Current poems in progress...

i don't think yor koans coincide,.
---Anonymous

i don't remember how you'd hide?
want to play games together,
eternal darkness, my friend.

what was last year? 20991?

wikipedia.org/wiki/Eternal_Darkness

-wish people can write gooder.

-fr0
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"The game's standout concept, patented by Nintendo,[1] is the "sanity meter", a green bar on screen which is depleted under various conditions, generally when the character is seen by an enemy. It can be restored under various conditions, such as performing a "finishing move" on an enemy. As the bar becomes low, various effects occur, reflecting the character's slackening grip on reality. If the bar remains empty, further damage to sanity decreases the player character's health."
/
ct fx
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they make fun of your save card. -fr0
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you player character ;) -fr0

the internet is not supposed to be your outlet
---Anonymous

The Internet is supposed to be the place where you find new people.
It is not just 'your outlet', not just a place for you to seek victims.
On the Internet, you can read literature, and jokes, and quaint ideas.

A lot of people are using the Internet for their on nefarious reasons, now.
Honestly, it disgusts me. Because I'm a snob like that. I'm an Internet snob.
THey don't even know what they've gotten themselves into.

On the Internet you can find girls, and food, and culture.
Yeah, you can find culture, on the internet. Lots and lots of culture.
Also, you can hire someone to murder you on a future date (make sure its EST!).

-fr0
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i like how in line 4 i spelled 'own' as 'on' wtf brain?
-fr0
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[...]
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Yes. On the Internet one always sucks. Data. -fr0
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[...]
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Cobwebby lolz.

Well, I have always known about bleak. Laserbleak, eject! my mother would say.
I luv soundwave.-fr0
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i've put 'cobwebby' on my twitter. wait till the blackberry hears of this! -fr0

closely monitoring all your spending habits
---Anonymous

made a joke about about young nuns
can
't type to make any sense longer ...
still on line two, imagine if this was heroin.
i know where to direct my eyeballz.

-fr0

Ideas Man
---Anonymous

I am what they call in the business.

That's it, there is nothing else.
Using things inappropriately is my forte (with an accent).
For example, one time I used a text-editor programme
to woo sexual favor, internationally.

"Did you really love her? Did you did you?"
people keep saying these things to me,
not realizing that they are completely
missing the *whole* point.

The point is not about some kind of cheap
male chauvinist pig pleasure.
I'm not like this just to declare myself --
I'm like this because I'm trying to eat a noodle with a spoon.

Only some people realize what I'm doing,
and none of those people ever give me any love.
They label me, tag me, like I'm some kind of corpse
flown into the morgue by helicopter.

They don't realize that *I* was the one landing that chopper
on that building rooftop, precisely upon the letter 'H'.
I flew my own body back home, thank you very much.
Don't need you losers to do everything for me, nor your 'lovely little children'.

Making love to electrical sockets is never easy,
but it is zestful, full of life and more fun than,
say, managing all your time every night in dream state,
waking up fresh. All that is so overrated, and not good.

If it's my dream, then let me dream it.

-fr0

Helping The World To Absorb Moisture
---Anonymous

At My Company, people often ask what is it exactly that we do. No question mark there, since it is a statement. You add the question marks only when you are confused.

We try to help all the humans that are around us to see the splendor of the world that is around them. Not the sugar substitute, but *real* splendor. For example, imagine a lush tropical forest being shot at you from way back in time -- it's like that. Like a time-travel experience, and your kids wonder who brought the baby along for a ride?

This is what My Company does. It is what we are good at, and it is what we will be doing even after your last grandchild has died. We like to show you what the coffin really looks like from inside. We like to detail the varnish. We like to spend extra on paupers, because paupers are funny people.

But most of all, we like to waste our time writing thrilling little bits like this -- oft forgotten but never unremembered.

Thank you.

-fr0

Wake Up Neo, The Ego Is Calling
---Anonymous

I know you have been running around as a simple id,
messing with all the defense mainframes, playing like
nothing matters.

You went into shock. And you have been running ever since that
entire debacle, like a crazy person, when in fact
you are not crazy.

We worked on your body with finest needles and threads, weaving your soul
back into some kind of form or shape that we can, as a group
look at and admire.

I know you were hurt the last time, and you said some things that not only the world balked at,
but even you did, yourself. you stuttered at your mispronunciations,
knowing full well.

wake up neo, the ego is calling. go ahead and make it somebody's day.

-fr0

operatic by voice: Ghost Story NIN
---Anonymous

Trent was wasting his breath trying to pimp his latest shoes, selling at whatever price they would pay him. 'How nice', is the obvious joke but there was nothing 'nice' about hiking into a bloody forest located in Madison, Wisconsin.

Emma was getting bored by 'artistic reason', so she started a conversation with Peter. "Tell me about your old gf," she said.

Peter's eyes popped out of his skull, literally. "What?" he exclaimed, turning over to Harry, to check whether the father would allow such insolence. "Nobody said she is old." He looked desperately at Harry.

The father just nodded, like there was nothing else to do. "Say 'what' again, motherfucker," he said.

"You really want to learn about Nadine?" asked Peter.

Emma nodded. "Do I look like I mince words?"

Peter examined the little girl, and SAW that she was not kidding around. "My relationship with this woman is kind of more complicated than some common child's fantasy," he said. "It's not like 1-2-3."

"Hah," laughed Emma. The path into the designated zone had taken a turn for the more leafy. Everywhere around them, the vegetation grew. Some of the deep trees began to bark. "This was always the section I had lamented having to watch you produce, ever since we locked eyes."

"What?" said Peter. They took a turn around the corner, and suddenly, they were there, where Bobby had been murdered by a cult. Peter noticed that he'd not had to say anything about Nadine at all. "Oh, this place," he said.

Everybody then turned their head towards him, and in the horrible place of the pagan child sacrifice was a huge mansion instead. Decor circa 1873, windows by the ego of somebody who just named himself 'Fenestre'.

"Now, will you not fuck me like an animal?" said Peter, his anus constricting according to the homely temperature emanating from the house.

-fr0

Immoral Fuck
---Anonymous

, i've been trying to contact you regularly,
just to tell you that we will no longer be contacting you.
You have outspended your cool cache,
and all the art that you like has become passé.

We can't even go to museums with you, you embarrass us so much.
And I can't give you my credit card because you're under age.
How am I supposed to pay you, without such economic facility?
And what brand of parmesan do you usually order from the stores anyway?

I return to life, resuscitating like the father who supplied arms.

-fr0
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pure crap
-------
And what brand of parmesan do you usually order from the stores anyway? -fr0
-------
and that is precisely why you suck.
-------
Parmesan, motherfucker, do you speak it? What kind do you usually get?

-fr0
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Or is this going to be like that one time you didn't know how to rhyme with brie? -fr0

Sometimes it is possible to love a little 'too much'
---Anonymous

Normal human beings know how to condition their experiences.
They use tools like meters, and gauges,
or in that Quantum Physics something they like to call
'The Cat'.

In science fiction terms, the concept is abused, of course.
A lot of writers simply take fancy after flight,
after which you get some aeroplanes not landing properly.
but at least the experiencer ends up with 'Sully'.

That is a sullen comfort, at least.

Normal people would harness the seatbelt,
and the voice activated cellphone,
and the rubber mattress 3000 feet below the 'call for help'.

At which point, we reach the concept
I'd been originally talking about.
In a normal car, you have all the safety features
but in a sportscar you still have them,

but they don't work in ratio.

-fr0

pazuzu made you slaves
---Anonymous

"Don't come crying to me about your two-bit philosophies
when I already showed you who did it, humanity."

She turned the scroll, and found yet another example of his crimes.

"Pazuzu made you all slaves, not me," she continued, reading on. This was getting really interesting.

The man made the mistake of questioning whether Pazuzu ever even really existed. Imagine, being that man.

-fr0
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line 5: "The man made ... " = "The man had made ... "

-fr0

Gently Grasp The Next Bottle
---Anonymous

For, as you have been told countless times,
it *could* be your last.
Just remember, never give up.

She has a slender neck, and says 'pop'
when you make her.
She reminds you recursively about
her -- that other her.

Sexualizing concepts, pornographizing ideas.
That's what you do best, isn't it?
Bring out the essence, the flavor, her

pungency. Always about her,
when was the last time you thought about yourself,
you blind bastard?

-fr0

Some Benefits of Being Mindlessly Disposed
---Anonymous

One of the lessons you learn is about how everything is not 'black and white'.
Because you were born in the late seventies, way after color was invented.
Too bad you got injected right into the eighties.
I remember your face, whenever they produced those ... 'scenarios'.

You were, like, "dude, i can totally pwn this."
Like thinking about how your baby brain had been operating,
at that time, not knowing anything about 3D glasses,
or invisibility suits.

