A Word from Hilton Hightower's Webmaster

I awoke this morning to find Hilton's underground bunker in shambles. It appears as though a struggle ensued during the night, but I fear that Hilton's intergalactic foes have tracked him down again and carried him away for all manner of tortures and punishments in some star system far, far away. There is no trace of him now.

Hilton is gone.

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 10

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 9

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 8

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 7

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 6

Dead

Joe Barbera
is
dead.

Cookie Zombie

I'm a zombie,
a giant ice cream cookie eating zombie.
Watch me stand here,
staring endlessly into space cramming this
giant ice cream cookie
into my digestion hole without a care in
the world.

Oh, wait, I'm not a zombie.
I'm just a disgusting kid.

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 5

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 4

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 3

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 2

Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol 1

Happy Holidays

In the build-up to your pathetic
consumer-driven holiday season,
I'm going to produce a new line
of graphical expositions called,
"Santa Under the Influence of Drugs and/or Alcohol."

They shall begin forthwith.

Two Dudes

I got an e-mail from
two dudes who want me
to appear on their stupid
public access show if
their first-choice guests
fall through.

I told them to get used to
disappointment because that's
all life really is: disappointment
painted over in colors of happiness
and "wow, things are really going well!"
but that I would accept their offer.

A terrible poet should alway feel compelled
to appear on a terrible television show
that no one watches anyway.

Handbag

The world used to be such a
decent place, before all you
people came along.

And then you made your celebrities,
with their celebrity faces and babies
with names like Apple and Douche and
Sean Preston.

This place is going to hell in a
Gucci handbag.

A Poem Written from the Perspective of Little Baby Suri

Oh fuck,
look at this bullshit I was born into.
My dad is the hugest tool in the world.
I mean, seriously, what a pompous ass!
My childhood and teenage years are
really going to fuck me up,
not to mention all this weird Scientology bullshit.
My mom used to be pretty cool when she
was on Dawson's Creek, but look at her now,
a puppet to dear old dad's zany ways.
She probably deserves better.
And on top of it all, I'm ugly.

An Analogy of Sorts

Your breath smells like rotting cat carcass.
What have you been eating?
And why is there so much junk under your fingernails?
If I see you suck that stuff out from under them
one more time, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
When was the last time you took a shower?
You have no excuse.
Excuse me please, while I go vomit from the stench of your
body odor.
You smell like Jennifer Lopez acts: terrible.

Days Upon the Murkiness of Spirit

The worst kind
of day
is every
day.

A Subtle Lesson

On Louisa May Alcott

Damn,
what
a handsome
woman!

Ned, on His Fucking Job

I wish I didn't have to sit
at this desk all day
with a cramp in my hip
and gas in my guts.

I'm sick of this
fucking job.

Poem Told from the Perspective of a College Boy

Hot summer night.
Friends and drinking
and feeling alright.

Waiting for friends
to take the piss,
we saw a fat woman
and a skinny ass man
hopping on a horse,
tied up in front of that redneck
local bar.

It was a one-night stand,
started on horseback.
He wasn't her boyfriend,
just a pony express sort of ride home.

She asked me to help her up on the horse
while my friend suddenly grew starry-eyed about horses,
which he'd never seen up close before.
I helped her up on the horse,
took all the strength I had and two little paw prints
on her huge behind and she tried
to pay me back with a kiss.
But she was gross and slobbery and she got the side of my face
wet and hot with her tongue.

Then she sat back on the horse, drunk, and pulled her boob out
and said, "LOOK! Them are real!"
Only it came out like "ril," and I was standing there nose to huge
puffy nipple and all the booze in the world wasn't
enough for me to feel that it was all alright.

She asked me to get her purse for her,
my RAGE took over!
I picked her purse up off the ground and threw it as hard as I could
across the square.

Matlock

This poem is Ben Matlock.
He likes to solve cases
with his daughter and that
black guy who always
does the dangerous stuff.
Like in that one episode
where he was in a junkyard
and those guys were trying
to drop those cars on him.

