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Rot
Radar(Baba)O'Riley
Posts: 947
Here it goes . . . Off I go:
Below you will find your feet, but below this thread you will find three poems from my book "Rot". It is my intention, come Monday, to then post a poem a day from the book. This experiment will last until you get bored with me. So, my last poem will probably be posted on Tuesday. As has been previously posted, if anyone would care to have their very own copy of Rot, PM me with your address, measurements, turn-ons, favorite Star Wars character (I suppose the last two may be duplicitive), daily caloric intake, and whether or not you believe love can keep on moving in both directions. If you would like your copy to be personally bound in cow bladder and inked with the mucous of my tuckus, then delivery may be delayed a few days.
I have about 20 books left, and would prefer to keep a couple of my own . . . you know . . . in case I run out of toilet paper. The pages are surprisingly soft.
Thank you for your graces; consider yourself warned.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Fun"
has yet to play with me.
it is like an estranged father
who has bastardized me
and left boredom to mother me.
i often go and search for Fun,
but i think it’s hiding.
when i go to the mall,
Fun isn’t there.
when i prance nakedly through church,
Fun isn’t there.
when i staple my hand to that homeless lady’s breast,
Fun isn’t there.
maybe my Fun has been kidnapped.
maybe my Fun is being held against its will somewhere
and that’s why i can’t find it.
yeah.
i bet that’s what happened.
my Fun was kidnapped by some smiling freak.
well, i guess i’m gonna have to hunt this freak down
and chop him up into iddy biddy bits
to get my Fun back.
but what does this freak look like?
where does this freak live?
oh, well.
i guess if i start chopping up people,
i’ll eventually find that freak.
then, and only then, will i have
Fun.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"The Keepsake"
my baby is smiling
the candles splash light
onto his face
glowing waves
drown the shadows
keeping the face
pure and clean
the face is the only thing
keep it fresh
keep it sweet with
his sweetest smile which
branded bliss
onto my soul
when I saw it
I had to keep it
was quick to keep it
keep the smile now
as it was then
pure and clean
but purity decays
and clean fades
his face is paler than yesterday
it must stay preserved
so the skin won’t
blacken and crumble
so the flies won’t
come to feast
I’ll keep it iced
I’ll keep his smile
alive
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"I, mite"
i f.
whether
through a
natural
transmogrification
of bone and lip, or
through
astronomical alchemy
or simply a curse,
I awaken to take the form of a man-sized mite,
I would not curse, or
blame my moon, or bone
I would
rise,
piss,
dress,
brush
my
teeth, and eat everyone I saw
later that night, I might watch M*A*S*H.
Below you will find your feet, but below this thread you will find three poems from my book "Rot". It is my intention, come Monday, to then post a poem a day from the book. This experiment will last until you get bored with me. So, my last poem will probably be posted on Tuesday. As has been previously posted, if anyone would care to have their very own copy of Rot, PM me with your address, measurements, turn-ons, favorite Star Wars character (I suppose the last two may be duplicitive), daily caloric intake, and whether or not you believe love can keep on moving in both directions. If you would like your copy to be personally bound in cow bladder and inked with the mucous of my tuckus, then delivery may be delayed a few days.
I have about 20 books left, and would prefer to keep a couple of my own . . . you know . . . in case I run out of toilet paper. The pages are surprisingly soft.
Thank you for your graces; consider yourself warned.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Fun"
has yet to play with me.
it is like an estranged father
who has bastardized me
and left boredom to mother me.
i often go and search for Fun,
but i think it’s hiding.
when i go to the mall,
Fun isn’t there.
when i prance nakedly through church,
Fun isn’t there.
when i staple my hand to that homeless lady’s breast,
Fun isn’t there.
maybe my Fun has been kidnapped.
maybe my Fun is being held against its will somewhere
and that’s why i can’t find it.
yeah.
i bet that’s what happened.
my Fun was kidnapped by some smiling freak.
well, i guess i’m gonna have to hunt this freak down
and chop him up into iddy biddy bits
to get my Fun back.
but what does this freak look like?
where does this freak live?
oh, well.
i guess if i start chopping up people,
i’ll eventually find that freak.
then, and only then, will i have
Fun.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"The Keepsake"
my baby is smiling
the candles splash light
onto his face
glowing waves
drown the shadows
keeping the face
pure and clean
the face is the only thing
keep it fresh
keep it sweet with
his sweetest smile which
branded bliss
onto my soul
when I saw it
I had to keep it
was quick to keep it
keep the smile now
as it was then
pure and clean
but purity decays
and clean fades
his face is paler than yesterday
it must stay preserved
so the skin won’t
blacken and crumble
so the flies won’t
come to feast
I’ll keep it iced
I’ll keep his smile
alive
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"I, mite"
i f.
whether
through a
natural
transmogrification
of bone and lip, or
through
astronomical alchemy
or simply a curse,
I awaken to take the form of a man-sized mite,
I would not curse, or
blame my moon, or bone
I would
rise,
piss,
dress,
brush
my
teeth, and eat everyone I saw
later that night, I might watch M*A*S*H.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
I seek no monetary reward for this. Just knowing that I'm potentially polluting minds is reward enough.
