HST Digest: 5/10/18
4/29: Poetry by John D Robinson
5/1: Poetry by Ben Newell
5/2: Poetry by Gwil James Thomas
5/5: Poetry by Scott Simmons
5/7: Poetry by Ben John Smith
5/8: Poetry by Josh Dale
5/10: Poetry by Casey Renee Kiser
See also:
HST Digest: 4/28/18
HST Digest: 4/19/18
HST Digest: 4/9/18
HST Digest: 3/27/18
HST Digest: 3/15/18
HST Digest: 3/4/18
HST Digest: 2/16/18
HST Digest: 2/7/18
HST Digest: 1/27/18
HST Digest: 1/17/18
HST Digest: 1/1/18
HST Digest: 12/7/17
HST Digest: 11/20/17
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I think that I may have already done Casey Renee Kiser; but after so many cannot be certain, and I always thought it was gross to keep a list. I do remember a poem with a line I'll never forget; "Why don't you just kick me?" but have lost the context. There was another meeting in which she took me for her mother and I'm still trying to get over or forget that.
Her poetry is compelling in it's technical aspect, as far as I can tell, and she mood shifts. Just when you think that you know what she's doing, she's doing something else; which I find interesting as hell, but probably doesn't sit well with the genre consistent people. At first I thought that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, then saw something I can't characterize, then saw feisty, and now that seems to continue adding a sarcastic element, but am not 100% sure. The extraction from her featured poem reflects that at the end I didn't extract.
One thing is sure. If you're seeking an afternoon of tranquility, you'd best take a trip up north. I mean, she's a good example of the diversity which HST and AG have put together, and in her case you needn't go through the trouble of finding another person for the diversion. More clearly, she makes Scarlotti hot and he's just dying to meet her fleshy aspect.
For now, we will have to be satisfied with part of her poem.
I Am Not A Ghost Yet
Your tongue was the only black you wore
to my funeral
You’re such a fucking rebel….
You were hovering,
salivating, breathing in my death
I felt your eyes dismember me
‘Everything was beautiful the day you died’,
you said as you touched my cold hand
She does seem to have this thing for being kicked and dismembered, but that could just be my poetic inadequacies.
Her poetry is compelling in it's technical aspect, as far as I can tell, and she mood shifts. Just when you think that you know what she's doing, she's doing something else; which I find interesting as hell, but probably doesn't sit well with the genre consistent people. At first I thought that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, then saw something I can't characterize, then saw feisty, and now that seems to continue adding a sarcastic element, but am not 100% sure. The extraction from her featured poem reflects that at the end I didn't extract.
One thing is sure. If you're seeking an afternoon of tranquility, you'd best take a trip up north. I mean, she's a good example of the diversity which HST and AG have put together, and in her case you needn't go through the trouble of finding another person for the diversion. More clearly, she makes Scarlotti hot and he's just dying to meet her fleshy aspect.
For now, we will have to be satisfied with part of her poem.
I Am Not A Ghost Yet
Your tongue was the only black you wore
to my funeral
You’re such a fucking rebel….
You were hovering,
salivating, breathing in my death
I felt your eyes dismember me
‘Everything was beautiful the day you died’,
you said as you touched my cold hand
She does seem to have this thing for being kicked and dismembered, but that could just be my poetic inadequacies.
I had this record and played it a lot. My parents never commented and probably thought that I was cute.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79vuh...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79vuh...
Doowakkadoo wrote: "she makes Scarlotti hot and he's just dying to meet her fleshy aspect."Well, this is embarrassing, as I'd felt certain you'd already put it together by yourself, but the truth is that Graham, Scarlotti, and Kiser are in fact ALL THE SAME PERSON.
I'm very gullible and believe what anyone tells me. My wife found that an endearing trait until I turned 60.
To save you further possible embarrassment, are there any other personas included? Bet you won't admit to a Hackle and I don't blame you.
To save you further possible embarrassment, are there any other personas included? Bet you won't admit to a Hackle and I don't blame you.
Got me thinking. LEO. His and Scarlotti's heads look alike.
Wait a minute. This gets more confusing the more I think about it. Jeremy thinks that I'm your sock puppet, and he doesn't know Scarlotti and Kiser. So, is he gullible and stupid too? Or am I your sock puppet? Or both? If yes to two and/or three what do I have to do to become a real boy?
You really should have left me in innocence.
You really should have left me in innocence.
I'm afraid that I might be Mark Leyner now, and my mother refuses to make me a ten hour tape to make a book out of. I hope there's no full moon tonight. If that DFW kid gets on my ass again I just might be compelled to devastate him with witty zingers.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
ARTHUR GRAHAM IS THE DEVIL.
Love the videos. Haven't seen that vid of Cream before. Was that Hillary Rodham in the Seeds vid?
Me either. They seemed very animated, while that looked as if it was a studio performance. Gotta re-see the Seeds.
Ian wrote; "Was that Hillary Rodham in the Seeds vid?"
I'm not sure of which one you mean. I'm guessing the cheerleader, practicing for when she meets Bill. She's pretty hot, and then when she runs for POTUS they dress her as a munchkin. Sad.
I'm not sure of which one you mean. I'm guessing the cheerleader, practicing for when she meets Bill. She's pretty hot, and then when she runs for POTUS they dress her as a munchkin. Sad.
My humble offering of a paltry HST review will be delayed, as I'm still trying to recover from the wicked trolling received yesterday. I'll be back later if the rope stops calling.
Doowakkadoo wrote: "I'm still trying to recover from the wicked trolling received yesterday."Lol, project much? I'm no psychologist, butttt...
Please consider this measly and paltry offering as an unprofessional and incompetent attempt as an assessment of India LaPlace’s sexpot poetry. The very nature of such a retarded undertaking virtually assures that any potential reader will rather look at India’s pictures on HST, and consequently disregard, delete, disregard, or otherwise deride this putrid attempt at irrelevant, uninformed, and inept communication.
The few remaining sensitive souls may have detected a sadness. You are correct. Yesterday’s barrage of syncopated slings and arrows has resurrected unpleasant and painful memories of my entire life; rejection and humiliation that only a Stoner could understand in book form, requiring sedation in the real world. It is the Joycean day of travail and ultimate dejection. You may not understand. My Joyce had tits that went like across the street, unowhumsayin, and she didn’t like boys, though her sweet uppercut always ensured her being a top pick in any stickball game. I didn’t choose this life, brain, parents, abilities, or circumstances a nut psychologist would find relevant. I was born in an impoverished area, and the schools taught nothing other than teachers like to belt it. What I learned of English was provided by my non-English speaking parents. It is not my fault and it is very mean to laugh at my inadequacies. God did this to me, and I bear no responsibility. ......... Okay, maybe a little. I guess I really didn’t have to deliver pizza.
But, yesterday’s cruel trolling made me want to get out of this pathetic, mocked body again. THIS WOUND WILL NEVER HEAL. I cried uncontrollably and then sought escape in the visions featured on Youtube. I became Michael Jackson, but soon saw there were disadvantages to that, as being the center of attention is associated in my beaten head with ridicule. The core of my essence flew to John Coltrane, but I quickly needed a fix and had some philosophical issue with that “Love Supreme” crapola. I went through Alice Cooper, Jack Bruce, Trent Reznor, and many other forgotten losers, each pathetic step re-enforcing the logic that I was condemned to being hated, scorned, and generally fraught with conditions which made my pillow a source of water for my cat. It is criminal that my despair be a source of humor for the trolls of Goodreads. I was at the abyss, almost in it, when I thought that I saw water on the bottom. I flushed, but it came back to taunt me with residue of poopies.
I hit rock bottom when I became Douglas Hackle at his Walmart book signing event. I was at an otherwise shunned table, trying to keep my 800 copies of “An Amusing Parodic Look at 1980’s Television as Seen From the Vantage Point of the Repeat of Cheap TV of the Sixties and Seventies Cable Station Inclusive of But Not Limited to the Latter Episodes of My Little Margie” from falling on my head. From a distance I could see and hear little kids with their moms. They pointed at me and meanly said in that way children innocently convey brutality; “That man has funny hair.” In exasperation I cried out; “I’m of the Bizarro elite. If you think my head is funny, you ought to see Mellick’s.” A wave of dizzying despair overtook me and once again I found myself on my knees and staring into the porcelain abyss. This time it didn’t appear as if anyone had scrubbed it in weeks.
No doubt, hearing my plaintive wails of “Oh God please, I’ll never do it again, boolyap brapapapap, blap, oh shit, ........ haloop, will the misery ever end”, it was God who led me to the site of Nathan (N.R.) Gaseous. Nat said that God had visited him in his time of need and said; “Yea verily and truly, I assure you that today you will be with me in Heavilin.” Divine trumpets, ostensibly having established previous residence in Billy Gas’s “C”, broke through the storm clouds, and my feet were infected with the glories of St. Vitas’ dance. Unnerving his (Please make note of sophisticated POV change mid-paragraph) many fans, Nat said that because of years of painful trolling, he thought of quitting. But nay. Nay, nay, and yay. Brave Nat sucked it up and despite the cruelty, vowed to continue to bring the good people of Goodreads more promotion of obscure, fat and oddly written books. I was again inspired, and knew what I had to do.
I was me again, and I raced to my laptop. By the time it booted up I had forgotten what it was I supposedly had to do. The world did not end, and I figured that I might have been being a tad presumptuous in thinking that there was something special required of me. But it was me! No outsider poet to consider. Me, me, me, and finally me. When my screen became clear, I navigated my way to Goodreads, with the intention of finding stupid things people say, and add further stupidity to them. I realized that this was more than a calling. I had been divinely chosen, and was now noblessely obliged to spout all that humble, paltry, and measly garbage. It’s tough to be a star and simultaneously back where one started. Fuck do I know? This defies commentary?
Editor’s note: This is totally un-edited and likely contains errors a third grader would spot, as the lazy author extolls the “honesty” and “immediacy” of a stream of consciousness style as an excuse for ineptitude. The foregoing is a work of fiction. It depicts no real person living, dead, in-between, imagined, or otherwise envisioned by po-mo retards. The coincidence of it having any accuracy whatsoever is as likely as Arthur Graham’s claim to being three TALENTED people.
The few remaining sensitive souls may have detected a sadness. You are correct. Yesterday’s barrage of syncopated slings and arrows has resurrected unpleasant and painful memories of my entire life; rejection and humiliation that only a Stoner could understand in book form, requiring sedation in the real world. It is the Joycean day of travail and ultimate dejection. You may not understand. My Joyce had tits that went like across the street, unowhumsayin, and she didn’t like boys, though her sweet uppercut always ensured her being a top pick in any stickball game. I didn’t choose this life, brain, parents, abilities, or circumstances a nut psychologist would find relevant. I was born in an impoverished area, and the schools taught nothing other than teachers like to belt it. What I learned of English was provided by my non-English speaking parents. It is not my fault and it is very mean to laugh at my inadequacies. God did this to me, and I bear no responsibility. ......... Okay, maybe a little. I guess I really didn’t have to deliver pizza.
But, yesterday’s cruel trolling made me want to get out of this pathetic, mocked body again. THIS WOUND WILL NEVER HEAL. I cried uncontrollably and then sought escape in the visions featured on Youtube. I became Michael Jackson, but soon saw there were disadvantages to that, as being the center of attention is associated in my beaten head with ridicule. The core of my essence flew to John Coltrane, but I quickly needed a fix and had some philosophical issue with that “Love Supreme” crapola. I went through Alice Cooper, Jack Bruce, Trent Reznor, and many other forgotten losers, each pathetic step re-enforcing the logic that I was condemned to being hated, scorned, and generally fraught with conditions which made my pillow a source of water for my cat. It is criminal that my despair be a source of humor for the trolls of Goodreads. I was at the abyss, almost in it, when I thought that I saw water on the bottom. I flushed, but it came back to taunt me with residue of poopies.