Dairy Queen Car Show

I am the most insane person you will ever meet
at a Dairy Queen Car Show.

A Poem Written from the Perspective of Tom's Mother

Oh I can't
believe how disappointing
you have been to me.
You've never even been
half the child I'd
hoped for. You're
really pretty worthless.
I should have abandoned
you when I had the chance.

Upon the Occasion of the Dirty and Foul Meeting Up with the Clean and Cute

Any Schmuck Can Be a Poet

Just
look
at me.

Poem Written from the Perspective of the Boy Who Works at the Cell Phone Stand in the Mall

I have
a fascination
with girl hair.
Pretty girls.
When they walk by
I try to breathe in
real deep and catch their
scent.
Then I try to memorize them.

I used to take them home and write
them down, but Mom caught me one
time.
You can write thoughts, right?
And sights and sounds?
Then why not smells? Mom
didn't like it. Not one bit.

Mom always used to spank my ass
when I looked at girls.
I looked in Dad's stroker mags once,
at least that's what he always called them,
and she caught me and beat me back into the
5th grade.

I wish I could smell like
them,
or be close to them and smell
them all the time.
But I couldn't let Mom know
or it's hard telling
what she might do.

I guess some secrets
are better left hidden away
in your thoughts.

On Melody's Drawing the Line with Brian, Who She's Been Seeing for About the Last 3 Months

Listen,
it is completely
unforgivable
to me, Brian,
that you have been
wiping boogers
under my coffee table
while you wait
for me
to get
home from
work every day.

No, you listen.

Where else have you been
sticking your boogers,
or worse?

Get the fuck out of here!
God!

A Tragic End to a Once Upon a Time 100% Bliss

Schoolhouse Ruins

Why do you
still have schools
if you're not going
to require your children
to think?

Memorization is not
learning.

Poem Written from the Perspective of a Girl Who Just Won't Say No

Boy,
that guy
is really cute.

Too
bad I
just saw him
picking his nose.

Well,
at least
he didn't
eat it.

Poem Written from the Perspective of a Close-minded Bigot

I will love
my neighbor,
but only if they look
and think
like me.

An Epic Battle

Listen Up, Idiots

America,
your guns
aren't going to
save you from
your heart attacks
and emphysema.

You can't shoot
a disease.

A Sunny Day on the Rapids

Upon Billy's Trip to the Strip Club

Billy,
the way you
slip bills into that
young lady's
tiny stringed
underpants probably
makes your
Mom
real
proud.

Billy,
you're a real
testament to how
far your species has
come.

A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Sad Old Man

I'm an old man.
The only thing
that makes me happy
is taking craps.

Take this morning,
for example.
I got up,
ate me some toast
and hit the can.
At the end, I sighed
and said, "Now that
was a crap!"

And my day has only
slid downhill since
then.

Spotlight on Ronald Polar

Mr. Polar recently published this poem on my stinking blog in response to "A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Cleanly Lady who Recently had Guests." It is worthy of front page status.

POEM WRITTEN FROM THE PERSPECKTIVE OF GUESTS RECENTLY VISITING A LADIES HOUSE

WEE THIS IS FUN, I FEEL GOOD

UH-O IM HAVING PROBLEMS

MY GUTS ARE GOING CRAZY

OH KNOW NOW MY THUMBS ALL STINKY

OOPS MY BALANCE

THIS WILL NOT BE VISIBLE ON A LIGHT BLUE WALL

ILL JUST LEAVE IT

AND HEAD FOR THE VEGETABLE PLATTER

A Poem Written from the Perspective of a Cleanly Lady who Recently had Guests

How dare you
leave a poopy
thumbsmear on my wall?
I just repainted that room
and despite the obvious
fact that you had a
difficult time wiping,
that is no excuse for
the printsmudgesmear
you left behind
as evidence.

We Are Hate-Filled HateMongers

A Doting Mother

The Love Boat

Good Luck

It is the year 2006,
and you humans can't make
a better toaster.

Good luck with that whole space thing.