My supplies are limited, though. I suppose I could take it to Kinko's and make some more copies if demand exceeds supply.
i liked 'the candles splash light'....and lots more but thats my fave one!
"Homeless Love"
Summer dumpster sex is a blissful adventure.
Dilated diapers and moist French fry containers
announce a putrescent essence for our venture
into tongue-thick embraces. My teeth contain her
Gasps and laughs as she grasps my mouth in hers. Bird shit
icing cakes the corners of our bed chamber, and
among our sheets: cantaloupe skulls, pork bones, egg piths.
Still, all I smell and taste is her. She takes my hand
Licks off the dirt, the day, halts me in this turning
world. There is no trouble here; no hurt, shame, or law.
Just recycled love from two fresh blossoms burning
in their own simple fires and not sweating at all.
I nibble a kiss, breathe her in, and softly say,
"Thank God the garbage man isn't coming today."
Genius.
I can never remember if the 12 syllable program is in the sonnet family or not... but it doesn't matter. A technicality of technique.
Thanks to YOU for posting your rot.
seta
And you're a very talented reviewer
Thanks for sharing.
why will you take by force what you may have quietly by love? - Powhatan
De
spair
is repaired
i'm broke
it stands on my welcome mat
it only comes by on its birthday
i am well-bred
to give of my bread
empty myself into its empty hands
and watch it feast on my eyes
(De
corates
De
cay)
i will cut off its head
to make room for the
body
bed of angry grapes
whining in the rape
a bloated
rope
around my brain
aborted
hope
to pull the pain
(De
stroys
De
light)
pray that someone close will die
just to have a sane reason to cry
(De
signs
De
feat)
i cannot loathe something that
just wants to live
that is a nobler goal than i have
(De
vouts
De
vils)
it is my shadow
the brighter i get
the blacker it burns
it is the cancer
that aides me
it is my stage
where everything is
LOVING PARENT: How are you?
me: (aside) dead. (to loving parent) fine, thank you.
LOVING PARENT: Would you care for a soda?
me: (aside) i'd prefer cyanide. (to loving parent) yes. thank you.
LOVING PARENT: What are you doing this weekend?
me: (aside) plan on drowning in the missouri. (to loving parent) oh . . . nothing
De
cries
me
i can hold it in my hand
while it holds me in its fist
while i hold it in my head
while it thinks about me
standing on its welcome mat
Satan is stretched out as the grass . . .
and I can't get the lawnmower to start. He keeps growing and growing and nibbling off my Nikes with his stemmed molars and masterly licking my toes so that I have little choice but to tingle and to numb and to forget my feet as they dissolve into his digestion. I keep pulling tugfully on the ripcord starting string thing to the mower, but the motor only snores and keeps napping. And now the grass routes its root into my internal pudendal artery, and I can't help but pee as I hang from the handle and pull on the damn cord to pulse the damn mower but the damn thing is damned. And when Satan slips up to my urine-ripened undies, I hear a tumultuous tempest of "Uuugh! His piss tastes like shit!" Then Satan sickenly unascends and vomits forth my thighs and feet and Nikes, and retreats under the ground, leaving me to kick the kaboodles out of my damn lawnmower.
My neighbors think it's strange that I now mow my yard by pissing on it.
seriously potent stuff right there.
I like you, your silly!
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Awfully nice of you to say, sultry
radar, you rock!
too much talent.....how long have you been writing?
I suppose it 'just comes out that way'.....usually those who are this talented dont' even have to TRY.....I envy that!
"I don't want to tell what the song is about because a lot of these lyrics have been open to interpretation and people have taken them on... they've become part owners..." -EV
Great. I have my first stalker
I'm pleased that you're pleased. Truly. My cheeks are exploding from blushes. It is foolish, however, to think that I don't have to TRY. It all depends on the amount of LSD and Cheetos, actually. But not cheesy poofs. Never cheesy poofs! Oh, those things make me angry! I hate 'em! I hate 'em! I hate 'em! Those soulless fiends!
It took me six years to write Rot.