I hit rock bottom when I became Douglas Hackle at his Walmart book signing event. I was at an otherwise shunned table, trying to keep my 800 copies of “An Amusing Parodic Look at 1980’s Television as Seen From the Vantage Point of the Repeat of Cheap TV of the Sixties and Seventies Cable Station Inclusive of But Not Limited to the Latter Episodes of My Little Margie” from falling on my head. From a distance I could see and hear little kids with their moms. They pointed at me and meanly said in that way children innocently convey brutality; “That man has funny hair.” In exasperation I cried out; “I’m of the Bizarro elite. If you think my head is funny, you ought to see Mellick’s.” A wave of dizzying despair overtook me and once again I found myself on my knees and staring into the porcelain abyss. This time it didn’t appear as if anyone had scrubbed it in weeks.
No doubt, hearing my plaintive wails of “Oh God please, I’ll never do it again, boolyap brapapapap, blap, oh shit, ........ haloop, will the misery ever end”, it was God who led me to the site of Nathan (N.R.) Gaseous. Nat said that God had visited him in his time of need and said; “Yea verily and truly, I assure you that today you will be with me in Heavilin.” Divine trumpets, ostensibly having established previous residence in Billy Gas’s “C”, broke through the storm clouds, and my feet were infected with the glories of St. Vitas’ dance. Unnerving his (Please make note of sophisticated POV change mid-paragraph) many fans, Nat said that because of years of painful trolling, he thought of quitting. But nay. Nay, nay, and yay. Brave Nat sucked it up and despite the cruelty, vowed to continue to bring the good people of Goodreads more promotion of obscure, fat and oddly written books. I was again inspired, and knew what I had to do.
I was me again, and I raced to my laptop. By the time it booted up I had forgotten what it was I supposedly had to do. The world did not end, and I figured that I might have been being a tad presumptuous in thinking that there was something special required of me. But it was me! No outsider poet to consider. Me, me, me, and finally me. When my screen became clear, I navigated my way to Goodreads, with the intention of finding stupid things people say, and add further stupidity to them. I realized that this was more than a calling. I had been divinely chosen, and was now noblessely obliged to spout all that humble, paltry, and measly garbage. It’s tough to be a star and simultaneously back where one started. Fuck do I know? This defies commentary?
Editor’s note: This is totally un-edited and likely contains errors a third grader would spot, as the lazy author extolls the “honesty” and “immediacy” of a stream of consciousness style as an excuse for ineptitude. The foregoing is a work of fiction. It depicts no real person living, dead, in-between, imagined, or otherwise envisioned by po-mo retards. The coincidence of it having any accuracy whatsoever is as likely as Arthur Graham’s claim to being three TALENTED people.
Arthur wrote; "Lol, project much? I'm no psychologist, butttt... "
Project is probably my most hated word in the English, by way of Dr. Phil, language. And if it's butt stuff you seek, Jeff is advertising, if India is currently unavailable.
I think I'm slipping away, and becoming a more humorous Beckett. Thoughts?
Project is probably my most hated word in the English, by way of Dr. Phil, language. And if it's butt stuff you seek, Jeff is advertising, if India is currently unavailable.
I think I'm slipping away, and becoming a more humorous Beckett. Thoughts?
Doowakkadoo wrote: "I think I'm slipping away, and becoming a more humorous Beckett. Thoughts?"Idk, I mean, Beckett's fairly humorous by himself already. Then again, so are you, and I guess I'll admit it's probably not ALWAYS unintentional.
Arthur wrote; "Idk, I mean, Beckett's fairly humorous by himself already. Then again, so are you, and I guess I'll admit it's probably not ALWAYS unintentional."
