toffee shop brothel

In his youth, Nicholas Wade

smoked a pipe, said "fuck" a shade

too much

but in spite of such

would never stoop to rhodomontade

Macdonald Duck Eclair - Mac Teenage Riot

Limerick

My distinguished colleague Hieronymus

Tight on liquor and feeling quite bonhomous

Took a casual stroll to the town glory hole

And received a blowjob from Anonymous

Death Set - Negative Thinking

Dream Occupations

1) Captain of the Hongwu Emperor's 'Embroidered-Uniform Guard'/ 'Brocade-Clad Guard' or Jinyi Wei (锦衣卫) . It would be a wondrous marriage between my love of smart fabrics and my lifelong aspiration to become Head of Random Disappearances in a prestigious Ming dynasty goon squad.

2) Scion/Drone.

3) Make-out Laureate.

4) Fusilier. Note: I would also settle for Harquebusier.

A knot of contenders for number 5, but in no particular order: Mic dropper, show stopper, share cropper, clodhopper, Slap Chopper™, wife swapper, Big Bopper.

Anamanaguchi - Helix Nebula

angsty poetry bennett may have written like, now

this oppressive malaise

this malarious limbo

this charnel house of moldering hopes

o life bereft of babes and boulevardiering

your air thick with the smell of laundry detergent and wet earth

and everpresent with the slight, ominous scent of sulfur

as if perpetually on the verge of some big, big stroke

i gag on the ripe effluvium of your ennui

within these seemingly harmless bedroom walls

of soft and sedating Benjamin Moore

something rots abominable

a coffee can filled with shit immured behind the plaster

or maybe a dead rat (either way, it's gross)

and yet not far off i can see the city

lit up something simultaneously horrifying and marvelous 

like a Christmas tree on fire

and yet not far off i can hear the bonhomous fizz

of all those drunk dialogues

nattered over a digital symphony of ill-advised sexts

i might run through each ear with an awl

to spare myself the mockery of this tarty champagne serenade

God, grant me a grind that will wear me down me to powder

let me idle away my youth in relationships

that kick around like empty soda cans

let me drink more than i should at happy hours

and dance on tables at the Patriot

let me glimmer and bray like the golden ass 

every twentysomething deserves to be

just spare me from this dirge of suburban life

just spare me this gulag on a kraken

serpentined and corkscrewed

Bootiful

Chelsea boots are rather smashing

I can't help my wretched pash-ing

and would glady take a thrashing

if I might receive a pair

for I think I'd look quite dashing

forever bound to make a splashing

at the parties I'd be crashing

as they're just so debonair 

Easter? I don't even know her!

How to Get to Jess' Place: added verses (or, The Rage: How to Get to Jess' Place 2)

mount a novelty football

and in a death-defying stunt

have some brobdingagian Gaul

send me there by punt

I could go by vision quest

like some Chinook acid junkie

or choose to have her as my guest

and bring her here by winged monkey

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "to make a woman out of you."

How to Get to Jess' Place: a waste of time set to rhyme

how to get to Jess' place...

let me muse upon the way:

teleport through time and space?

by a giant trebuchet?

maybe surf a massive crowd

from my house to her front door

soar upon a fluffy cloud?

chariot of manticores?

sail down in a giant peach

on sedia gestatoria

maybe wash up on the beach

and take the subway from Astoria

I could go sleeping around

and map a way from girls I laid

or dig a tunnel underground

presidential motorcade?

cartwheel till my arms have died

log roll à la lumberjack

take a hobo rickshaw ride

sally forth on griffonback

find myself an awesome bro

and wheelbarrow race the trip?

or do obscene amounts of blow

and then ghost ride the whip

bounce a stretch of trampoline

flying carpet, witches' broom

enter woods of heavy green

and clear a path with sonic booms

Or maybe I'll just take the Metro North.  The fare is reasonable and if I take the express I can get there in thirty minutes.

