by Quasimofo Snyder
1st mistake: Pact with the Devil to level up:
Ever wiped your ass with a cookie and sell it as a fudge-brownie? I have. I run a snackbar in Hell. This is my story: I have tasted fear, and I can tell you it tastes nothing like beer. Unless you undertip the barmaid and she smacks you in the face with the serving tray. Then it does taste like beer. You can skip this ad in 20 seconds. I’ll tell you right away the theme of this poem is this–I was crispito/demonito spawned from a rickety rankled womb and ever since have been clawing nastiest lastiest to get back in. I long for spincycle. Click here to enable this fable, but mind the claymores under hopskotch. we can’t give it till we get it. So dubstep with the downbeat of the beaten and downtrodden in my f(e)u[d]tur{lip}stic Franz Kafka discoteque. Nature’s just another CGI. YOUR internet connection is too slow. Adjusting feedback to prevent further disruption. Buffering. 25%
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Homosaphien Two toots tune on 5 track eloquence:
Someone slipped a rufie in my turducken and i made the strangefest bedfellows. i became skewed by the S-K-U ‘ s and feasted on pot-brownies with women who married lower middle class and spent like they were upper middle bougeousie. identity begins with imitation or even mock wardrobe or maybe faux mohicans or perhaps triple D fake titties. We truncate and turn back on ourselves shimmed and stymied and reprimed sumpof-a-seven with Faraday guinea cage eclectic shock reprievement. Outrage black outage–imagi-huh the gall of the galeria to put that ball on the ballerina!
Three apple trees turnover a new leaf with a leaf-blower in the Ragnar-lyptic-lypse sync to Appease the Evil 2012 Mayan Poet-God Quasimofocoatyl:
i granted myself free-admission to admission of guilt and flung the booger back on every demi-deity’s more or morer ton of ash windshield with the polycarb polymer merchant chant ‘lost you, lost you’ cusp of dynamic pow’r of cre[a]t{i}on. there was a drop-forged steel-plated fetal ball positron Theme Park tempered from the scrap metal of teasing graphic t’s. I was the Lord-All-Frighty roused by the beauty of a cockatiel perched on my cock crooning ‘Make way for pretty boy–pretty boy coming through!’ and ‘Lick my scro, bro!’ for any haters who hadn’t got the memo or thought there was moderation of drama to be found for those who let themselves eat rumcake.
Four Shetland Pony Dark-Riders in a Polo Match with Croquet Hammers:
They wanted to put him in a tuxedo but he slew his would-be suitors in cold blood and ate cole slaw. His barking laugh naturally attracted wild packs of dogmatics. To define is to negate unless you express to create. There are those who create; there are those who destroy; there are those who create to destroy; and there are those who destroy to create. Let’s blow up the sidewalk to remove ourselves from the beaten path of the pathologically irrational escapists drowning in their own creative juice-box projectile vomit thru a mega-phone in this raquetball court Age of Plexi-Aquarium we call ______. [What did we say it was, again?]
Fight Fire with Fivers:
I thought i was having a moment but realized that it had been my whole life. When in doubt, throw it out[er space]. And yes, even when doing it for the right reason it can still be the wrong reason (with the wrong seasonings). But sometimes i want to rebel against rebellion itself and just have popcorn; Othertimes it takes a cattleprod to 20/20 one’s own self you’re dealt with and and/or you become branded till the due-date. Grind it out to
become well-grounded with the ground beef, ground pork, ground turkey. And remember, there’s a place in the universe where aliens eat humans like fried chicken.