Yeah, "Malone Dies" made me laugh uncontrollably on a public train. Recently, I've been reading of differentiations some make between early and later Beckett, considering the early OK but also the "wooly" you may recall. You know this here has no applicability to a public market. Beyond about five Goodreaders it would just be disjointed, ambiguous words about god-knows-what, even if the concept was amenable to them. That's one of the things I periodically stress, in addition to the lack of editing, about what I put on GR. The books are actually sufficiently different as to not be easily associated.
On the negative side, in re-reading I can still see that the writing style, intended for Basil Fawlty type humor and re-enforced with decades of bank experience, as unsatisfactory to many. It is "natural" at this point and difficult to change.
One of the things I like so much of you and your crew is that some of you guys could probably do something like this if you wanted, but you go one better by being more accessible.
The initial surge producing expectations and compliments are so old now, and it doesn't really matter to me. The learning of different viewpoints is the fun of this retirement hobby.
See, I'm talking about ME. Please try to control the excitement.
Yeah, "Malone Dies" made me laugh uncontrollably on a public train. Recently, I've been reading of differentiations some make between early and later Beckett, considering the early OK but also the "wooly" you may recall. You know this here has no applicability to a public market. Beyond about five Goodreaders it would just be disjointed, ambiguous words about god-knows-what, even if the concept was amenable to them. That's one of the things I periodically stress, in addition to the lack of editing, about what I put on GR. The books are actually sufficiently different as to not be easily associated.
On the negative side, in re-reading I can still see that the writing style, intended for Basil Fawlty type humor and re-enforced with decades of bank experience, as unsatisfactory to many. It is "natural" at this point and difficult to change.
One of the things I like so much of you and your crew is that some of you guys could probably do something like this if you wanted, but you go one better by being more accessible.
The initial surge producing expectations and compliments are so old now, and it doesn't really matter to me. The learning of different viewpoints is the fun of this retirement hobby.
See, I'm talking about ME. Please try to control the excitement.
Arthur wrote; "I'll admit it's probably not ALWAYS unintentional."
Well, chief. Frankly, there is no way that you could possibly know. You did yourself a disservice when you abandoned that which may have been gleaned from the last 80% of IJ.
Well, chief. Frankly, there is no way that you could possibly know. You did yourself a disservice when you abandoned that which may have been gleaned from the last 80% of IJ.
Mitch Green is a multi-media artist. His prose-poetry sounds interesting mostly because I don't know what the hell he is talking about. This one sounds like a recollection of Neil Young's business on the airplane strip mixed with an Andy Kaufman absurdity. That's if you're paying minimal attention. If you're paying full attention it's not that at all, but then you're left with the task of determining what it is. Have fun kids; I've developed a short attention span. In and of itself "concaving" is usually worth the price of admission. Here's a little bit of one, maybe unnecessarily conning a compliant cave.
MAN IN THE MOON
Slim silk strummed airplanes dive
down an evasive blank terrain of
dappled blue. Hands caught
exploring scissored pockets of
adolescent wonder. The cheeky
staleness of having your first
orgasm under phantom breath is
enough to feel like shiny plastic
concaving into a pulsing knot.
The sycamore husks of intimidating
giants lean down and above, shoved
windlessly into the immaturity of
sprinting bare and free before a rose
bush of horned wilderness, only to
MAN IN THE MOON
Slim silk strummed airplanes dive
down an evasive blank terrain of
dappled blue. Hands caught
exploring scissored pockets of
adolescent wonder. The cheeky
staleness of having your first
orgasm under phantom breath is
enough to feel like shiny plastic
concaving into a pulsing knot.
The sycamore husks of intimidating
giants lean down and above, shoved
windlessly into the immaturity of
sprinting bare and free before a rose
bush of horned wilderness, only to
Ten Uses for a Smelly, Hairy Armpit
1) Getting some time to yourself.
2) Pheromone for perverts.
3) You can model for low end book covers.
4) Your aloof cat will suddenly show an interest.
5) You can get a high sniffing it.
