Emperor Qin and the Mercury Sessions

So this was, what,
mid-year 209 BC and
I was just doing a lot of walking
back then.

I found myself on this island
in the eastern half of the Bohai Sea
near China.
I didn't realize it at the time, but
this place was thought to be the Island of the Immortals
by Chinese people. How ironic that I, an immortal ass-kicker,
would wind up there.

So one day, I see Emperor Qin,
the great unifier,
and a bunch of his emissaries
come ashore.

This guy Qin actually had his head on mostly straight.
When I first met him, I told him of my intense hatred of poetry,
and he agreed and so we ordered his soldiers to round up every
book in China and burn it.
And then he really lost his cool at the backlash, and
he beheaded all the scholars in the bloodiest dissolution
of established learning in all of history . . .
but I digress.

I'd met Qin a few years earlier, when
he was just a kid,
and he was trying to "unify" China,
like those people hadn't already been sold that bill of goods.

One night he came to me, and wanted to make love.
He was obviously drunk, and I said, "Qin, I don't screw dudes,
anymore." He broke down crying and started telling me that
one of his court scientists told him that if he made love to
an immortal, he could become immortal himself. (That's one thing
about court scientists, they're stupid.)
And this guy Qin was such a bitch about immortality.
That's all he wanted out of
life,
to live forever.
Imagine that. I was like, I'd give it to you if
I could. Anything to get me out of this miserable eternal hell.

We stayed up late, talking at length about immortality,
and he was so envious. He kept going on and
on about how he wished he could be a robotic
reconstruction of the Ancient Tau Ceti Architects
of Life and the Infinite. I finally got sick of
listening to his whining, and I said,
"Listen, Qin, the secret to immortality:
drink Mercury.
All you have to do is take a healthy dose
of mercury three times daily. It's that easy.
Hell, your court scientists can probably whip
you up a batch in no time."

Now, at this point I'd already done plenty of experiments with
Mercury, and I knew the stuff was toxic as hell and was really only
good for a decent high.

So, the next day, I sat in on what I like to refer to as "The Mercury Sessions."
Qin had his scientists
mix up a batch of liquid Mercury
combined with an integrated herbal
yellow rice wine,
and he and I started dropping shots like
sorority girls on Spring Break.

Qin got so fucked up he started talking about all the
monsters and shit that were coming to attack China,
and I was all "Yes, yes," because it's very becoming for
the leader of a unified empire to become a babbling idiot
before your very eyesssss.
So I encouraged him down this line of crazy thinking,
basically pushing him like a bulldozer,
and before I knew it, he was talking about building
this wall to surround China so the monsters couldn't get in.
Later, his court spin doctors claimed the wall was to keep
invading tribes out, but that was bullshit . . Qin was simply
afraid of the dark.

After a few weeks of the initial rounds of "Mercury Sessions"
I took off, it being a bit too annoying to me,
all this talk of armies of the undead and ghoulish hordes
of nightmare warriors and terra cotta cavalry.
I holed up in the Bohai, thinking
Qin was a goner. Mercury poisoning for sure.
I laughed myself to sleep every night for years.

I was surprised as hell the day Qin and his
emissaries showed up on my island. Turned out
Qin was taking a daily routine of mercury pills
along with large doses of fermented sticky rice wine.
The crazy thing is, the guy was obviously muddier than a puddle, but
his posse followed him around acting like he was clear as a
window.
And he'd gotten big as a 21st Century American.
I mean,
the guy obviously never hurt for food.

So he came into my hut (that's right I lived in a hut),
and sat down and told me that his Great Wall was being built
but that the nightmare warriors had found secret tunnels
in the underworld to track him down,
and that his search for immortality had sent him fleeing.
He must pursue immortality, now, he said, and achieve it, now,
before the fanged creatures could find him and
rip his living spirit from this,
his
dying womb. (at this moment, he rubbed his belly like an expectant mother)
Then we talked some more, and you know that crazy sonofabitch had gone
so insane that he had envisioned a world of microwave energy and
vehicles that could catapult men into space, and that he had recently
had his scientists make a new, more potent mercury concentration
and would I try it?

It seemed he'd discovered the art of surface area, and that
busting the mercury into infintely small
balls before consumption greatly increased it's absorption power
by the human nervous system.
We took probably four pounds of the stuff in the next several months,
and I'm certain that during that time, Qin convinced himself
he'd live forever,
his eyes had completely changed color, and
he'd gone blind,
but he still saw everything he wanted to see,
and his gums bled like the River Styx.

