He jacked it. Jacked a huge bomb. Launched it deep and hard to center. To left-center. To right. Upper deck. He creamed it. Knocked a big dong. Smashed it. Ripped it. Crushed it. A huge towering dinger. He’s touching all the bases on that one. He blasted it. He went downtown. He went yard. It’s a goner. He slammed it. The grand salami. Break out the tape measure on that one.
Anyone got a light?
Let me explain. When you wake up and go to a coffee/juice bar and order a juice named the ‘Hangover Heaven’, the person in front of you will turn her head, look at you and assume the worst.
Let’s catch up over ketchup.
Muster the strength you need with mustard.
You’ll relish our relish.
‘Spread the word’ would be a good slogan for mayonnaise, butter, jelly, cream cheese, hummus, peanut butter, almond butter, cashew butter, apple butter, nutella, vegemite, legs…basically anything that gets spread.
I want coffee houses and their respective baristas to play their music on the lowest possible volume, so I can invade their space and listen to my own music via headphones at a reasonable volume.
Maybe in the future we won’t fuck anymore. Just touch our heads together. Our heads growing bigger and more powerful. Everything tied up in those neurons, all sensory perception barricaded there. All nerve endings migrating to our temples. And when two heads, propped up on mechanical, android bodies because our hollow skeletal bones are insufficient for the task, touch, those ‘beings’ will orgasm simultaneously. Feel united, complete. That will be love. No heartache no despair no cock thrusting and depositing semen. No quivering vaginal walls. Just skin, two patches of skin, residing directly external to the prefrontal cortex, connecting at an atomic level, conducting electrical impulses, messages, communicating infinite adoration.
Not the one with
Even the best-looking people can have weird, E.T. toes (and often do).
Central air knocks the tea bag tab
into the porcelain mug
like a wind chime.
I have bursitis in my knee. No doctor diagnosed this.
I went to Google. Typed keywords in the search box.
pain on inside of leg below the knee
It popped up. Autofill. Symptomatic crowdsourcing.
Been popping pills, Advils, ad nauseum (looks curiously
dissolving in my gut, acids eviscerating
the cinder block molecules into easily
And after twenty (thirty) minutes
the pain dulls, the blood warms, the mind slows
I must be cured.
The effects wear thin, the blood cools, the tendons re-fray
biological mish-mash like refried
Sound the horns, lower the drawbridge
the body idyllic
susceptible to ice pack attacks
leaving the soft, squishy skin as cold as a corpse’s
Let me tell you about my Fantasy Football League…
The football is made of frozen Snickers smushed together, and on fourth down teams can stick, punt, or eat the football. Instead of helmets the players wear helicopter hats, which are safe because no one is allowed to tackle, only tickle. The field-lines are made of confectioners sugar, and each goalpost is padded with a million Twizzlers. The cheerleaders roam the sidelines on rainbow colored unicorns during the game, blowing kisses at the fans and flashing them spontaneously. The coaches don’t bark orders into headsets; they signal messages to the players, like I love you for who you are, with glow sticks.
It was pretty convenient that Vanilla Ice’s DJ was named D-Shay.