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Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Black Clouds of Standard Expectation

When a headache goes too far,
the cuttlefish of emotion pulsates
into radioactive splendor, dismantling
your basic sea-monkey worldview.
Bolster your pissant log-flume crew,
lift your saggy belly-dough to the skies
and butter your ass with applesauce
because the going around just came
around. The cat's pajamas been
riding up hard. The corn-cob game.
Nodules upon nodules. Nubbin time.
Beat your meat to goddamn ribbons
in the name of Palin Babies by the ton,
by the goddamn cubic mile, Pigtwat.

I'm talking to you, Rush Limbaugh.
Actually, I'm talking to myself,
but silently, not bugshit loudly
like the dude at the post office
who kept doing verbal mathematics
four feet away while I was trying to
weigh some shit on a robo-scale.
What an embarrassing citizen.

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