Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: poetry (page 1 of 8)

A Terrible Poem About A Terrible Weekend

The Instagram Hotties have gone to
Coachella
The agency rented a house
Or maybe it was the energy drink company
BANG!

Yeah, it’s an infinity pool
Or whatever
The ones in Bali are nicer.

Between you and me?
The desert sucks
How can one be expected to hydrate?
It’s not an option, hydration
Thank God for cryogenic blood facials
I have one scheduled for when we get back to Los Angeles

Give it up for The 1975
I’m gonna fuck a 1975.
Probably the drummer
Do they have a drummer,
Or are they one of those bands without a drummer?
I don’t wanna fuck the bass player, but I will if I have to.

Is this too much underboob?
(If there’s such a thing)

I’m showing underboob in honor of Nipsey Hussle
It’s how he would have wanted my boobs
He taught us so much

Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Kendall isn’t here?

 

 

 

A Terrible Poem About Tradition

Whither the All-Star Super Jam?
Everybody, everybody
Everybody on stage for the All-Star Super Jam.

It’s in D
No, not A
B flat?
Fuck off with that, man
It’s in D.

Somebody
Grab Ringo
Set up a kit for Ringo
He’s gotta do it
Wouldn’t be right to All-Star Super Jam without Ringo.

You’ll take a solo
Then I’ll take a solo
And he’ll take a solo
It’s in D, remember.

A Terrible Poem About Longing

O Lord make me a Gentile
With hard-working hands
Skinny little legs
And a hard round belly
When you got a tool like mine,
You gotta build a shed over it.

Bud Lights in Sturgis
Daytona Beach
I wanna get thrown out of Dollywood, Lord

Bandanas
Oooh, lemme at them bandanas, but
Not like David Foster Wallace
The opposite of David Foster Wallace
And not a do-rag, neither
Obviously not a do-rag
You know: a bandana
Stars and bars’d be just peachy
Or Old Glory
Something patriotic, Lord.

I wanna call every man I meet Brother.

Molly Hatchet’s playing down the fairgrounds tonight
My cousin’s working security
We gonna have ourselves a time.

A Hairy And Terrible Poem

The bad guys always whisper
“It is more intimate with a blade”
Listen to villains.

I was naked for the act
I was naked when you died
I softened you up
With water
And potions
Ordered off the internet

You put up a fight
Good for you, slugger
Rome fell, too
We all fuck off in the end
The press will call it a mercy killing
We can get the public on our side

It was like that shot fromĀ Psycho
You swirled goodbye
Clean-shaven face to match my heart

A Terrible New Year’s Poem

If last year was rough, may this one be easy.
If it was easy, may this one be smooth.
If it was smooth, don’t fuck up a good thing.

A Terrible Poem About No One In Particular

Mistuh is dead now
Fine man he was
Tall
And always smiling
I still have the dime
That he gave me
After Boogie died
He plucked it from the handful
Of change
In the palm of his glove
Never seen such shiny coins.

When a man eats
–I’m talking about most men, now–
You can tell by his shirtfront;
Not Mistuh
He had the cleanest face in the county.

Mistuh didn’t have the stomach
For violence.

Shame what’s become of this world
Now that men like him ain’t in it.

A Terrible, Yet Traditional, Poem

Twas the night before Midterms
And all through the town
Not a citizen smiled
Everyone wore a frown

The flyers and pamphlets
Had been sent by mail
And robocalls flurried
As if they were hail

The bunting and banners
Were red, white, and blue
But it seems this year
The S of A wasn’t so U.

The houses were full
With fights and with bickers
And everyone eyed
E’ryone else’s bumper stickers

When out in the street
There arose a great clamor
That men shut their yaps
Ladies ceased with their yammer

It was him, it was Santa!
There could be no one finer!
Everyone’s favorite saint
From 8th century Asia Minor!

A crowd gathered round
And grew into a group
Santa just smiled
And Prancer made poop

A very tall man
With only one ear
Said “It’s November, Claus,
Why you are here?”

And then Santa laughed
His traditional HO
And his belly did jiggle
And his eyes did a-glow

“Even up in the North Pole
I can’t help but hear it
You all are in need
Of some Christmas-time spirit.

“Some good will towards men
And some alms for the poor
And a hearty reminder
Of what life is for!”

The crowd heard his words
And they processed their meaning
And then, all at once,
Everyone started screaming.

“What kind of name’s ‘Santa?’
Are you here legally?”
Yelled a man in a red hat
Who looked kinda weaselly.

“These reindeer, Santa,
Were they bred or rescues?”
“Santa, I have some concerning
Facts about Jews.”

The crowd got excited
Like a riot begun
And then a white lady
She called 911.

So the police arrived
To protect and serve cit’zens
And one cop shot Donner
And another shot Blitzen

“Fuck this,” said Kris Kringle
And he spurred on his ‘deer
“To the North Pole or Poland
Anywhere but right here!”

And his voice carried out
As he sped away home
“Maybe Jesus’ll help you;
You’re on your own.”

A Poem By Caitlyn Jenner

First they came for the blacks
And I said, “The ones my stepdaughters are dating?”
And they said, “No,” so I didn’t care all that much.

Then they came for the Jews
And I said, “My lawyer?”
And they said, “No, not your lawyer,” so I was fine with that.

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I said, “What’s a trade unionist?”
And they tried to explain it, but I was thinking about lunch.

They they came for the transgenders
And I was like, “Hey now!”
And they said, “You honestly didn’t see this coming?”
And I said, “HE HELD UP A FLAG!”
This is not on me.

A Terrible Poem About Winter’s End

The men can get to work now
With their motor-trucks
And tools.

The walls and roof to the dump
And the flooring
Everyone’s taken their souvenirs
It was just an armory with an ego, anyway.

Last call
Last dance

Someone play Greensleeves so the kids know to go home.

A Terrible Poem About Desert Rituals

The InstaHotties have returned to Burning Man
(You could set your Apple Watch by it.)
They have enormous boots
–furry or fascist–
Goggles
Defined intercostals.

Not all of them.
All InstaHotties are not the same.
Don’t be a bigot.
Most are still in Mykonos.
Or Los Angeles.
Or yachts.
I’m not talking about the basic bitches.

The playa encircles the Man.
We orbit
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Counter-clockwise
We meet gravity with faith.

Someone told me this was the place to be.

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