One night, he burst out of the hut, mad as a hatter
screaming that they'd finally discovered him, and
he just ran out past the fire and you could
see a funny little trail of gum blood spritzing along in
the wind behind him as he ran off.
I went back to bed, and
the next morning, at first light, his emissaries
found him dead, face down in a murky pool on the other side of the island.

The unifier, face down in a murky pool.

A Poem Written From the Perspective of that Fat Office Manager who Sneezed in His Coffee Last Week at the Diner

Oh shit,
I just
sneezed
in my
goddamn
coffee!

Watch Where You Put Your *&%*$&*, You *&%&$*

Listen $%&*,
If I wanted to see you put your $%^&* in that guy's %^*#@,
I'd #%&*@# you.
Okay, so why don't you &*%*$(#, the next time you want to
$#%&*, or you'll have to $%*$($ me.

Redneck Rule #117

You can piss on someone else's piss.
You can piss on someone else's shit.
You can even shit on some else's piss.
But you can never, under any circumstance
shit on someone else's shit.

Erpie

The only masterpiece
of terror and the
unknown in this world
is this,
my fist.

Rocker

Bottled Hell

Facades

There isn't
a goddamn
thing in this world
that matters
at all,
so why don't
you drop all the
facades about all
this important
crap you have to do.

Hungry!

What to Do?

Saddle Sore

I hope you
get vaseline
in your eyeball.

Hagula

If this poem were an old lady
it would think about being a single issue voter
who can't make up her mind about anything
but playing bingo and adoring her grandchildren who
look like idiots.

Control

Last night I meditated.
If I meditate like that again,
I will transcend time and space.

You couldn't handle my meditating abilities.
That's why you stopped meditating with me when we
bought that Ninja Mind Control book.

You chickened out. And now, I'm the man
at meditation.

JohnnyManInBlack

Johnny Cash,
or as I like to call him,
GASH,
was the dumbest
woman I ever
saw.

What a huge sissy!

Kick

You're pathetic.

Don't make
me
kick
you in the balls.

Again.

Education Schmeducation

It's really
funny
how schools in
America
are failing kids.

Not only are kids
not getting any smarter,
they're also not getting
any less smelly
or disgusting.

Just Face It

Your kid
is terrible at
art.

I mean,
what the hell?
That is a shitty
drawing.

Q & A

Q: What would you get if you crossed Tom Cruise with a pile of crap?

A: Just a bigger pile of crap.

Slam

Slam poets
have found
a way to
take an already
annoying art form
and make it truly unbearable.

Slam poets
need to be
SLAMMED
between a dumptruck and a concrete wall.

Something from My Travel Journal

. . . and then the door swings open.

I lunge forward, both fists drawn back
sharply, and lash out, my robotic synapses
flashing at the speed of light.

Suddenly, I'm through the room, only barely
able to register the mass of bloody Carnelians
I've left behind.

I'm a hunter being hunted, and I'm very tired.
(and drunk)

They've had me on the run now for close to 71oo years,
and I've been across the universe to avoid any more of their
tortuous transmutations only to be continually hunted down and
placed back in my prison.

They are the ones. The ones. They are . . .
the ones.
The ones. They are . . . the ones who have . . .
punished me to a life of eternity, by injecting me
with robotic immunoid sentries and rebuilding parts of my
body with materials culled from at least 15 of the dimensions
that human beings cannot even begin to fathom.

For thousands of years, I was their slave. As they rebuilt me, time and time again,
perfecting their skills for human rehabilitation,
I was forced to endure pains and agonies the likes of which you mortals could never
understand.

At first they called me the bringer of fire. At first they called me Prometheus. I made the leap out of my human clothing and into something much greater, more sacred. I had discovered the unfound door and unlocked it. I escaped into the dark night of space, only to be captured basking in the glow of Kappa Andromadae, a yellow dwarf in the Andromeda star cluster. That was when it all began. I had broken some of their unspoken rules. Their rules are woven into the fabric of all that exists, and I, the bringer, had set their fabric aflame.

They
took me in,
changed me,
rearranged me,
disassembled me,
and put me back together,
piece by piece, cell by cell,
rearranging me in a manner that
allowed me to walk the halls of time and space for
all eternity, but then I escaped, and I ran and that's when they caught me again.

You wonder why I'm so angry--try a thousand years worth of pain that, alone, would kill
a human being--and then as a final punishment, to be returned to the most inhospitable planet in the universe, a scumsucker's refuge--planet Earth. Or step one for me. The place I'd spent my whole life trying to abandon. I was back with the virus of humanity. It was my eternal punishment to walk amongst your number and be forced to endure your ever-evolving stupidity.

