N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 8
HAPPENED TO THE WOMEN OF
I loved the women of
And I know what happened to them.
At least I think I do.
I was a youth back then,
jonesing for a corgi,
and my thoughts of love were long, long thoughts.
At least that’s what I think I thought.
It happened when I was on the Merry-Go-Round.
It was an apple-green evening in
There was Susan, gray and faithful handmaiden,
and Miss Cornelia walking briskly along,
and Anne of Green Gables with goo all over —
a gusty group of daffodils on the old, mellow lawn.
They wore shiny space dresses gathered at the ankles
by elastic cuffs which extended over red glowing boots.
On their arms were large silver gauntlets
with flared arm coverings
extending halfway up their forearms.
I was the one they hypnotized.
I looked up and found myself
in a magical spell-weaving place:
the women of
had let a highly excited, disobedient boy
loose upon their spaceship.
I don’t need hypnosis to recall this.
Memory erasing methods don’t work on me anyway.
Their spaceship looked like the most beautiful Legos,
Legos too beautiful to be made by humans.
It was decorated with fancy menstrual cup pouches
made of antique brocade fabric from
Miss Cornelia turned to me with a smile and said,
“Can you believe this is just an old RV
that became a Lego spaceship in our minds?”
Then I had the weirdest thought:
“Wouldn’t it be something
if the Fonz suddenly appeared?”
The Fonz could yell at Potsie
from the comfort of his spaceship
floating high above the earth!
Then the spaceship lands on the roof of SCTV,
leaves some cabbages, and takes off again!
Come on, who wouldn’t want to spend
alien Christmas with the Fonz
on a spaceship hiding behind the Hale-Bopp comet?
Maybe then all the mysteries would be solved,
like how come that "Footloose" dude
never actually cut loose?
Then something bad happened:
a horde of evil monsters that looked like Flipper
rampaged down the peaceful mountains
led by evil Uncle Unicorn
who had the frightful ability to deliver swift flying kicks.
Anne of Green Gables got kicked first
and I cried, “Damn you with all the speed of the red bruchetta
that Geddy Lee's mother gave him!”
I swear to god, if I was Jesus,
I would have killed that unicorn everytime he directed
an episode of “The A-Team.”
All I would’ve needed was Anna-Nicole’s dead body,
many sixes of Genesee Cream Ale
But then the Fonz really did appear
with his army of anthropomorphic ducks
who fight aliens with hockey gadgets
in t-shirts that say “Milwaukee To Bronze The Fonz!”
It was the highest level of mutancy
that someone as sensitive as Fonz could achieve.
How potent was the Fonz in combat?
No god in the world could’ve beat the Fonz.
sitting in a room crying.
The Army doesn't want anyone
to know what really happened.
Why must the Fonz
continue to be denied any type of fame?
Since nothing will be done about this
at the government level
I guess we really will have to
defend the Fonz ourselves.
I don’t live in
I live in
Um, no I don’t; I live in
Okay, I live behind
But I still love the women of
I think I always will.
At least that’s what I think I think.
THIS SLY ANUS OF MINE
–– a series of eight short plays
“LOL! Swedenborg” by Richard Foreman
Starring 1” Poet, Marc Bolan and Teabag
Stray virgins OK!
And of course homely rug mice.
I'm an evil arse hair noise!
I’m Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!
Dinner-table noser of every nerd’s
jilted in gonorrhea
like Sonny Bono.
Oh Irritable Bono Syndrome!
O my large and terrible drains below!
Oh, even larger! What-ho!
Okay so what I’m Mr. Meat,
machismo gonad stallion
and cunt school talisman
for Camel Halitosis Month.
I shit in loathsome calm,
I the cool, slim Satan,
chasm to the millions,
and crueler by the loo.
Bouncy lilaceous horse-face.
Tarzan good, smegma awful.
Oh shit! Uncool anorak! Run!
Like big-nosed choristers past the campus mule-crap.
Are you my Republican replacement chum?
Will you cup my camel’s peach muscle?
Only a rufus-sided human anus
can shade the dim walrus penis
of He Who Cavorts in Pork
with a big pink TV crooner
under the anti-semitic brothel.
Only a total enzyme phase goat,
rare as a slim-assed southern cracker.