Something's Missing

An Executive Decision

For Insane Collaborative Works of Art and Poetry

Go to
hell
where I do works of art
and poetry with
two other people
named Ronald Polar
and Quicksauce.

Stinky Green Reeches

Ladies and Gentlemen

Global warming
is real.

Old Mother
is preheating
her ovens to murder.

Read My Fucking Column

Sangamon Star #7
has hit the shelves
so you assholes better
go there straightaway
and read it.

This month's column
is truly pisspoor.

If You Are Looking For Me

Only look occasionally.
I have bigger fish to stab,
bigger eyes to hook.

Energy honed, focused on projects
most unknown.

This will be only a hollowed out place
I live from time to time.

If this makes you sad,
piss off.

The Faces of the Future

Criminalicious

If eating the teeth
of your enemies
(mainly children and the elderly)
is a crime,
then consider me an outlaw of the highest
and most terrible order.

If This Poem Were God

If this poem were God,
It would know everything,
and It would be very angry.

The Fruit of Long Labors in Love

Packing, Packing, Packing, and Rolling

Poem Written from the Perspective of Ronald Polar

Hi, I'm Ronald Polar,
I have a skeleton and two balls
and I am afraid of doctors with
barbecue sauce behind their eyeballs
or ebyallz or eyballoonsss, or whatever
other type of swiss custom knife they have in mind.

I also believe in the exorcism of a bag of Doritos over
the mind control of a harmless plant,
although I extol the virtues of a nutsack.

I have a friend on the internet,
his name is Hilton Hightower, of the Highland Hightowers
of the Intestinal Fortitude of Unknown Animal Bladders
and he appears a worthy foe at my archaic, and artistic
yet altruistic and altheaistic parlances at truth and
unconsiderable vindivindivindivind. I have nothing more to
say about this.

I am a mystery to some, but
completely known to others.
I am a secret fraternal order
in my pocket, but in my heart
I am only a man.
I eat skunk, and pass on beef.
Yet I love cow, and I pass on fish,
yet I heart salmon.

I have a pet named Deniro Pussycat
and three dwarves in my hip, I call
DYNAMO, although they spell their
name with a (W), for Po(w)er.

I ask myself, not once, but %, about
how often I should do my breast exam
against the walls of crime, but it is really
of no matter, for that bacon will still
be warm when I get there.

If I am ever looking for an Internet partnership
in secret societies, I will look up Mr. Hightower
on his e-mail and see if we can work out
a deal to have a blogsite together doing
dada and other abstractions. It would be most
excitable to me to do that, for I know deep down
he is just an artist in search of friends. His e-mail is
easy to find, and I will tell him no otherwise.

I have no shame in eating doughnuts in front of
starving children on my right and peepkins on my
left hand side. I have 6 shooters in my mind,
but my eyes don't work any more. Do you know me
because where do I come from but here?

Breakage

Assets of Human Beingness

You cockamamie bullcrappers
all sprightly with your demands
and terrifying in your inability
to construct actual sentences
out of the words you've been
taught by the confines
of your society and your
completely overrated
desire to find your television
faces and to fill your pockets
with assets of ill-gotten
or well-gotten retrospection.

You're all the same, you and you and you,
and still you smile and say, "Ho, oh, oh, I'm
so different than that manwomanchild, and I'm
a unique individual, and you cannot, sir, pin me
down in your normal way you do."

You're not different, you're just you, just part of
the cog, part of the wheel that spins this thing
round and round down the decaying halls of time
and sin.

You're an asshole just like the rest of them. You
don't look any different to me because I've learned
to see the inner sanctum of the human condition and
deep down I understand that the human soul is
the same color as swampwater and it smells as foul.

You're a robber and a murder. You're a mother and a father.
You're a soldier and a child, a creampuff and a popcorn ball
a sword and a telephone receiver of calloused rejections.
You're just what you are, and that is terrible.

To the upsandownscentric nature of your mentally obsessed
I say that you have nothing to fear but life itself.

Tribute to The Worst Poet of All Time

Maya Angelou is
the worst thing
to happen to poetry
ever.

Her poems are stinkier
than catshit, and filled
with boring imagery.
Seriously, if you ever
need help falling asleep
at night, just read some
of her boring, horrible poetry.
Side effects include suicide and murder, however,
as the terrible nature of her bullshit can make
you lose your mind.

And also, would someone please wipe that
sick smile off her face?

squawkmawkin

Success

People who brag about
how hard they worked for success
are fucking liars!
There are two key
ingredients for success:
luck
and
timing.

It doesn't matter how hard you work
so stop trying.

You Are What You ARRGH!

Drooling

The most pathetic creature in the universe
is the human infant. It is so weak and pathetic,
lying around drooling all the time and annoying
the hell out of everyone with its incessant crying
and vomiting and crapping.

Loads of Fun

Impossible

That's a Big Black Belt!

Even though you're
a professional karate
practitioner,
you just can't help
eating doughnuts.

How very disciplined!

Quick kids, sign up for classes today.

Hilton Hightower says . . .

If I were a bull, I would have
gored the hell out of Pablo Picasso.

Fight Back

For Christ's sake,
you human beings
are even more pathetic than I thought.

I criticize you heavily,
insult you outright,
call your children stupid,
and even make fun of your hilarious weight problem,
and still you’re too lazy
to fight back.

Elementary Explanation

Kissing and Thinking

Parental Discretion

Nothing can stand
between the love
of parents for their
children, right America?

Oh, except for your
insatiable appetites
for doughnuts and
fast food french fries
that make your children
obese and give them
diabetes.

Nothing says love like giving
your child a disease,
right America?

Resurrection of the Trinity; Or, On Physical and Emotional Trauma

A Complaint; Or Anger in Three Lines

Goddamn
hippie-loving
swashbucklers.

Heroes

Heroes are only
heroes
through coincidence
and luck.

Given the right place,
the right time,
even your heroes
will let you down.

Oh, Steve, What a Time You'll Have Unwinding This Mess

Zelda

One night after sharing
a bottle of whiskey
and some pills
with Zelda Fitgerald,
she told me she thought
Hemingway was "phony as a
rubber cheque."

I told her not to give him
that much credit.
He was just a gigantic asshole.

"Bah," she continued
and at this point, I encouraged
her to drink more because I love
to watch pretentious assholes
get drunk and emotional.

So she tore into another bottle
and before I knew it she was tearing
her clothes off and vomiting all over the place.
(Zelda Fitzgerald was a crazy broad, that's for sure.)

Then she told me, "You know, Hemingway's not as macho
as he let's on. It's a show. I've caught him
in bed with my husband."

I convinced her to go public with the truth.

Hemingway and Fitzgerald laid out such a campaign to
discredit Zelda that they drove her nuts,
but still carried on their excursions in Paris.

This period of my life was a treasure.
These writers were all a bunch of troubled
drunks, and I loved
watching them all unravel before my very eyes.

American literates, these are your heroes. Not mine.

Sharing

Celebrate Good Times

Thinking, Hard

Speaking of Pathetic . . .

John Wayne was the biggest pussy I’ve ever seen.

Best

My poems don’t
have fancy references,
or symbolism,
or allusions,
or rhymes.

My poems just tell people
what to think
and feel.
That’s why I like to write them.

Because people are stupid
and will do
anything you tell them.

Pride in Showin' Whatcha Gotttt!

A Long Stretch Upon Pile on Pile on Pile, or Do You Have the Endurance? Understood.

This is part of a work in progress. It is not done. Nor will it ever be.

In the name of WAR and
antiquated beliefs the people
of the People's Republic of Nair
have asked of me this question:

Do you like rock star,
cock star, pop-and-lock
and jock star? Or starry-night
and canola? Tell me a lie,
or you'll receive no truth, no truth,
no truth, no truth
NOT RUTH!?!?

