There once was a lass from Nantucket
Who made chicken chow mien by the bucket,
Skipped over two lines and said, “Fuck it!”
Told you it was naughty.
Pervert Justice
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There once was a lass from Nantucket
Who made chicken chow mien by the bucket,
Skipped over two lines and said, “Fuck it!”
Told you it was naughty.
Worship my nine lives,
eighteen claws, and thirty teeth;
then go fuck yourself.
So, Trump is the kind of idiot who can’t handle losing, but is too megalomaniacal to notice when he doesn’t have a chance. In addition, part of the original allure of Trump was that he was a winner, and that was only enhanced by pro-incumbent bias in the electorate.
So, now Trump is going out a loser and many people are hoping they’ll never have to think about him ever again. I beg to differ. I want to see him back in 2024, and if necessary in 2028.
So, on Saturday I was writing about Sen Harris and how Newsweek is shocked, SHOCKED to find racism on its editorial pages.
In doing so, I may have mentioned the poet who wrote this:
Come on come on kiss my full lipped, wet tongue, eyes open-
animal in the zoo looking out of a skull cage-you
smile, I’m here so are you, hand tracing your abdomen
from nipple down rib cage smooth skinn’d past belly veins,along muscle to your silk-shiny groin
across your long prick down your right thigh
up the smooth road muscle wall to titty again-Come on go down on me your throat
swallowing my shaft to the base tongue
cock solid suck-
I’ll do the same to your stiff prick’s soft skin, lick your ass-
Come on Come on, open up, legs apart here this pillow
under your buttock
Come on take it here’s vaseline the hard on here’s
your old ass lying easy up in the air- here’s
a hot prick at yr soft mouthed asshole- just relax and let it in-
Yeah just relax hey Carlos lemme in, I love you
So I have something coming up on Monday. It’s a bit different from the usual fare around here, though I hope still relevant. As a cryptic introduction, I thought I’d quote a few reviews of Allen Ginsberg’s book, Mind Breaths from the site GoodReads. None of these will be featured or even quoted in Monday’s piece, but still, reading them might prove interesting:
Whose hoods these are, I think I know.
The mall need not reject them, though
Their money is still welcome here:
their skin’s as white as purest snow.
Pat Parker is a particularly awesome poet, although it’s true that we all tend to value most highly those things we can’t do ourselves, and whatever talent I have with language, it certainly doesn’t include a gift for brevity. So maybe I overvalue Parker because she’s able to make a point much more succinctly than I?
Hmm. Let’s see: