The Haig In Me
Literary Pocket Rocket
POEM FOR A GIRL THAT STRAIGHT UP REJECTED ME
Circling Swan Lake
Oh! The Horrors
Tell Her I'm Dead
101 Things You Are
Abstract Furniture
sitting in this seat is like
drinking gin from a
dragonfly’s pussy
it tastes like
david bowie
but china girl was never really your thing
i was never good at
spelling beaz
do you spell it “hunny” or “honey?”
i think i had my first heart
palpitation in the second grade -
“oh yes, it’s hunny, bunny”
when people fuck on film
it makes me want to puke
THESE NEXT FEW LINES WILL EXPLODE IN 10 SECONDS
but i am addicted to amateur porno
just put a band aid over the red light on your camera
kill me with your language, and exclude your
pornographique coma, you question mark masturbator
Sci-Fi
as the ill-boding odor rises
amidst the pretentious pantomime of banal spires
in the apocalyptic glow of sun's nuclear rays,
he rises slowly from morning's paralysis
and makes his way toward the
museum of human emotion and fond affections...
he sees the voguish, art deco-clad bodies
of beautifully chiseled creatures
glide across each other, and the marble floors
of the expansive and darkly lit museum,
aghast, and slightly disentranced with
these depictions of days gone by...
louise brooks coyly poised on silver screen. . .
andy warhol soup cans & silk screens. . .
think white duke emerging as feedback screams. . .
archaic depictions of cinema dreams. . .
....and time's savage jaws have left the 21st century beaten, bewildered,
and dumped in this cyber playground, another barcoded exhibit.....
but the android felt his spirit reach across the sea of time
when he studied the early 21st century artifacts.
then he perspired with phantom pains of remembrance
and for the first time, he was aware of his own existence,
and the betrayal of the Thought Gang.
The images and text from a prehistoric Internet exchange between two lovers
caused his metallic frame to bust in an electro-epileptic frenzy
and his brain cried out for more.
It was quite puzzling.
dear mr. haig,
i’m sick of your fuck. sick of your holy roller baptist tv preacher, gimmie gimmie attitude. you’re a retarded hippie and you’re demanding that we all stuff your pockets full of cash & send you on your way to bed & breakfast in west palm beach. you washed-up rip-off lazy liberal bastard “art-EEEEEST!” don’t bother sparing a dime for the broken back children sewing your howdy-doody “i’m so retro, i’m so punk rawk” t-shirt. . . or the arthritis ridden stock boy that hangs up your taiwanese sock puppets!
you’ve caused me so much suffering that even a needle in the center of my mind’s eye cannot conquer my hawkeye stare into the vast void of deception that is my suicide. you praise women yet claim that they all flood the seas with blood from their miserable mail order cunts (in vain), and you LAP IT UP like a pussy in heat. jimmy haig, you have killed me with lies and raped me with promises of a new candy cane generation of hope, stuffing their rockwell faces with cake straight from grandma Death’s bakery!
go fuck a duck. and drink blood from a dragonfly’s pussy!
write on,
a dying fan
My Art
pretense has always been my middle name. i finally admitted to myself tonite that the reason i began writing was to get fucked. i didn't get fucked until i was 18, shortly after i began writing and passing love poems to this fat chick in my ameriCAN history class. she'd always cross her legs and kick her top leg up and down. i always assumed she was masturbating in class, thinking of me and that my poetry was blame for her arousal. i guess i'll never really know if she was masturbating. but people will believe what they wanna believe - one of the many key ingredients to my success. so the poems kept getting more erotic and finally she accepted an invitation to fuck me at my house while my parents were attending a potluck party in the next town. i guess i started off as a sellout. writing poems just to get fucked. i guess it was worth it. she let me give her anal the first time. you know, i actually didn't EVEN enjoy that.
i'm nothing special, really. i'm a poet. i arrange words that most people know, in such a way that gives the illusion that i'm delving deeper into the understanding of the human condition and beyond. what is it about me though... that led me to some kind of.... success. i guess it's the fact that i'm nothing special. it makes people believe me. people don't trust beautiful people. in fact, we hate beautiful people. jealousy is such a popular and underadmitted human "emotion." but anywho, why do you think people liked dylan? it's because he didn't look like elvis. he was the anti-elvis. an ugly guy with an ugly voice, and quite frankly, ugly words. you see, we respect ugliness. it's down-to-earth and it doesn't intimidate us. we love standing next to an ugly person, too. it makes us seem just a little taller.
i don't even care about WHAT i write anymore. who REALLY cares. who even cares about SHAKESPEARE. he didn't write anything that we hadn't felt before. nothing that cavemen hadn't experienced. he just captured it nice in a snobby, expensive frame. and he hung it on everyone's fucking wall so that high school students could agonize over his archaic bullshit drama. a poet only captures the divine, they do not invent it. a crazy brain with an offtrack thought train departs from the station as you and me, brother. even the fake prophet with the dirty afro on the street can dive into that pool of infinite intelligence. it's not about WHAT IT IS man. we know everything that is. we see the molecules looking at us thru the microscope, teasing us with the answers. we know the makeup of every planet and solar system. we know that red and blue give you purple and a dick and pussy give you a lifetime of child support if you're a fucking piece of trailer trash. but why. you see, that's why i still write. i don't care about getting laid. that's why i'm pouring out my insane brain of a heart onto this fucking computer screen. i need to know why i do and why you do and why the eggman said "coo coo ca'choo."
fuck it. i'm drunk and going to bed.
What's The Skinny?
shut your pretentious tail pipe!
my alternator died yesterday.
even if a pig pulls you over for speeding too fast
in literature class, at least you
“did it all for love.”
are you proud, mom & dad?