Jersey terms

sushi jazz bar smells of fish pussy smoke, spit and piss, and it's hard to distiunguish which is which.

incessant thought precession. cant navigate a north star.

if my brain is mother earth maybe i should strap a bra over my ears? second hand smoking with a finger in the limber fissure of pons cold cream.
your olfactory bulb dims in my presence. my essence consumes you.

suck my thalamus.

hi, i was just sitting here thinking of you and listening to my air conditioner because I havent bought any music in a long time.

bryllyant says: "that's a satanic question: wouldja patti duke?"

my pustulous self-containment vessel.

i shiver when i let go of the moment.

the name of this piece is "i dont want the tubesteak wrapping buns". my body guard spends most of his workday hiding the guns i used to keep under pillows under yorkies and cutting my conversations short.
perhaps there is a generation gap here but i find your breasts to be the perkiest thing i've seen in weeks. i dont watch the today show tho.

the quarterback was disappointed but he couldn't kick anyone on the field's ass.

i have noticed that speed freaks like vans.
I am mailing this poem to the NTSB committee on free verse and to all the people who buy bathtubs in rural areas. c'mon, we know those folk dont bathe: they feed us corn to get us fat, clothe us in cotton and pump us fulla speed so they can vote repulican. yeah, repulican. (this is working verse.)

this piece is titled in honor of the governor's wife's favorite brand of lintless-wipe toilet paper.
this piece is now titled playing touch football with the intellectual nipple licker (for half-dollars). and i'm gonna vote for the ecentric inventor.
if this piece were the bible part three i'd ask the publisher to give it a rainbow colored cover and that line would be held up in endzones as every time for the rest of time the green team only went for two points and those child molesting placekickers wouldnt have time to touch innocent chirren because theyd be too busy waiting in line for a gubment check. or if it this piece was brought up from a valley by a charismatic woman with a beard who could flip her cigareete butts and set tinderbushes alight to the people on the factory floor sweeping up the dried blood.

a fire! a fire! daddy, a fire!

the foggy memory boys have a song which goes (i forget the name): "hovering waitress/wouldja amble over and buy me some cigarettes/then explain to the the ADHD kid why I smoke/ (break) (puff)/hovering waitress/maybe yeah three years ago/after a coupla beers and a coupla breakups because of me/the stuff i cant change/like this plate of boiled eggs i ordered/or this fifty/what's a sufficient tip/from a proletarian POV?/hovering waitress/sweet tea at 3 a.m./where's the can?/is that dwight yoakum?/yuck, no it's somewhere in between/hovering waitress/smile one more time/i got two-hundred thirty miles to go/what do the cooter counter hunchers mean by sweetie?/have they read the paper?/it's a subject for boozehound rhetoric/but the argument never survives the piss break/and that's why we're guys."


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