6) You'll be treated as a native if visiting France.
7) It will distract attention from your redneck cleavage.
8) It's imprint will remind you to change your underwear every few days.
9) It's a good excuse for never getting laid.
10) It's super cool with HST devotees.
1) Getting some time to yourself.
2) Pheromone for perverts.
3) You can model for low end book covers.
4) Your aloof cat will suddenly show an interest.
5) You can get a high sniffing it.
6) You'll be treated as a native if visiting France.
7) It will distract attention from your redneck cleavage.
8) It's imprint will remind you to change your underwear every few days.
9) It's a good excuse for never getting laid.
10) It's super cool with HST devotees.
Arthur wrote; "Beckett's fairly humorous by himself already."
I wasn't suggesting a duet, numnutz.
I wasn't suggesting a duet, numnutz.
Looks like everyone has already, but look at Arthur's newest picture. It might shock you that he is somewhat of a normal person, with both an intelligent and beautiful daughter.
Correction. Arthur is certainly as individually talented as three HST-ers combined. Look, on there they got Hackle, that old druggie, and a bunch of bimbos.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_8xf...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_8xf...
Anybody else notice that Hackle is gone? No, not that way. Like MIA or something.
Probably not. I mean like he's not exactly got a plethora of people interested in him. I try to make him not feel like a total cipher, but you know, I'm just a miniscule, humble, abused, and made-sport-of grain of sand in this vast universe.
I'm figuring that he's probably dead. I told him not to risk an aneurysm with that IJ. I got a big hint when he took two years to read it, made no commentary, and followed that with a book purported to explain IJ to dummies.
I tried to be nice and warn him. What can one do?
Probably not. I mean like he's not exactly got a plethora of people interested in him. I try to make him not feel like a total cipher, but you know, I'm just a miniscule, humble, abused, and made-sport-of grain of sand in this vast universe.
I'm figuring that he's probably dead. I told him not to risk an aneurysm with that IJ. I got a big hint when he took two years to read it, made no commentary, and followed that with a book purported to explain IJ to dummies.
I tried to be nice and warn him. What can one do?
He apparently thinks so, but I actually like him. It is just so difficult trying to deal with that po-mo construct which ultimately says that you are what they think you are, when they ain't all that bright and seldom pay any attention.
Bah! That's what happens when you mix egotists and verificationists!
Ian wrote: "Bah! That's what happens when you mix egotists and verificationists!"
In another sense, you make my case for the maintenance, natural ordr, and peace resultant of tribalism.
Apologies to the globalists, but you're just idealists, and definitionally useless and stupid.
In another sense, you make my case for the maintenance, natural ordr, and peace resultant of tribalism.
Apologies to the globalists, but you're just idealists, and definitionally useless and stupid.
Doowakkadoo wrote: "Ian wrote: "Bah! That's what happens when you mix egotists and verificationists!"In another sense, you make my case for the maintenance, natural ordr, and peace resultant of tribalism.
Apologie..."
I know a Jokerman when I see one.
Guy might mean well, but you know how it goes.
I'd only like to highlight your perhaps pejorative use of the Jokerman, and simultaneously welcome the opinions of the infinite number of POV's.
Definitionally impossible. ..................... Hey, don't blame me. I didn't make it this way. Just got this Neuman reporting gig and a lady with some problems.
I'd only like to highlight your perhaps pejorative use of the Jokerman, and simultaneously welcome the opinions of the infinite number of POV's.
Definitionally impossible. ..................... Hey, don't blame me. I didn't make it this way. Just got this Neuman reporting gig and a lady with some problems.
Douglas, if you are still among the living, please refrain from reading any of the last six posts. ................ Whooops. Should have said that back a bit I suppose; but wouldn't have been able to. Something is amiss in this system or my humble interpretation of it.
Guess you're dead as a dancer from the old Soul train show by now. I'd say that I cared if I did. Cheers. No more pain for the second best writer of defunct Bizarro-whine category #3, semi-surrealistic, never-get-laid, loser prose with a predilection toward sympathy extraction.
