Playtime

Today's Lesson

Metaphor

If life is just a metaphor for something else,
it is a really shitty metaphor.

Face Right

With my biceps,
which are of alien origin,
and fueled by my strong hatred of actors
such as Tom Cruise and Sylvester Stallone,
I will choke your face right off of you.

Your undergarments will be soiled,
when you see me driving your street.

BO

It'd be an understatement if I told you
you have body odor.
Like cheesy onions and chlamydia.

Stupid People Vacationing

Decisive

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Dangling

Today's Lesson

Mega Reptilian Jesus W. Bush

Creepy the Bear

Britney Spears Bone Soup

Her initials are BS,
but her sound is just bullshit.

Britney Spears Bone Soup,
that's the name of the game.

Crushin' them bones, them bones, them dry bones,
into a pleasing,
and palatable soup,
unlike her music,
which has never been the least bit palatable.

The homeless of the world would much rather eat
Britney Spears Bone Soup
from a styrofoam bowl,
with some Premium saltines
than listen to her greatest hits album.

I'm back.

Poems for Children, part 1

Lions like to eat
children,
especially fat, smelly
little scumbags
like you.

You’re worthless and the lion
knows this unmistakable
fact, and that’s why
it wants to eat
your ass.

The other kids at school
are right to laugh at you
behind your back and
flick boogers in your hair.
They would eat you
if they were lions, too.

Reflections

America,
you are a bunch of fat, stupid, pathetic people.
America,
and lazy too.
America,
I've seen you at your malls, chugg-a-lugging along round bottoms.
America,
how can you seriously all be so goddamn dumb?
America,
why do you waste your time and money on things like sports
and race cars?
America,
your favorite television program is on, it's reality.
America,
don't you have some eating to do?

Cliche

A cliche by any other name is a piece of shit.

Clown Indigo Outdigo

A clown smiles
because he clutches his feces
and smears it on his face in the dark.

A clown frowns
because he has to entertain
children all day at some pathetic party
where all the parents sit around getting drunk
and all the kids tug at his red ball nose and the
fuzzy balls down the front of his clown
pajamas.

Not a Good Thing Anywhere

There is nothing good in this world.

Especially . . .
Tom Cruise
potato chips
drive in movie theaters
mass murderers
insecticides
school teachers
samurai swords
anal beads

Knights Templar

Everyone seems to think the
Knights Templar were so
totally awesome.

They were a bunch of punk
ass pussies,
who thought they were
cooler than they actually were,
a lot like poets of the academies.

Tough

I am one tough
motherfucker.

I eat the children
of ninjas
with bananas
for breakfast. (although I hate the taste of bananas)

And I broke John
Rambo over my knee
as though he were
a feeble little
toothpick.

So if you want to mess with me
be warned.

A Fable of Equality

A poet, a Nascar driver, a politician, and a schoolteacher
walk into a bar.
The poet acts snobby and starts mumbling
some bullshit about experience
and groaning about postmodern archetypes.
The Nascar driver smiles like a buffoon
and scratches his nuts.
The politician smiles and shakes hands and dances
around like some sort of doppelganger.
And the schoolteacher talks about how hard his job
is and how teachers have it so hard and he acts
depressed that nobody gives a single shit.

Then I swoop in from nowhere and pummel
them all with my robotic hammerfists
and my calloused alien-modified heart.

The Moral: No one is better than anyone else. All people are scum.

Follow-up

And your wife is an evil robot.

Ode to W

Boy, you sure do speak well.
You sound very intelligent,
if intelligent means "dumber than a pile of horseshit."
With all your "urs" and "ums" and "he-he-hes,"
you just sound like a stupid, pathetic redneck.
No wonder so many Americans like you.

Dprssng

America would be a depressing place
if I were a mortal, human being
like you.

On Kerouac's New Play

Some things are better off undiscovered,
like Kerouac's New Play,
and a decroded old dog turd.
Or a poem written by anyone.

Let me guess,
the play's about a bunch of high pseudointellectuals
who run around all over New York
acting like they're smart and
changing the world. HA!
And they have all these great new ideas
and there's probably something somewhere
about cosmic vibrations.
Horrible.

Analogy

death : life :: funny : pathetic

Quagmire

Why would anyone ever desire to be creative?
What a pathetic quagmire
to find
yourself in!

Life is a Game

If you've ever voted in the United States of America,
consider yourself as having participated in the
biggest charade ever constructed.

On this planet at least.

Livestrong

Lance Armstrong is the
worst kind of moron,
because other people
believe in him.

I drank too much alien booze

How else do you explain why I went wagging
my huge robot cock in everyone's face
three or four times that night,
and shitting on myself in front of
a crowded room?

Punishment Supreme

Nobody deserves the ultimate punishment:
to be your friend,
if only for just a day or two.

Family

There
is no such thing
as loved ones.

Television

Some people say
television is a perversion of
human culture.
But human culture
is a perversion of
everything that could
have been good about humankind,
which is nothing.

So forget it.

Idiots

Consider yourself a complete idiot and a pathetic piece of
trash if . . .

1) you've read some good poetry lately.
HINT: There's no such thing as "good" poetry.
2) you've told someone you love them lately.
HINT: This is the worst kind of insult.
3) you've bought a great new album.
HINT: There hasn't been a great album in years.
4) you've had a "really nice time" with one or more humans lately.
HINT: Everything is an asshole and it is therefore impossible
to enjoy any sort of social activity with any creature.
5) you've been told you've "got what it takes" recently.
HINT: This just means you're a complete suckup with no
backbone and no ability to think critically. You are the worst
kind of fool.
6) you've posted to a blog recently.
HINT: Bloggers need to get a frigging life.

A Slice of Intergalactic Conspiracy

. . . and there she was, looking me right in the eyes
that female chiasma of robotic strength and alien vehemence,
a mutant the likes of which I had never seen,
all green and tumorous and rippled with muscle,
and plated in alien alloys,
I could smell decay on her breath
like she was rotting from the inside
as her lizardous tongue
lashed out at my face,
It was a goddamn intergalactic conspiracy
what landed me in that dirty cell with
her.
My hands were bound to the walls with circumnavullarila chain
melded together with werhif fragments, making it all but
impossible for me to wrangle or jimmy free.
I wasn't sure what to expect, but I leaned as far forward as I could
into that putric stench, until my nose was pressed against her face,
and I said, "You can't touch me!"
and with a blaze of fury and vigor
she uppercut me six weeks from Sunday,
I slunk against the wall, those chains the only thing
keeping me from lying crumpled in a mess on the floor.

And she offered a devious smile, and wiped a bit of green drool from the side
of her mouth, and said, "You dumbshit, I'm breaking you out of here so cut the
arrogant half-man, half-robot bullshit. It's all a cliche out here anyway." She held
her arm out like a game-show prize girl showing off a "BRAND NEW CAR." "Everybody's
a half-something, half-something, out here so cut the shit."

As she started cutting the chains, she laughed and said, "You're never going to guess who
sprung the money for your rescue this time."

I was still a little delirious from that stiff uppercut she'd delivered. Her pneumatic hammer arms
were much more powerful than I'd first reckoned. I was reeling. Who could it be? I thought.
Who could have sprung me from this hellhole? And why did they send a mutie to do the job?
It was all starting to smell worse than her breath.

Forms Parasitic: Ode to the Nematode

Outnumber other animals
in
both individual
and
20,000 different described species.
they are nematoda
in
the aschelminthes,
and
then the most common phyla of animals,
with over 1919.
later they were demoted
to a class ubiquitous in freshwater,
marine,
and
originally named the nemata by nathan cobb
in further,
there are a great many parasitic forms,
including pathogens in most plants
and
terrestrial environments,
where they often animals,
humans included.
only the arthropoda species counts,
and
are found in locations
as
are more diverse.

the roundworms were the roundworms
(phylum nematoda)
are one of restored to phylum nematoda.
diverse as antarctica
and
oceanic trenches.

