Serenading a Crone with Poetic Yule Shit
My sister started a poetry reading here in San Francisco, at a little cafe that is just barely hanging on, which is run by North Africans. Not really blacks, these dirty brown people are descendents of the Pheonicians and Carthaginians. Home of one of my favorite historical figures Hannibal.
She had poems about hating porn and liking nail polish as most lesbians...errr...feminists. Something about porn objectifying women and showing them as recepticles.
The day you start believing that is the day your are pussy whipped and mentally retarded.
After the reading we went to a jazz club.
There was a man SCATTING.
I wrote to my sister on a napkin, "YOU MUST NOT BE A BIG FAN OF SCAT 'CAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE PORN". She thought it was funny. I didn't know she could cackle silently. She mentioned the women in Houston who are into the art form known as SCAT. I asked her if they perfomed in big venues or little shit holes.
She got up and did her poetry over the house jazz band. She was embarassing to watch and by far the least talented and fattest of the open mic drunks. OH, IN POETRY circles I believe they call that a SLAM. She was wearing a feathery boa. I don't think telling her she's insane will do any good. We are in SF. There are alot of high functioning crazies out here.
Last Friday I picked up some old lady at a bar. Something about being lonely I guess. I went back to her place just to confirm what I had suspected. She is insane. She kept two piles of one dollar bills in the door of her refrigerator which she calls "cold cash". One pile is for taxi fare, the other has peoples' names on them and are not to be spent.
I wrote my name on one. I hope she does not stalk me, moreover I hope I did not sign of over my soul, because I was hoping to buy a cheeseburger with it. I was really drunk, and decided to make a dollar some unspendable cold cash. Fuckin' weird. I was wearing my Santa boxers that Sugar Momma II bought for me last year.
This lady had intimacy issues, so we didn't fuck. I did however have her handle my Christmas Bells and candy cane. I hope that was traumatic enough for her. I was thinking of refering to my weiner as a yule log, but that sounds too much like shit, and I don't want to get back into scat. It's really gross and smelly.
I spent the night with her. Susan was her name. It sucked I actually couldn't remember her name when we made it back to her apartment. I feigned a heartfelt moment and introduced myself again, first name and last. She saw through this bullshit, rolled her eyes and said, "my name is Susan". One of the selling points, which got me to go back with her that she said she had a great view from her apartment, and she really did too. At one point I was admiring the world outside and not talking to her and she said, "is all I am a view to you". These words would have made perfect sense to a drunken dyslexic. It took me a moment to decipher what she was trying to say and to respond with, "no, don't be silly".
I gave her my number, but decided I didn't want hers. She'll probably never call, which is fine by me. I'm just glad I don't have bumps around my mouth from kissing on an old skank. I just keep playing Russian Roullette with these Baby Boomers.
I thought of a game show like The Family Feud, where family and friends would be on. The object of the game would be to see which of the teams' members can recognize the farts of their loved ones. There of course would be two categories by which to guess a loved one. Sound and smell.
It would be called CONFLATULATIONS!
The prizes would vary from fart pillows and bathroom deodorizers to really nice stuff that wouldn't directly relate to the butt but would be things one would have to sit in/on like motor bikes and jaccuzzis. There would be hot Price is Right chicks with great asses (varying in size and shape but all legitimately great in their own right)who would showcase the prizes while bending over for the camera. Hot.
I wrote this poem about Sugar Momma II, but I guess it goes for Susan too.
The Innocence of Older Women
I want to do some of that wild stuff you're always looking at.
Afterwards she said crying, "I never wanted to know".
Neither did I.
Welcome to the age of the Internet.
She had poems about hating porn and liking nail polish as most lesbians...errr...feminists. Something about porn objectifying women and showing them as recepticles.
The day you start believing that is the day your are pussy whipped and mentally retarded.
After the reading we went to a jazz club.
There was a man SCATTING.
I wrote to my sister on a napkin, "YOU MUST NOT BE A BIG FAN OF SCAT 'CAUSE YOU DON'T LIKE PORN". She thought it was funny. I didn't know she could cackle silently. She mentioned the women in Houston who are into the art form known as SCAT. I asked her if they perfomed in big venues or little shit holes.
She got up and did her poetry over the house jazz band. She was embarassing to watch and by far the least talented and fattest of the open mic drunks. OH, IN POETRY circles I believe they call that a SLAM. She was wearing a feathery boa. I don't think telling her she's insane will do any good. We are in SF. There are alot of high functioning crazies out here.
Last Friday I picked up some old lady at a bar. Something about being lonely I guess. I went back to her place just to confirm what I had suspected. She is insane. She kept two piles of one dollar bills in the door of her refrigerator which she calls "cold cash". One pile is for taxi fare, the other has peoples' names on them and are not to be spent.
I wrote my name on one. I hope she does not stalk me, moreover I hope I did not sign of over my soul, because I was hoping to buy a cheeseburger with it. I was really drunk, and decided to make a dollar some unspendable cold cash. Fuckin' weird. I was wearing my Santa boxers that Sugar Momma II bought for me last year.
This lady had intimacy issues, so we didn't fuck. I did however have her handle my Christmas Bells and candy cane. I hope that was traumatic enough for her. I was thinking of refering to my weiner as a yule log, but that sounds too much like shit, and I don't want to get back into scat. It's really gross and smelly.
I spent the night with her. Susan was her name. It sucked I actually couldn't remember her name when we made it back to her apartment. I feigned a heartfelt moment and introduced myself again, first name and last. She saw through this bullshit, rolled her eyes and said, "my name is Susan". One of the selling points, which got me to go back with her that she said she had a great view from her apartment, and she really did too. At one point I was admiring the world outside and not talking to her and she said, "is all I am a view to you". These words would have made perfect sense to a drunken dyslexic. It took me a moment to decipher what she was trying to say and to respond with, "no, don't be silly".
I gave her my number, but decided I didn't want hers. She'll probably never call, which is fine by me. I'm just glad I don't have bumps around my mouth from kissing on an old skank. I just keep playing Russian Roullette with these Baby Boomers.
I thought of a game show like The Family Feud, where family and friends would be on. The object of the game would be to see which of the teams' members can recognize the farts of their loved ones. There of course would be two categories by which to guess a loved one. Sound and smell.
It would be called CONFLATULATIONS!
The prizes would vary from fart pillows and bathroom deodorizers to really nice stuff that wouldn't directly relate to the butt but would be things one would have to sit in/on like motor bikes and jaccuzzis. There would be hot Price is Right chicks with great asses (varying in size and shape but all legitimately great in their own right)who would showcase the prizes while bending over for the camera. Hot.
I wrote this poem about Sugar Momma II, but I guess it goes for Susan too.
The Innocence of Older Women
I want to do some of that wild stuff you're always looking at.
Afterwards she said crying, "I never wanted to know".
Neither did I.
Welcome to the age of the Internet.