Right-Wing talk show host in "The Daily Boobage", Rapunzel Finch who is a writer, writing on the eventual freedom of breasts from the bondage of women, and of course, Lilly and Lilly, the two talented twin tits who made it big...well, literally. So big, in fact, that they were most successful in UN peacekeeping missions where they were used as talking shields that would make bullets bounce noiselessly off them, and at the same time have a lively, loud and eventful conversation about money, education and the healthcare system with the enemy soldier. Yes, here at MFTO, we share a dream. This is Mark Zachary, and I just love boobies.

this drifting brain
is harrowed through
in mindless laughter
it sings to you

( o Y o )

we need a
revolution.
and yet this
this is what we do
with the very same language
with the very same alphabets
that assata shakur used
to write her autobiography:

( o Y o )