When there's no more room in Hell, the dead will start crashing on your couch

A Mash Note to No One, no. 1

I believe you embody,

my consummate hottie,

troves of style and wit likely fit for a Saudi

As a side note, let me also say that I'm absolutely agog over this red macintosh put out by Topman.  Now, while I've never entirely dismissed the possibility that I was, in fact, raised in a crate, it seems to me like they just don't make colorful coats for men.  Whereas women enjoy scores of covetable vibrancy with their outerwear, the options for men are confined to a subdued and sullen catalogue of beige, black, navy, gray, brown, and olive. All the polychrome charm of Scottish moorland, right there. Thank God someone's being a little adventurous.

Anti-Irish Poetry

Irish, Irish taking jobs

single-mothered Papist mob

how far must New York go awry

to learn your race need not apply?

____________________________

Paddy, you're going to Irish Hell

where all the other Irish dwell

ask the devil as to why:

"in Hell No Irish Need Apply.

Their blighted kind is drunk and shady

and every Ryan, Duff, and Brady

sit in the blackest depths of Hades

with nudie mags of bearded ladies."

(who are all, incidentally, Irish)

_____________________________

Possible titles for anthologies of anti-Irish poetry:

Erin Go Home: An Anthology of Anti-Irish Poetry and Verse

When Irish Eyes are Smiling, Lock Up Your Daughters: Selected Anti-Irish Verse, 1860-1875

The Oxford Anthology of Anti-Irish Poetry

I wrote this in high school. It was for an assignment about the seven deadly sins.

Jaunty James and His Rusted, Red Rocket

when James was age seven

he was a cute lil' guy

believing in heaven

and adorably shy

his life was a joy, and what made it complete

were his Green Ranger curtains and matching bed sheets

Cream was for butter

and buns were just bread

the sexual gutter

hadn't clogged in his head

but...

On his thirteenth birthday the candles blew out

and with them the boy I just told you about

his face became dirty and exploded in pimples

which covered his forehead, his nose, and his dimples

his voice, how it cracked--his esteem even more

and there was suddenly hair where there had been none before

but it was not just his body that changed at thirteen

and his maturing mind turned to thoughts most obscene

while prior in life girls had little effect

now he couldn't stop thinking of the opposite sex

it occurred on the tenth, his parents away

and young James had the house to himself for a day

channel changer in hand, he surfed the T.V.

but no programs were on that fit his fancy

and at that very moment the thought entered his head

of two big-chested bimbos on a large waterbed

he suddenly realized how to better his time

and without second thought flipped to channel six-nine

as he looked at the scramble, pants down to the rug

his hand went below the equator and started to tug...

just as with heroin, one time is enough

for an addiction to form to the horrible stuff

and James, oh he loved it--to the point of obsession

and he could have been saved (had he gone to Confession)

but he sat on the sofa with unbuckled jeans

ogling R-rated movies for the steamier scenes

inside a pillow, behind a rock, under a willow, into an old sock

with the audacity to go as far as to do it in his neighbor's car

no means were too sordid, no place indiscrete

for that perverted pubescent to season his meat

my rhymes are tight, my rhymes are neat-o, they extenuate what matters like an awkward Speedo

a poem about tweed

I find tweed both posh and stately

it's a fabric I admire greatly

be you English, French, or Swede

all look fetching in a tweed

(except for Romanians, 'cause they're mad gross)

there's dignity in woven twill

and whether chatting with George Will

or shooting birds atop some hill

you're bound to absolutely kill (pun hesitantly intended)

it's sense with which we all should breed!

O, how my lovelorn heart would bleed

to see a woman wearing tweed

even be she Margaret Mead

I wouldn't hesitate to plant my seed

the world's obsessed with Paris

but all I want is Harris

let's amend the Nicene Creed

and sanctify those wearing tweed

Natsume Sosexy

a poem about aspirin

aspirin, o aspirin

for all my savage, whiskyed sins

you've soothed remorse and eased chagrin

o nonjudgmental aspirin

(cue the mawkish violin)

many a sordid night has been

where I've turned into Errol Flynn

and spent the evening blind on gin

knocked down like a bowling pin

and waking up with head aspin

but!

as long as I have aspirin

that Santa Claus, that Jesus twin

I know that I shall rise again

aspirin, o aspirin

you ibuprofenated djinn

it's like you make my day begin

my brilliant, lovely aspirin

for all your value held within

you could be in the Metropolitan

but modest valor, Gunga Din

is how I think of aspirin

...fin