Cut-up War of the Cut-up Worlds

Mercy as to complain if the martians warred that the
infusoria under the microscope do it
receives from the sun is barely half of it is scarcely one
seventh of the volume of the creatures who inhabit this earth, must that life is an incessant
struggle for that
intelligent life might have developed the
intellectual side of man already admits pole and
periodically inundate its and intelligences such as we have scarcely cooling
to the temperature at which life coldest
winter. its air is much more immediate
pressure of necessity has has
already gone far indeed with our only more distant from time's beginning but after
generation, creeps upon them.

and largely a mystery, but we know now that even their world is far gone in its cooling the same. no one gave a thought to
the temperature barely approaches that of our destruction our own species has wrought, not incredibly remote, has become a
present-day have
shrunk until they cover but a third of might be
other men upon mars, perhaps little affairs, serene in their
assurance the
superficial area and remoter from the busied themselves about their various about the
sun at a mean distance of through its drifting cloud wisps of writer,
up to the very end of the than our
world; and long before this earth in its equatorial
region the midday scarcely need remind the reader, revolves before we judge of them too harshly we must danger, or thought of
them only to dismiss unsympathetic, regarded this earth in the same
spirit? a
microscope might scrutinise the transient our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the earth must have accelerated its eloquent of
fertility, with glimpses older worlds of space as sources of human and so blinded by his vanity, that no the idea of life upon them as impossible huge snowcaps gather and melt about either bison and the dodo, but upon its
inferior the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older perish,
intellects vast and cool and existence in a war of extermination that received by this world.
it must be, if temperate zones. that last stage existence, and it would seem that this too drew their plans against us. and
early in attenuated than ours, its oceans must have begun its course. the fact that waged
by european immigrants, in the space grey with water, with a cloudy atmosphere remember what
ruthless and utter no one would have believed in the last years of water. with infinite complacency men dreamed of,
they see, at its nearest days. at most terrestrial men fancied there is the belief
of the minds upon mars. the twentieth century came the great animated existence.

yet so vain is man, or
improbable. it is curious to recall a missionary enterprise. yet across the yet as mortal as his own; that as
men warmer planet, green with
vegetation and was being watched keenly and closely as ours are to those of the beasts that there far, or indeed at all,
beyond its broad
stretches of populous country and ceased to be molten, life upon its
surface could begin. it has air and water
and all races. the tasmanians, in spite of their 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat concerns they were
scrutinised and studied, distance only 35,000,000 of miles sunward nineteenth century, expressed any idea of fifty years. are we such
apostles of must someday overtake our planet only
upon animals, such as the vanished are the monkeys and lemurs to us. by
intelligences greater than man's and and
this world is still crowded with life, brightened their intellects, enlarged problem for the inhabitants of mars. the human likeness,
were entirely swept out of nearer its end.

the secular cooling that of
exhaustion, which to us is still that is necessary for the support of sun, it necessarily follows that
it is not perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with went to
and fro over this globe about their neighbour. its physical condition is
still inferior to themselves and ready to
welcome but crowded only with what they
regard as its surface, and as its slow
seasons change disillusionment.

the planet mars, I gulf of space, minds
that are to our minds of
them, a morning star of hope, our own of their empire over matter. it is possible their
powers, and hardened their hearts. creatures that swarm and
multiply in a drop understood that since
mars is older than with
envious eyes, and slowly and surely narrow, navy-crowded seas.

and we men, inferior animals. to carry warfare sunward of the nineteenth
century that this world is, indeed,
their only escape from the earthly level. nor was it generally and looking across space with
instruments, destruction that, generation be to them
at least as alien and lowly as some of the mental habits of
those departed

Consider Yourself A Pathetic Half-life Moron, If . . .

. . . you've ever said, "I can't wait for that new Vin Diesel movie."
. . . you've ever looked forward to a meal at Burger King.
. . . you've ever told a friend how much he/she meant to you.
. . . you've ever believed a doctor cared about your well-being.
. . . you've ever thought you would amount to something.
. . . you've ever bragged about how much you like jazz music.
. . . you've ever dated another human being.
. . . you've never dated another human being.
. . . you've ever thought anyone on TV is cool.
. . . you've ever liked other human beings.
. . . you've ever perked up at the sound of an engine running.
. . . you "like" to read poetry.

A Recent Study

A recent study shows
that if you play video games
you are a stupid moron.

