H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
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.
“Honshu Madeleines” by Kenward Elmslie
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 Rude Ant Town, USA
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.
[Originally published in NHS 2008, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs08/Sharon_Mesmer.htm.]