Tell me your toaster wouldn't be set to "DARK."

Wildfire

Skank is America's most horrible
disease,
and it's spreading like
wildfire.

Competence

The only thing
human beings
are competent at
is being completely
incompetent.

The Hilton Hightower Page #1

The first "Hilton Hightower Page" is now available in the April issue of The Sangamon Star.

The link:
http://www.sangamonstar.com/files/SS-04.pdf

Face it, you loser, you don't have anything better to do.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf's Breath?

Let me tell you something about
Virginia Woolf you won't read anywhere else.

She had terrible breath.
It smelled like yogurt that's
passed through a goat's intestine.
To make it worse, she was a close-talker.

One day when I could tell she was feeling particularly
crazy,
I said,
"Before you come and talk to me up close,
check your breath,"
and she pretty much lost it
and started pulling her hair
and throwing things all over the room.
(Madness is so funny to watch.)

My point is, it's no wonder Altoids became
the breath mint of choice in England during
Virginia Woolf's lifetime.

Precocious Ferocious

Q: What would you get if you crossed Britney Spears with a grizzly bear?

A: A giant, ferocious, slutty, hairy redneck that can't sing worth a shit.

Ballish

three's company

The Clap

Reading poetry online
is a lot like getting chlamydia
from a sibling.

Fodder

In regards to the canon
of Tom Cruise's movies,
will someone take a cannon
to Tom Cruise's movies?

The Worst Natural Disaster

Consists of
6.5 billion
people.

Self-Publishing

People
who self-
publish are
pathetic writers
who have no talent
and should be ashamed
of themselves. (Bloggers, too.)

Ruins

Poetry just proves
my point.
Eventually people
will ruin
everything.

SNAP

I have the patience
of a mouse trap

Hilton Hightower's Tips on "Not" Being an Annoying Assface

Avoid others at all costs.

Hilton Hightower Says . . .

if you have ever, in any way, tried to look like your favorite writer
you are a pathetic pusbag.

You Activists

You activists are so
active

trying to use poetry
to spread your
message

Take it from old Hilton Hightower
that no one cares

No one cares about your poetry
and no one cares about your cause
and no one cares about you
because no one cares
but you.

Teaching Writing

What a dream!

To teach.

And publish those goddamn poems.

And get so famous.

Be a *ROCK STAR* poet.

My name in lights in every journal nee and high.

Keep my black t-shirt lint free.

My thin spot combed over and shineless.

And bide my time until I score with an undergrad.

Boy, I'm glad I teach writing.

Perfection

I'm not perfect.

I tried to have a friend once.

Treachery

America,

Just when you thought things couldn't
get any worse,
they went and made
soda pop
a villain.

Journalists

I've never
met a journalist
I didn't eat.

Enlightenment

A few weeks ago,
I was coming down from a three-day
cocaine high,
and I emerged from my hole in the ground
that I call my "Secret Lair."

The first person I saw
was a pathetic old man
who said, "Wow, you sure do look wise."

I said, "No, sir, you're confused. I don't look wise.
No one does. I simply look badass as hell."

He said, "What do you seek to do among the world of mortal men?"

I said, "Leave your pathetic voice to yourself you old pissbag. I
don't care about anything. I'm doomed to continue living in
this hellhole we call a universe. I don't give a damn about mortals."

He shrugged, and said, "I think I understand. This is a valuable lesson
about the overman."

I knocked his lights out and ate his false teeth.

Accolades

If you ever have a professor
who tells you that your poetry
is good.

Meet that professor in the alley
with a crowbar and break his/her
knees.

Then jump off the tallest building
in your community.

Your poetry was terrible
in a world of terrible poetry
and you sought to receive
accolades.

You are the worst type of scum.

(Except celebrities who try to cash in
on their status in order to publish
poetry that is even more terrible than
the run-of-the-mill poetry that is published
by people who actually have a brain.)

Toilet Bowl

l
i e
o t
t b
l o
w

I Hate Poetry

Poetry
is
the
lowest
form
of
violence.

eye wz

1ce win eye wz bng torchured
eye wz frsed 2 et thbtks
eye wz brnt svrly inn mi noz
eye wz hng by mi toz

eye wz nvr hapyr

Who Likes Hot Dogs?

and, and, and

Robot parts
and
English tarts
and
Combat starts
and
Ninja darts

Life in an underground bunker . . .

isn't nearly as tough as you'd think.

Ode on a Grecian Burn

Ow that goddamn burn hurts.
Goddamn Grecian burn.

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.