We had goats because my daughter had a problem!
And Swedenborg's writings that related to the topic
Just try and ply my sizeable goat butt home.
A pale goat butt still amazes.
With ½ Man ½ Biscuit, Big Youth and Bob Dylan
½ Man ½ Biscuit:
I’m optimal eyesore to the pals,
eating pie morosely.
I represent a messy loo.
I'm one sleepy-arse face, too.
Oh my oily Easter poems,
my rough, tough, poetic anus,
cousin of ape-thug, the Dildo marvel,
great-aunt of Can of Crap.
They named her “able in the stables”
Applying anal bible sets
via jiggly hippo hips.
She shall adjust your nice swollen genitals.
She shags anywhere but on a salad.
Wild-eyed as an angel's cunt . . .
. . . a blind cretin’s penis . . .
. . . and now, sadly, a ‘nad nutter . . .
. . . but a one-turd winner
of the two-anus contest of
She turned back on Turd-snot and rode anew
upon nuns who rode bare twat on Turd Stud near town.
Said he rated his own nuts.
Fucking yokel retard.
Obama is correct about rural PA.
A Soliloquy By Brian Jones:
Oh, huge randy twit.
Why crap in a gutter, kid?
Go holy gonad hunting.
My tiny slot
is famous for its moustache.
See I am a bad urinary bard,
rhyme-able anal joy-hole twat,
with smallish peeps
and pimple hassles,
abysmal granules of a
large balmy anus.
Really a hag's bum.
It was a marvel I could wank
Mr. Wanked Alive, the mad live wanker,
winner of last year’s Mr. Wanker of the Year award.
Oh my mutant mouth organ.
invading your warmish elk
with inky asian wanker sex.
Oh vast rigors of a groin
well past wanking.
When I went Roman
I hatched me perfect moon lips
with walk-in loo charms
and slow anal rim lock.
Truly a rare stink afterwards.
“The HMS Arse Halo” by Gilbert and Sullivan
Frank Sinatra, Iraqi dictator
Ezra Pound, an email for Buck Downs
You fucking hairy arachnic screw-all.
Ezra Pound, an email for Buck Downs:
Who farts in an ark?
Who enjoys well-hung pig,
chipmunk twat musings
and unkempt Nazi cow-shots?
You, you unzipped hot comet wanker.
Your cowpat hum-zone stinks!
Your zone of schmoozy wank-juice zooms
past zoomy human wanker-tits,
cuts a lotta hot-wank
with fat Serena Ape Shit’s instrument.
See, penis hater?
See her Irish dick crab panties?
You are a foul scary comedy.
You are a small weird anal exam!
A mouldy cream fiasco!
Some kinda fancy foamy corgi — fuck off!
You and the HMS Arse Halo you rode in on.
Your 'inappropriate' leap from Hussein to whomever
was head of the MLA before Perloff!
Song of the Anal Sex Wall Mermaid (Lennon-McCartney)
Wild anal-sex, alarm me?
I’m the anal sex wall mermaid!
I am all for mad anal-sex — I ram well
on a small mixed lawn area
with a phallic brain-rot Norsemen
awash in doggie-doo.
Or a herbaceous poofter charmer,
and smooth porn choir children
rounding up the orgy boloney,
to Drool on whose smooth puberty organ.
Whose horny clitoral dolphin entrance?
Whose metaplagiarism and prose poem politics?
The Men of the New York School
Ooh, droll chronic nose-hair phantom.
Protocols and horny hymens.
The psycho nympho's still on second.
Oh the shit-shock of rural balls.
Oh vanish, Cottonelle the ass dog!
Either that or shag my slut handle
with your huge rat hands.
Frank, your new blue gonad goes beyond even
the terrible two-headed ego sow
to be ominipresent
as the premier jew-huffing loser,
a ghoul-wielding souffle jar.
And what about the shoutin' rosebuds of St. Rose?
And our usual, eclectic, unpredictable & never boring
open mic every month of the year,
not just "National Poetry Month."
“Nerd Enema of Dog Semen and Petrol”
Starring the months of May and June
Some hi-tech senile male
cited my hellish enema
as a horny chenille sheet.