And then some.
When the cops came and burned down the house
that Abner Runbuttons ran, he ran, ran, ran
so the law couldn't find him, and he lived underground
in a cave in them parts of the country without teeth and
booksmarts, and he lived with his commonlaw husband,
John C. McMammal and together what a time they had!
Bank robbers and cannibals, stage coach robbers and
hairpin turners: Abner Runbuttons, furry kind and fuzzy
gentleman cannibal emerging from the recesses of vampiric instinct
and John C. McMammal, the coldest cold-blooded killer to
emerge from the devil's deep-freeeeeeeze!

And time stood still.
That alien dimension from which Vlad depended,
it was his one stilt of benefit,
that kept him a foot ahead
and a tooth within at all times.

"My how that Abner's all grown up," Grandma Runbuttons
used to say when she knock-knock-knocked on the door, with her
fetid smile and drawn-on eyebrows, a butcher of EPIC proportions . . .

Transcendance and dance and dance dance you FURKING HIPPEISISISISISIS?!?!
"My face melts in the sun?" she said/wept/thought/dulled/curled/lisped/whimpered.

Shrunkenness, which had struck him so again into a darker street, and reaching at such a sacred and beautiful and as he looked he spied the Trojans over the wall knowing that HORSE would soon belong to an abundant place in history books.

A lip of smoke curls around the mighty mountain he calls a nose, but to punch through it is nothing. There is no wall, and that mountain not so big against a rainfall of knuckles brashed.

Come on my lips? Was that the question passed between those two gossipers of unknown whispers. I only love what I cannot see,
and eat what I cannot feel,
and feel what I cannot eat,
and see what I cannot love.
Here are some words:
In this spring of
1953 the free
world weighs one question
above all others: the chance for a just peace for all
peoples.

Natalie Peoples dropped herself off
in no man's land and worked herself
off into delirium searching for the sacred
self in honor of Siddhartha and Kerouac
and Bukowski and Shit
and came out on the other side the exact
same girl.
And tell me again how this Hightower person came
to submit his work to such a prestigious journal (PIGS)
as this one here upon which we select the works (TOYS)?
He sent it to us in the mail, sir.
And what do you think of it, Mr. Fently?
Well, it's quite shit, sir. Quite shit.
Wot's that? How do you mean?

Sticky nipples and starcrossed love manifestoes
clog the pipes in this old building.
Rubber booties and stump colored pickaninnies.

Lick that honey from the lips of time, and see how
fast you die. It's not for you to open the pages
of this manuscript until the last page is burned
and then you'll see an ash-colored golem that has been
sent to wipe the slate of black, black earth clean
as a
bloody cutting board.

Kidneys? Really, Mr. Joyce. Kidneys?
Cueball in the corner pocket, eh?
Well, scratch this
off your list, goatpoker!

Kick on the face of time=money!

Here's an equation you're sure to figure out, if you
can focus for a moment:
I don't + care + what you think + about + anything = Hilton Hightower
So eat it.

And so I dropped into interview a famous poet in light of his views:

Hilton Hightower: Why are you such a stupid asshole?

FAmous Poet: I don't know. What would the definition of that be? It's like asking someone, do you write for you, or for your reader?

Hilton Hightower: Shut up. Like I said, you're a stupid asshole.

Nimrod: I'm sorry. It seems interviews get more and more difficult with every book I publish. Every interviewer wants to engage you in some transitional way that mediates one's work with one's personal thoughts.

HH: You dumb speck, that's ridiculous. You're an idiot, and your braindead followers need to be kicked and stripped of their reproductive organs.

Dickhead: I don't think you're right there. Listen, I've struggled my whole life to put words on the page. I write the way I perceive, and that's a very raw and honest way to commit one's self to ideas. When I put something out there, I at least expect it to be respected by my peers, and hopefully enjoyed.

HH: WAH, WAH, WAH! You're a crybaby, is that it?