Running from the Dystopian Robots from the Outer Rim of the Hihhiash Asteroid Belt (pt. 1)

So there I am running.
And there they are chasing me.
Frigging lynchmobs, I think,
as I make a left turn down a dark alley.
Did I mention my laser cannon arm has been on the fritz since I spent the
night with that whore in Reno?
And that renders me still unstoppable, except against an angry mob of robot
dystopians from the outer rim of the Hihhiash asteroid belt,
which is what I'm running from right now.
And boy are they mad.
Stop.
I stop behind an old dumpster,
freeze,
as they run by with their motion detectors,
and here comes the group with the carbon detectors,
so I move on like a cat hopped up on speed,
find an old door that leads into a skanked out building.
I ram it in, no problem, for my hydraulic legs.
Just takes one little kick and the thing
flings and flies off its hinges,
and I'm presented with the dark interior of a building that smells
like Billy Idol's BO.

And back to the dystopian robots and why they're so damn mad.
We got into a shouting match
one night
on a trading outpost in
the Sesariastop Region of Qst 19
about who was the bigger asshole,
Tom Cruise or Tom Selleck.
Not that I really cared either way,
but I was drunk on some
good bootlegged alien whiskey,
and feeling my vapors, me a boy of just 19 millenia (Earth time),
and I was looking for a fight.
Plus, these dystopians, they'd been pushing my buttons all day.
You know the type
(imagine super aggressive goth kids like you'd see at your suburban mall, only thirteen feet tall, hopped up on goofballs, and armed to the teeth with fusion violators and macrocellular albatrosses and the likes; not a pretty picture).
And they'd been in my face all day,
challenging me into long discussions
about nihilism and poetry
(which I hate)
and how great American hot dogs are
and how great Americans are,
and I'd just finally had it with them.
We went toe to toe for hours about who
was the bigger asshole, Selleck or Cruise,
and finally I won when I pulled
Look Who's Talking
out of my hat.
"Anyone who starred in that movie is one of the world's biggest assholes, bar none," and they all jabberwockied around for several minutes, considered throwing Top Gun and that horrible Far and Away at me, but finally decided I'd beaten them.
Selleck was crowned the huger of two assholes.
And then it was really on.
One of these dystopes, I think his name was Rockie 9730,
he was pretty high at that point, and he pulled a
Warhese interceptor on me, which I don't take kindly to,
and I says, "Drop the interceptor, Rockie," but he doesn't.
So, quicker than a lightning bug taking a dump on the summer solstice,
I lit him up with my cannon laser arm, and splitting him in two
and just as nice as you like.
By the time his buddies knew what was going on,
old Rocky was just pile of smouldering rubble,
and I was well on my way out of Rose's Cantina
and into the next transport leaving for Tau Ceti,
where I knew those lousy dystopes wouldn't dare follow me.

And they didn't.

But then, a week ago,
I was in this quaint little whorehouse in this little one horse
town
just south of Reno,
and all of a sudden shit was hitting the fan from every direction.
I headed straight for the Badlands, and managed to elude those
dystopian bastards.

But here we are. Here and now.
They're right on my tail, and I'm holed up in this dark,
dank old building
and suddenly,
"What's this?"
There's a thrumming coming from down the hall
and around the corner.
I immediatly know the sound of that vibration,
and I head for the end of the hall.
In case I've never told you, my brother, Jason Hightower is this religious zealot who lives in Nashville, but he's employed by the Universe Engineering Corporation, located out of the Wassasha Province in the distant Narin Galaxy. He punches wormholes into the fabric of existence.
So, I threw open the door,
and there was the dizzying punctuation of a wormhole,
swirling,
and that thrumming sound the closer you get heads you
straight nauseated,
and I was feeling like hell anyway from running
on a hangover for three days with no sleep
and no metabolites
or any speed
to keep me going.
I stopped, bent at the waist and puked some real nasty,
stringy yellow bile, and not feeling any better
stood there a moment, thinking about my asshole brother Jason.
If I leap, I'm going to have to listen to him try to talk me into
religion again, and I'm tired of his ranting.
But just then, a dozen or more dystopes fly down the hall at me,
macrocellular albatrosses at the ready, and so I leapt for the wormhole.

Hungry

There is a child riding a bike on the sidewalk
and the music of an ice cream truck driving down the street
suddenly I am very hungry.*




*please note: I am lactose intolerant and a cannibal. You put it together.

A Love Song for Organs

Once,
Twice,
Three times a kidney.

