Poems

When the hell are those stingy Swedes going to award me the Nobel Prize?  Here are some vulgar poems I wrote for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.

Little Luther Burbank
Went to burn in Hell
His skin turned red, he grew two horns, and then he grew a tail
He made his way to Lucifer, and this is what he said:
My name is Luther Burbank, and I’m happy to be dead.

When I was a child, and my father was young
He said "you can’t be a man, unless you can fire a gun."
So he gave me a rifle, and I blew off his head
And that was the last thing that he ever said.

I didn’t like the way I lived
So I tried to kill myself
Well, society thought I was sick in head
So I was put in a halfway house.
The people who I live with here
Are much the same as on the other side
They eat and shit, and watch T.V
And make want to fucking die.

Two twin girls
Who shared the same body
Got along very well
And dated young Johnny.

Johnny, it seemed
Didn’t mind being kissed
By two-headed sisters
Who shared one set of tits.

Then on one drunk night
While one sister slept
Johnny had sex
With the other instead

But in this case
Instead is the same
For they shared the same body
Though had two different names  

So in the morning
When the other sister awoke
She knew that she’d been
Unwillingly poked.

Then a fight ensued
And Johnny did flee
The sisters kissed and made up
And explored lesbianity.

The two became lovers
To themselves and each other
And were interested not
In conjoined twin brothers.

And as time would have it
One sister died
And the living one carried
Her dead head by her side.

She refused the offers
Made by the doctors
To operate on the dead head
Because she wanted it there
And loved it dear
For it was all of her sister she had.

So over the years
The head decomposed
And lonely old Johnny
Returned and proposed.

And they soon bought a house
Where they all shared a bed.
Three heads in all
Two living, one dead. 

My Mother was a landless whore, without a place to poo
My Father was a shoe salesman, who sold my mom a shoe
When he saw her squatting down, shitting in her shoe
He asked if she would marry him, and then she said “I do.”
Across the mantle he carried her home
And that night she did conceive
And he shut his eyes, and she took the shoe
And killed him in his sleep
Now she owns a plot of land
And has a place to sleep and poo
And to keep her safe in bed at night
Beneath her pillow, she keeps a shoe.

I lived in a house on Gunpower Hill
And the power went out one day
I lit a few candles, and the house lit on fire
And the hill blew up and away

I then built a shack on Gunpowder Flats
Where the old hill used to be
I still had no power
And refused to light candles
For the darkness is fine with me

One pitch-black night
I lost my mind
And searched for my flashlight in haste
But instead of a flashlight, I pulled out a gun
And laid Gunpowder Flats to waste

So now I live in a ditch
In Gunpowder Pits
And am missing my arms and my legs
I’ve still got no power
No flashlight nor gun
And will never get out of this place.

When I was a child
And men worshipped idols
We lived on a buffalo farm.
The buffalo gods
Would brand us with rods
And make cheese from the breasts of our moms.
They pierced rings through our noses
And sprayed us with hoses
And gorged us until we fell ill.
Then they pumped us with shots
And placed us in lots
And then they came in for the kill.
It just goes to show
That holy ghosts
Are better than holy cows.
But if I had it my way
I’d leave religion at bay
And set sail for the secular sound.

Comments

[Cole Titus]

Nice work, dude! I really enjoyed them. It's like, if Dr. Seuss and Hunter S. Thompson had a baby who grew up molested by Bukowski, he would probably produce similar art.