There is only one tunnel of time,
and it's filled with mosquitoes
and when you get to the end
you realize there's nothing there either.
There's no sunshine, no darkness,
just a punch in the space of
nothing.

splitting atoms down
to hairs and dancing on the
torsoes of fallen soldiers
you've forgotten to bury completely,
and dang buggers keep poking their fingers
back on up.

fib,
jostle,
fibo
crow, CROW, crow


Somewhere deep in John C McMammal's
reptilian brain is the following desire:
to catch the tears of every crying man, woman, and child
and drink them all; to feel that quenching liquid
is to feel finally fulfilled and ready to
strike, again.
And Abner Runbuttons wants to do a 1,000 piece puzzle on
the bathroom floor in the House of Representatives,
but John C. McMammal tells him it's not possible, unless
he can find some way to levitate in between dimensions, but
everyone knows you can't levitate with a box of puzzle pieces,
or at least not in between the folds of dimensional cardboard.

An Ode on the Self-Defense of Those, Those Being the Violent Deer Down South

I am a man.
She is a deer,
a doe, a female deer.
Oh shit I'm getting kicked in the head
by this doe, a female deer.
She's really messing my shit up,
split lip,
busted forehead,
and OH GOD WILL I EVER GET OUT OF THIS
MELEE AlIVE! bounces through my head.

What is a man to do in a boxing match with nature?

Abner Runbuttons

Hi.
I'm Abner Runbuttons.
I like to write poetry and play with my cat.
He's a tender pussy named Ezekiel Matthias Bruner Runbuttons.
His hair is a problem in the summer time.
It chokes him up.
I like to listen to entertaining pop music.
I'm about as plain as can be.
I like to sing songs to pussy.
I sing him songs all the time,
songs about love and ministry and this one about all the tuna
in the sea. Oh, the sea.
Most everyone I meet likes me.
My friend, Joseph Stinkwater says, "It's hard to dislike something
with no flavor, especially when the texture is nice."
My Poppa run off when I was but a wee lad.
Mom, well she's got a nice angel collection.
"They're nice to look at," she says, "But a foot in the bog to dust."
I like when visitors come out to see me and Mom.
We always invite them in for a cup of coffee
("Black or cream?" we always ask, Mom taught me.)
and an old browse of the Good Book
and then we chop them up into pieces
and eat them and bury what we can't eat in a
hole under the house.
"You can never be too safe, "
Mom always says.

MySpace Pages are Pathetic Cries to the World that You Have Low Self-Esteem

People who have Myspace pages
are all pathetic, useless,
and shallow people
who want to obsess over
how "popular" they are.

Having a MySpace page is the
equivalent of having a personalized
license plate on the web.

What a Dick . . . ens!

First off, Charles Dickens
was a breeder.
Ten kids he brought into this
miserable world.

The Dickens kids were a bunch of
whiny snotbuckets, too, let me assure you.
Just like daddy. A perfect example of how
a poor man who makes good will raise
annoying assholes for children.

And here's a story for you idiots who think
Dickens was some sort of moral icon
because Oliver Twist was so damn good
with its perfect little protagonist:

Dickens left his wife and
messed around with her sister.
(All of her twist.)

According to you human beings, that's a strict
violation of your moral code, but somehow
I bet you'll manage to forgive him
because he's so famous, and you
think his writing is so "good" and "witty"
and "wonderful" and so many other pathetic
adjectives that can't even begin to scratch
the surface of your stupid, inane views on literature.

Dickens was so naive,
with his zest for life,
and all of his idealised characters,
and his concern for social welfare.
His gravestone will tell you
he sympathized with the poor
and the suffering and the
oppressed.

I will tell you big deal.
The guy was such a crybaby,
always whining about poor working conditions
and poverty and yet
despite all of his popularity,
all he did for poverty and
suffering was write about it,
which proves the theorem that
writing accomplishes nothing.

Big deal, Charles. You certainly
put the "dick" in Dickens.

Brute

Acceptance

A Man Speaking to Another in Whispers

It's not surprising,
all that fluid around the hair,
when you consider how much
the tissue's been smashed.

Upon Good Luck, Impeccable Timing, and STRENGTH!

Surprised in a Dark Alley By a Man in a Can

Eat my
FIST,
turdburglar!