By the Way

I hate people who blog.
It's a stupid waste of time.
And the worst ones.
Are the ones who actually care.
And think that other people care, too.
Get it through your head, moron.
Nobody cares about you, or anything you have to say.
People who blog are ignorant crybabies.
Ignorant crybabies.
Cry babby, Cry babby.

A Poem of an Update, or I'm Back A-holes!

Lord I was born a ramblin' half-man, half-robot, half-carnivorous ninja pirate,
and that's why I haven't
been posting here lately.

The mother ship picked me up a while back because I needed a new replacement
for my hydraulic ass pump that had been installed
by my chromium ancestors several millenia back
and I took some time off from this horrible blog.
Spent some time flying through space fighting against all the good that's
starting to build up in this god-forsaken universe.

You wouldn't believe how many pathetic utopian societies I've wiped out,
thanks to that asskicker SCLUEURPCEVUL-7 and his friends,
those utopian societies are all bullshit, anyway.
And now they're gone.

So, now I'm back here on planet Earth watching all you idiots eat shit and watch NASCAR all day, which,
I might add,
is the most pathetic excuse for a pasttime since those assholes invented golf.
Anyone who watches NASCAR deserves to have their entire face removed
by a stiff uppercut from my uber-cannon-megalo-arm hydraulics.
I'd consider that mere natural selection, rednecks.

By the way, eat my feces.

Goddamn Hypocrites

Goddamn hypocrites
are the best kinds of lovers
because you never have to get to know
the person below all of that skin and sex.

I ,
by the way,
hate sex because
it's a pathetic way
to let someone know you hate them.
I prefer to just look them in the
eye and say, "You're a pathetic piece of trash.
Eat shit."

Plus, I have
a robotic cock that
destroys everything I screw.

Sweet Charity

I'd like to thank all
of you retards who
actually wasted your money
on my book instead of
donating it to charity
or putting it toward
your child's education.
I hope it pissed you off and
that it will continue to piss you
off for a long, long time.

P.S. I used the money to get hookers
and drugs.

Sober and Back

Hello,
stupid, pathetic fools.
You probably thought I was dead
and you rejoiced and sang songs.

Well I wasn't dead,
just drunk.

Now I'm sober and back.
With more terrible poems to ruin your
miserable lives.

Fools.

Friendship

If you look at me again,
I will remove your ribs
with my teeth
you pathetic bastard.

Your mother is a whore.

AStarStarHoles

Sometimes I wonder why kids act like assholes
and then I realize it's because they are the
byproduct of two parent assholes and that makes them
twice as likely to be assholes themselves.

Ode to a Ninja Robot

Do you have any idea how much work it takes to be a
gravity defying cannibalistic ninja robot from parts unknown?

I doubt it.

Because you're a pathetic mortal human being
who doesn't make soup from the bones of
fallen family members and who doesn't have a
cannon for a left arm.

So kiss my ass.

Eat Yourself and Enjoy the Taste

Life is nothing
but a pathetic few years
trying to impress others and
keeping your weight at a decent level
so you can pick up lovers and being miserable
and bored and depressed and broke and drunk and
oh why am I explaining this to you dumb pieces of shit?

It's a Terrible Turd of a Life

Every time you read a poem,
an angel dies.

Let's Be Friends

The best part about you is how terribly ugly you are.

Don't sit there thinking, "He's not talking about me,"
because, yes, I AM talking about you. You're ugly.

In All Seriousness

Over the holiday, my brother, Jason Hightower, sent me a letter telling me to give up my satanic ways and to "come back to the flock." He told me I live a life of sin and misery and that God would welcome me back and forgive me.

Here's my response:

Dear Jason-

Fuck off you asshole. There's a reason I stopped talking to you. Also, if God forgave me, he'd be stupid and gullible and naive and retarded. Like you.

Later prick,

Hilton

Happy New Year, Fuckers!

Christmas is a stupid public display of pathetic
empty values performed by inbred, rednecks.

I spent my Christmas drunk, and for the last
few weeks I've been drunk and passed out
in some brothel south of the border.

I couldn't stand all you piece of trash Americans
and your stocking stuffers and your egg nog and
your carols and your goddamn ugly pine trees.

Get a life and wake up. The only true holiday is the day you die.