R. I. P.
Guess you're dead as a dancer from the old Soul train show by now. I'd say that I cared if I did. Cheers. No more pain for the second best writer of defunct Bizarro-whine category #3, semi-surrealistic, never-get-laid, loser prose with a predilection toward sympathy extraction.
R. I. P.
Doowakkadoo wrote: "somewhat of a normal person"I've never been so insulted in my life.
Sorry. I sort of expected and threw in the "somewhat" qualifier. Damn, you must be a bigger weirdo than I could even suspect.
when you're schizophrenic and you stop taking your meds, fucking EVERYONE is your mother. don't be too flattered. but I think I do recall you from another life...Jake, the dildo? Smirk, the trash can? Ted Danson, the snail? i'll figure it out, don't worry. And if Mr. Graham claims to actually be 3 talented people, I believe him. There is no 'eye' in Team.
Ben Newell is an extraordinarily insightful and talented writer, attributing his skills to having been a dishwasher for much of his 46 years. That unique approach to learning of life must be accurate, as he can see himself as few can. This is visually shown by his fashion choice of placing snazzy, cardboard, ersatz glasses over much of his head. His stated penchant for dirt might behoove one to dine at some other restaurant, but that's a minor consideration vis-à-vis his poetry. Here is wisdom.
scrub
celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain
got his start
as a lowly dishwasher
the job, he claims, taught him
every important life lesson
I concur—
toiling day after day in this dish pit
at 46
has been a superlative education
I’ve learned
some really vital stuff
including
but not limited to
I’m fucked
scrub
celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain
got his start
as a lowly dishwasher
the job, he claims, taught him
every important life lesson
I concur—
toiling day after day in this dish pit
at 46
has been a superlative education
I’ve learned
some really vital stuff
including
but not limited to
I’m fucked
"Casey" wrote; "when you're schizophrenic and you stop taking your meds, fucking EVERYONE is your mother. don't be too flattered. but I think I do recall you from another life...Jake, the dildo? Smirk, the trash can? Ted Danson, the snail? i'll figure it out, don't worry. And if Mr. Graham claims to actually be 3 talented people, I believe him. There is no 'eye' in Team."
The slings and arrows continue. My wife hopes that the chest pain will not produce a fatal heart attack as I'm uninsured, and the retirement payments will discontinue. I'm kind of ambivalent on the matter.
Your egalitarian approach toward mothers is actually encouraging, as I really didn't want to be the sole source of blame. Like you, memory problems preclude my precise recollection of my place in your past, but "Jake the dildo" seems a likely niche for me, though I'd really like to forget that inrubberization; no offense intended. Yes, indeed, true to your many linguistic and textual skills, you have correctly noted that there is no "eye" in team. Thank you. Upon further analysis, it occurred to me that there is no "I." but at least one of the "e's" seem to have a place; two with a "poetic" approach toward spelling. Your idolization of Arthur is quite admirable. Just curiosity; might you be doing another cold turkey with your meds?
ARTHUR, I KNOW THIS IS YOU USING AN OLD SOCK PUPPET. IF YOU CONTINUE TO DEPRESS ME TO THE POINT OF SUICIDE, AS MY LAST ACT I WILL TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU ARE REALLY JEREMY MADDUX.
The slings and arrows continue. My wife hopes that the chest pain will not produce a fatal heart attack as I'm uninsured, and the retirement payments will discontinue. I'm kind of ambivalent on the matter.
Your egalitarian approach toward mothers is actually encouraging, as I really didn't want to be the sole source of blame. Like you, memory problems preclude my precise recollection of my place in your past, but "Jake the dildo" seems a likely niche for me, though I'd really like to forget that inrubberization; no offense intended. Yes, indeed, true to your many linguistic and textual skills, you have correctly noted that there is no "eye" in team. Thank you. Upon further analysis, it occurred to me that there is no "I." but at least one of the "e's" seem to have a place; two with a "poetic" approach toward spelling. Your idolization of Arthur is quite admirable. Just curiosity; might you be doing another cold turkey with your meds?
