The ballad of a dietary analysis gone awfully awry
To all the beloved penis enlargement pill merchants and confusing Russian criminal spy-like creatures of the LiVEJOURNAL community, look--I'm not dead, after all! And yes, I would love some penis enlargement pills; thank you for repeatedly asking!
For anyone else who may have followed a clue from the real and modern world to this website: how sweet are you? Anyway, here's my full postcard summing up my unsuccessful week. The literal details of how extravagantly I screwed up assorted things are incredibly tedious and not worth bothering any living soul with. This is, too. Enjoy!
For my next trick, I shall bungle
bascially everything. and whatever tiny bundle
escapes this show unbungled
soon bigly botched will be.
Always a bungler, never a burglar.
I can’t even pick my own lock, not even with its key.
Always a bungler, sometimes uncomfortably
in the company of ham-faced burghers, but not quite.
Screeching their feasting apparatus in and out of place,
hoisting collapsed
troughs and tables down & out
of sight. Leaving behind crushed thumbs in some.
A very beri beri glare about my face,
and cooing clawing chaos in my gut.
Every day I’m bunglin’. Why once I swatted away thick
flocks of ruby-hot life opportunities with a single broom. Then dropped a mop
and doomed whole crops of apricots to rot.
Bungling through the rubble of old my archived bungles, as grow
in all those lonely closed-down rowboat showrooms, crumbling slowly
tumbling bungalows-some jungles flush
with fungal furs. Minky molds and mildews
attracting bumblebees.
And I’m entirely tired of Time
with all its always going
and always going faster faster
billowing faster
vaporous bastard.
What is it now, December?
Whatever.
For my next drink, I shall sulk across the desert
on my little sister’s bicycle.
And when I stumbled through your doggy door
to mumble something more about how truly hungry I am,
wasn’t ploying to pilfer your pity
or purloin your pearly veggie burgers, just begging
deep inside you might just smooth
this last crumple with a half-
forgiving glance.
For anyone else who may have followed a clue from the real and modern world to this website: how sweet are you? Anyway, here's my full postcard summing up my unsuccessful week. The literal details of how extravagantly I screwed up assorted things are incredibly tedious and not worth bothering any living soul with. This is, too. Enjoy!
For my next trick, I shall bungle
bascially everything. and whatever tiny bundle
escapes this show unbungled
soon bigly botched will be.
Always a bungler, never a burglar.
I can’t even pick my own lock, not even with its key.
Always a bungler, sometimes uncomfortably
in the company of ham-faced burghers, but not quite.
Screeching their feasting apparatus in and out of place,
hoisting collapsed
troughs and tables down & out
of sight. Leaving behind crushed thumbs in some.
A very beri beri glare about my face,
and cooing clawing chaos in my gut.
Every day I’m bunglin’. Why once I swatted away thick
flocks of ruby-hot life opportunities with a single broom. Then dropped a mop
and doomed whole crops of apricots to rot.
Bungling through the rubble of old my archived bungles, as grow
in all those lonely closed-down rowboat showrooms, crumbling slowly
tumbling bungalows-some jungles flush
with fungal furs. Minky molds and mildews
attracting bumblebees.
And I’m entirely tired of Time
with all its always going
and always going faster faster
billowing faster
vaporous bastard.
What is it now, December?
Whatever.
For my next drink, I shall sulk across the desert
on my little sister’s bicycle.
And when I stumbled through your doggy door
to mumble something more about how truly hungry I am,
wasn’t ploying to pilfer your pity
or purloin your pearly veggie burgers, just begging
deep inside you might just smooth
this last crumple with a half-
forgiving glance.