Thank you for your kindness . . . now, that'll be $16.98
I saw a little
toddler
toddling around campus. his teeny
fingers fixed
around mother's pinkie
like shark teeth.
his other hand
strummed
his lower lip
-plip-plip-plip-
until it dangled dry.
he wore
chubbiness under his clothes.
snuggle-cuddle-skin: softer than a
marshmallow's kiss. his smile
melted every
frown, warmed
every
eye.
the ends of his lips
held up
his peach-cobbler cheeks
and baked them with
a glow that could humble
the dawn.
a blue-leaf forest floated
in his eyes.
clear. forever.
each blink
glazed slowly across those eyes
as if the lids were savoring the slide.
I
sat on the grass
as he passed
and
wondered what a
shotgun blast
would do to him.
what's this poetry doing in my underwear
I
don't think it'll eat much I:m glad
I
am sad because now
I
can hate the sky is a freckle on my cheek last week
I
bought three cents worth of sense for two dollars my old
neighbor grew thorn bushes out of her eyelashes
I
couldn't get my money back new sentence new opportunity
to be vague my life is rife with strife which made me knife my wife
I
put commas in my nose to slow down the sneezing I:m writing
in the first person because my author doesn't know what I:m
thinking there's nothing else to say so I:ll fart
I
just wrote the sweetest sentence so be thankful I erased it
my life is rife with strife which made me shit
I
already said that
You have the lyrical gift. No matter how dark the stripe. hee hee. I always always enjoy reading your work.
seta
(dofs cap, bows humbly) 'Tis most kind of you, noble poet.
However, YOU have the lyrical gift. I have more of a maniacal gift that I use for good.
Hope the PJ Poetry Press works out somehow. I've been impressed with the quality and quantity of stuff that's been posted here, and would love to see it squished together into some gooey casserole jam-like substance.
wait, now i'm confused....i could've sworn you said the book was free
lol. jk, of course.
i like your stuff, Radar. truly. it's wild. and it's within the boundaries of my attention span!
now before you say anything, MarcUS, you know i love you and honestly adore your stuff. at least, i HOPE you know that.
Most gracious of you
I, too, have a short attention span and try to write pearl jam is good I can't wait to rock out to stone--Ha! Rock and stone! Stone rocks! Get it?! A stone is like a rock and he rocks like, well, a rock! My Oreos are possessed.
Fuck you.
do you plan on putting out another collection of poetry?
I'm glad the postal service is as reliable as Fed Ex.
Thank you times 100. When I showed the book to my family, they were like, "Oh, that's nice, dear." They were excited that I wrote it, but didn't seem to understand it. Which is fine. I don't understand mechanical engineering like my dad does. I'm grateful that someone can pluck out some meaning for themselves. It means a great deal to me.
I am working leisurely on the next one. Preliminary reports are that it appears darker, longer, and more esoteric. It took Rot six years from conception to publication. So, expect the sequel in another six years
I even sent a copy to Mr. Vedder himself. Can't remember what address I used, but I did extensive internet research and found one. Could've went to some PR guy, could've went to some poor chap who shares Eddie's name, could've went to mail limbo. Haven't received a Thank You note from Mr. Vedder, though. I was secretly hoping "Homeless Love" would be Ed's next ukulele piece
i can see myself reading your collection often and finding something new everytime. many of the poems went over, under, around and through my head - which was really quite lovely and strange but in a great way. i'm ashamed to admit though that i'm probably the only dolt that got 2 pages into the "scab" series before i realized i wasn't reading it in the proper order. so on maybe one or two ocassions i felt like maybe i wasn't quite tall enough to ride the ride so to speak. thats the best part of great art though, it stretches you beyond the limits you create for yourself and i am grateful to you for that.
btw - "homeless love" happens to be one of my favorites and i agree that it would make a fine uke song in Mr Vedder's repitoire (sp?).
any chance of sending me a copy?
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
Only if you give me your half-eaten soul.
I see you're an Englander, so you'll have to send me a kidney pie in trade. Have you ever had a kidney pie? It sounds vile.
PM me with your address and such
to these guys
http://www.wewantyoursoul.com
but your welcome to the empty space thats left
i was thinking of short term renting it out to a family of travelling gazelles but you ll have to do i suppose!
kidney pie
yes i have
dont ask again
the therapy may start to wear off..............................
INTER-FUCKING-MISSION!!!
Newcastle-Riverside 02/22/92!!!
E.rutherford New Jersey 01/06/06
Athens -Greece.survived !barely-
Wembley 18/06/07- no words- just smiles!
That is if you don't MIND of course.
I'll PM you here shortly.