But fuck all, I'm the Hellenic sea,
Hillary Clinton’s clitoral hiney,
Super Citric Tripe Circus.
Lean & scary.
I promote sperm prosecution,
and Nude devil piranha rats
up an invalid's rear.
Okay, depressingly insecure piss practice.
Okay, Generalised yucky erection.
Okay, spanking creepy secretary
of treacly decaying ejaculation,
“Obama Is Correct About Rural PA”
Starring Drew Barrymore as Barack Obama and a big ugly wide load as Rural PA
Drew Barrymore/Barak Obama:
I drove a rich ugly old maid into the river
with my severe reverse peacock.
Your one thought could fill a cow.
Is Jeff in a band?
Yes -- Pathos, the Genital Beauty
Yucky, considering the special pesterer
and his nut-hard labial cup.
He's a grocer.
With a Hog's career.
With a Hero's grace.
With a nose discharge.
And a hurt penis overhaul
in the snivel parlour.
With the plural version
of the dewlap of an uphill venerator.
And a pre-research whoring grant.
Eat shit, you near northern pig screwer
Fuck you, big fat git clad in denim,
making Lad Marinade.
Nun in sleaze state
Neat, tuneless Nazi.
I have long exceeded your Vulva mileage ratio
with ovum ravioli talk
and a loo-rimming vulva kit.
I put Herpes on an ant
You and your pretend anal sex,
terpsichorean flea cancer,
like a Salman Rushdie character's can-opener life.
You currently cover my carefree porcelain snatch,
my rare cat-flap incoherencies.
You dismal meusli anus.
You fat sad-ass numeral
in a critique and/or expansion of referentiality
and engagement with critical metanarratives
like a new species of modernism.
Go get anused up a crack.
(Don't try this at home kids:
squid protruding from a pill-spewing anus
clutching assorted lifestyle accessories.
My surgeon friend just shuddered.)
Has the mighty boosh actually sued
the sugar puffs for their crimp?
I think they did because they are pimps.
WHEN I HEAR THE WORD “FLUXUS” I REACH FOR MY ANTI-SEMITISM
When I hear the word "fluxus" I reach for my anti-Semitism
When I hear the word “anti-Semitism” I reach for my carnal buffalo blanket
When I hear the word “carnal buffalo blanket” I reach for my debauching riverman's
pony, restless and full of bad English
When I hear the word “debauching riverman’s pony” I reach for my heavy seductress
hissing the word Iraq
When I hear the word “heavy seductress hissing the word Iraq” I reach for my tortured
Silliman screaming "oh its just another dumbass adjusting her mechanical Tony Robbins
bear boob with lank greasy hair”
When I hear the word “tortured Silliman” I reach for Andy Dick
When I hear the word “Andy Dick” I reach for Grandma’s asshole in fishnets
When I heard the word “Grandma’s asshole in fishnet” I reach for my fecal tongs
When I hear the word “fecal tongs” I reach for my hot nurse fucked by a horny alien
When I hear the word “hot nurse fucked by a horny alien” I reach for Rachael Ray in
Huggies inside a Crockpot
When I hear the word “Rachael Ray in Huggies inside a Crockpot” I reach for the most
recent issue of PMLA
When I hear the word “most recent issue of PMLA” I reach for my first embalming
When I hear the word “first embalming” I reach for binaries of presence/absence
not peculiar to my personal reality, in other words the miraculous world we can perceive
through my vagina
When I hear the word “my vagina” I reach for a reconstruction of Jesus with his index
finger poised over the button of a discharged weapon
When I hear the word “Jesus with his index finger poised over the button of a discharged
weapon” I reach for the 7-fold division of reality made up of perverse dorks who thought
they were getting away with something
When I hear the word “perverse dorks who thought they were getting away with
something” I reach for Stephen Cope's job letter as a template for my job letter
When I hear the word “job letter” I reach for a dainty, long-haired, shawl-wearing woman
When I hear the word “dainty, long-haired, shawl-wearing woman” I reach for my dog-
eared copy of “If I Had An Anus”
When I hear the word “dog-eared copy of ‘If I Had An Anus’” I reach for my terrorist
When I hear the word “terrorist” I reach for my meme
When I hear the word “meme” I reach for my terrorist