poetry cornered: “At the strip club”

Tits, asses, elbows, necks.

Women are women.

I’ve got nothing more to say
to any of them, while they have never had
anything to say
at all.

Dance around the pole, Lucite high-heels kicking through a litter of dollars.

Fat Asian loser, Fat Indian loser, Fat White crewcut loser. Bashful smiles of nerd losers, blushing redder than the hideous lights.

The vagina always looks like something half-finished and who’s to blame for that? The gaping asshole nearby.

I wonder what they clean it with.

(The pole, not the hole).

Stripper Windex?

I try to smell women over the music. Nothing.

Their skin is so smooth,
like wetsuits without zippers.

Red lights, blue lights, yellow lights, green lights, the music one big thumping seizure. Why has no one ever killed the DJ?

Too many tattoos, too many hair extensions, too many hard drugs, too many one-year-olds at home.

Souls like pancakes soaked in ketchup.

Take the fucking dollar
and get lost.

Palm Breeze

Right now it’s 17:47 and I’m in Howieland. First I took a few small twigs of shroom, followed by “medicinal” mary…a $25 J as perfectly rolled as a cigarette, comes in its own screwtop glass tube. My whole head feels like your palm when you stick it out the car window doing 40. My eyes are painless but look like eggs and ketchup. I feel like a statue in the seat of a roller coaster, unmoving yet moving FAST. There are cookies EVERYWHERE, real ones, and fried chicken and sandwiches. The place is it to myself.

Thank you Santa!

****************************

It’s now a few hours later. I was grinning like a mild idiot watching an ancient movie called “The Manhattan Project” about a 16-year-old genius who “borrows” some plutonium and builds his own atom bomb (lucky for us, the kid is White and non-Muslim). The kid, whose acting career has fizzled since, especially compared to his then-hot movie girlfriend Cynthia Nixon (later the “dykey” red-haired wench on Sex and the Nonstop-Yapping), runs around town being chased by the actor who later became “Frasier’s” father playing the hapless military goofball trying to catch him.

This ridiculous piece of cine-fluff is saved by the great John Lithgow, who by himself suspends disbelief for everyone else. He had one kick-ass line that should be applied to all terrorists today: “Lock them in a room…and throw away the room”.

I now have a mild “stoneover”, a word I refuse to believe I coined, where my head feels like a painless ball of needless pressure. I worked out and now am waiting to see if Spike will cancel on me for goin’ out. Life rolls on a like a turd.