Hilton Hightower's Template for Writing Awesome Poetry (If You Like Terrible Poetry) -- Lesson 1, blockhead

blockhead
in this poem i won't use any punctuation or capitalization and that will make my poem totally artistic and cool and i will think no one has ever done this before and i'll sit around with my other dumbass artistic friends and we'll read our terrible poems to each other and think about how smart we are and how much we want to have our poems published and how much we want to be great writers like some guy we saw in a movie and try to impress our creative writing teacher who will act like a huge pretentious cockknocker when i take this poem to class and he'll tell me that the form doesn't really work and that i need to take it home and revise it some more and then he'll turn and flirt with some of the girls in class and i'll still deep down think i've stumbled on something great

Did Someone Shart? No, It's Just Children's Art

If this poem were the children's art in a local public school
it would look like shit
and I would laugh at it.

Why? A Poem Written From the Perspective of Gary, the Roommate of Dave

How many days have you gone without a drink, Dave?
I asked you that the other day.
Why did you hit me? I'll never know, now.
You left and never came back.
I miss you Dave.
I'm having a hard time picking up your half of the rent, too.

Dessert

Like chocolate?
Then stuff your ugly face with some
and stop talking about it.

Upon the Loving Convergence of A Horse What Mated With the Universe At Large

To Two Morons

You two idiots
can't even
grill steak kabobs.

Tonight, Tonight

A sphincter a day
keeps the vampires away.

A/B, or On The Occasion to Dream of Ones and Zeros

There are no
right answers.

There are only
wrong answers.

Chuck Norris, Not Only Are You Weak, But You Are Also Pathetic and a Crybaby

If that girl, Chuck
Norris,
ever gets it
into her head to
try and roundhouse
kick me,
she'll regret it.

Oh how she'll regret it!

A Message from Earth

You friggin' assholes!

Thanks for leaving your
garbage all over the fucking
place!

How would you like me to crap on
your face? Huh? How would you like
it?

Upon Losing Her Way While Dreaming of Her Wonderful Marriage

Steve Garvey, Steve Garvey! GO! GO! GO!

I don't know why you say
good-bye,
I say
Steve Garvey.

New Reviews for the Hilton Hightower Book

Look at these reviews of the book. Reviews like this come in daily.

"I like to read this book while I'm taking a crap. The pages are of a very fine consistency for wiping my ass." -- Jason Edelman, Literary Review Union

"People like this Hightower fellow really have their dipstick in the oil of humanity. Now if someone just had a match." -- Dick K. Fellows, Chaos Poets Club

"If only this Hilton Hightower had important literary friends in high literary places, we might actually embrace him, or even see this terrible poetry published in the pages of Poetry." -- Maria Constance, Crimefighters and Killers International

Everything

Everything
in this
goddamn
motherfucking
piece of shit
fucking world
sucks a fat
fucking dumbshit
goddamn
dick.

She, the Poor Boone Girl Was Returned, Unhurt; or On Frontier Slutitude

Daniel Boone's only job was to flush out a path
so the frontier colonists
could pass over.

He set out to slashswingslashswingslash
his way through thorny underbrush and tangled briers.
He was fittin' to hedge out the Warriors' Path
between Cumberland Gap to the banks of the bloody Ohio.
He took thirty big guns and mean sawtooth killers
with him to murder
any natives that stood up to halt the progress of MAN.
He had a mind to establish fortification wherever
in hell he liked.

This happy white man established himself on
the banks of the Kentucky.
Despite rumors of kidnap and capture,
his daughter (who was known to be a lethal combination of
loose hips and strong frontier spirit)
ran off with a gang of Shawonoes.
Several of her frontier lovers joined
Boone in pursuit of the girl and her
"captors."
John Floyd joined the crew, too, for he owed Boone
a certain debt, and he was a notorious ass-kisser.
After a several days journey, hunting and tracking
the natives and Jemima Boone,
Daniel stumbled on them,
(they being completely unaware)
killed them,
retrieved his daughter,
and returned her
to the lust-filled arms
of his frontier comrades.

Bludgeonasmic Preponderance