Have you even thought about sniping somebody just based on sonar?

-fr0

perchance to
---Anonymous

we here are teachers
and dreamers, poets and weavers
of webs spun from the strongest
words among them

we lie down in the gorgeous mess
and wait for something to come along,
to remove the blood,
to rapture us out of this

during stolen moments like this one,
where the steam and streetcars
of market street
stream slowly in the sluggish morning
i try to reconcile here this part of myself
that should otherwise have integrated

i should be filled with the passion of poets;
instead i roll up in my web
and wait.

amber
-------
nice insight. a rational passover of the limbic.

attention whored
---everywordmeanslove

In the fat sunshine, he swallows the chimney. With his neck full of bricks he chortles snakily the trowel-born craftsmanship until his uvula wavers like an Indian flute ribboning the charms of a cobra to the air, but instead the notes are glottal. His random fangs rely on the propulsion caused to help him retract his eyelids just far enough to detect the fire of distant effigies, all of which bear his likeness and visage, but which instead are populated with the disembodied, unrestful spirits of thousands of Joans of Arc, whose voices are picked up on satellite, and beamed to millions of televisions who broadcast the moaning of her martyrization, re-enacted once for each chimney the man swallows. And, he finds this delightful, so he does it with a Sisyphusian fervor, until his torso transforms, and he finds himself serpentine below the neck. And so,... helpless to eat chimneys with no arms, instead becomes Ouroboros, and all the Romans christen him to the sky, where his wings tread air and spin the wind for sheer happiness.
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vigorous virtue

mojo brunella
---Anonymous

blowfly in my eye
wanna cry
like nellie bly
with goiter pie
on my tie
the magpie i
did spy
eaten by
the fry guy


you couldnt speak
and i couldnt spell the differences by the flat remarks
fingerprinted in inkstain hairspray
channelling a busy signal transmitting
from the trachea of the sphinx on high
for bubbles of the cosmological skin contact constant
bomb the downtown business district
until the bumblebee shook
parum pum pum pum
free from the tons of ice shark
rhythm sections,
almost oh so deliberate and
shy.
skipping
shores across the stone throats exposed on satin neon santa clauses,
posting lost chupicabra causes on couches in catholic churches
sloped like black ceramic panther pedestal sinks and all our satirical literalism goes pop when teeth shaped shut defeat the passion with reflection of the mirror within the mirrors symmetry.

yet unentrenched
you washed and dried the cotton candy exclamation points
we pinched
from the echoe of the passing sky
bid swim with me,
and never met goodbye.
.
...3mj

a quick one
---oephim

Cutting up the aurora borealis
to paste on black paper,

for my daughter,

and what'd I tell her
for her birthday
(because we give words
in my family)

is

as
you get older honey,

remember to talk to your father,
to have words with him

because he's alone
in the multiverse

trying to edit the past,
and right the future

without any time to rehearse
raising his child
without
raising his voice

without any time
to be here now

before you blow out your candles,
he's blowing up
your balloons

so hold him so
with angel and star
dust,
weigh him down

with an incantation

because once upon, a boy
lost his senses,

scrambled his tenses

and made a wish

a wish he forgot
to make
real.

-o-

Mr. Empty Not Empty
---Anonymous

So this is the end blackened teapot
coma, or is that a spot of
errata listed in mistaken form

hmm hmm

No question marks, are there
no question marks.
Aren't those some question marks.

mmh mmh

Miss Ann throw Pierre about
forget-me-not those comas
if empty then begone else:

empty,not,empty,mr.
-------
-fr0

____________________
---con temporary fix

Can your own items, stock
and lock and load,
bag your own groceries
and get back on the road.

(Dear Bitch,)
It's winter and it's a
switch
from summer
and promised promises
of these winds
and that ocean current
and how the fish
behaved
off the coast of
New Zealand
hell of a climate,
its a splinter in the skin
sometimes festered, mostly
just an itch to get weathered
whether or not you pinch to pop the blister or try
not to mind it by
a tie yourself into a knot
with bandages,
coat yourself stupid
and hope you don't bleed to death
while you think of a plan
that doesn't lead to ruin
and here again.

As one gets South, The skin gets leathered,
eyes with crows feet,
and accents from bad plays
keep your focus
as you try not to fall asleep while
paying at the counter, reaching
deep into your pockets for those pennies
and pocket lint.

With the map unfolded on the hood of your car,
you

try to whistle
while shivering.

Then when no one's looking,
shut the fuck up.