|
MIKE YOUNG |
One Last Note or Two or Wet
Thunder scoots against the riffs
that eke from such a dimebag
balcony.
He plays to
prove his t-shirt,
its logash logo of The Doors.
In his
family, things are assumed fucked
when you spring
for the pre-slated motorcycle.
But he tried and couldn't swing a cut & paste account
of "first in the family to
graduate x" —
not a neat forked choice, just a
skylark plunge
for "volunteer jawbones on the
Reception Battalion bus" :
comparing pink neon and cornpoke
routes
against his hopalong mytholojerk,
a clank heart and that later go! crokd fingr
trigger flang scuzz
thud finger but oh now just
skin that bathed in the kitchen sink (no
flowers
near the shower knob, all nickel hussy
Mazda gurgle—)
He has seen Val
Kilmer fake peyote bolstered cum
and dreamed to jump hard from his own face,
is worried now about a fumbled twang,
losing sweet ass riff shit to wet strings
kinked and fried (what is it one-
by a rain that you can lean from or let spread.
He tries to keep
the guitar under the roof slats
and knees the
amp against his goof flesh.
Beloved Floofylimbs, How I Pine Like Da!mn
Floofylimbs, I live in a cheery house of rafts,
wherein I dwell on sex and speaker systems,
all the livelong whistlin' "shlam-zee-du!"
and "up with methsicles!"
I make sure to reck for heavy heavy siphoning,
and eat my grilled tomatoes from a can:
a tin assembly stapled by a Persian
lacking ankle socks.
Charlie from the DragonCon insists
I scrimp,
owing to my debt of twenty Pogs.
But hark!
All day the pitbulls squish the
avocados,
all day a real
bridge is paced
to grind away through clomps
the limpid bargains of frayed caps or county lines.
Yet I never dally in such onion-ridden frowns: every
eye I own is totally into that Kenny Chesney
nostalgia.
What's with tongue aflame with shitty shitty
bang bang?
We have a world of Specials, of Extravaganzas, of Megaman!
Why, Tim has stayed up all night selling fish in Everquest and
truly so did all the garden jingle at his feat! No powdered
eggs!
So prowl with me through the Raley's
parking lot, the bumper cars, and
train your spork to slice the
scrim. For I did not buy half a dozen
Gatorades to see your rain shoes near the oven. This is the
year
that we — like — yeah, the year — you know — help?
|
|
|