ARTHUR, I KNOW THIS IS YOU USING AN OLD SOCK PUPPET. IF YOU CONTINUE TO DEPRESS ME TO THE POINT OF SUICIDE, AS MY LAST ACT I WILL TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU ARE REALLY JEREMY MADDUX.
Doowakkadoo wrote: "ARTHUR, I KNOW THIS IS YOU USING AN OLD SOCK PUPPET. IF YOU CONTINUE TO DEPRESS ME TO THE POINT OF SUICIDE, AS MY LAST ACT I WILL TELL EVERYONE THAT YOU ARE REALLY JEREMY MADDUX."Lol, oh no!
I've been remiss in conveying the news. It's probably because of that terminal shyness and my choice not to look at pathetic, humble, inadequate, and generally unattractive, old me. But yesterday I got another award! One of top-notch Manny Rayner's suck puppets conferred upon me the title of "Biggest Douchebag Ever." I'm not 100% certain, but I think this isn't particularly for anything recent, but is one of those "lifetime achievement" sorts of things.
Either way, I thanked him and his master, and assured them that it would be in a prominent place in my upcoming "In France They Skewer on Main Street," Joni Mitchell knockoff, along with my Troll of the Year, 2017 and pre-emptive 2018 laurels, for which I am most thankful and humbly, inadequately, and almost posthumously did not deserve. I full well realize that after a lifetime of derision and abuse, they give you this stuff when they think that you're about to croak in an attempt to assuage their guilt, which emanates from collegiately instilled, professional good taste. I say "Got a check? and Fuck you."
However, business being what it is I regret to inform the publishers that as a result prices have gone up. My agent insists that short stories are now $2, collections $5, novels meeting the most minimum of standards $20; and those which are coherent and in excess of 70,000 words $34.
Hey, old pals. Believe me. I'll always love, respect and promote the great, incompetent geeks who were there at the start. ......... Except that Hackle bald head.
Either way, I thanked him and his master, and assured them that it would be in a prominent place in my upcoming "In France They Skewer on Main Street," Joni Mitchell knockoff, along with my Troll of the Year, 2017 and pre-emptive 2018 laurels, for which I am most thankful and humbly, inadequately, and almost posthumously did not deserve. I full well realize that after a lifetime of derision and abuse, they give you this stuff when they think that you're about to croak in an attempt to assuage their guilt, which emanates from collegiately instilled, professional good taste. I say "Got a check? and Fuck you."
However, business being what it is I regret to inform the publishers that as a result prices have gone up. My agent insists that short stories are now $2, collections $5, novels meeting the most minimum of standards $20; and those which are coherent and in excess of 70,000 words $34.
Hey, old pals. Believe me. I'll always love, respect and promote the great, incompetent geeks who were there at the start. ......... Except that Hackle bald head.
Ummnnn. Oooooh. Like, like, like, like, like. In a patent pending pursuit to provide pedantry to the people, did you know? I mean did you know? You, of all music saturated and saturnine songsters, that when such things were still permitted, they locked up John Lee in a room with no food and loads of booze, and 24 hours later he came out with among other things, the oft copied phrase; "Double twist when you near the end."
Speechless.
Speechless.
"Serves you right to suffer, baby." Yeah, they stole it from John Lee.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSJUd...
In this version, I think that they left out the "your good days are gone, poppin' pills in the moanin', drinkin' booze at night" part, but it still seems sufficiently wicked.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSJUd...
In this version, I think that they left out the "your good days are gone, poppin' pills in the moanin', drinkin' booze at night" part, but it still seems sufficiently wicked.
Serve you right to suffer baby. Serve you right to be alone. Serve you right. You gonna live alone. Guitar moans super attractively, maybe real, but just maybe just too over the top to be taken seriously by someone awake.
You goan be alone.
You goan be alone.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgYuL...