Fat-ass Ignorance parks her brand new SUV next to Sociopathy, who barely raises a hooded reptilian eyelid as he sells seven Fentanyl tablets to Diversity under a narcotic cloud of monotonous insistent bass beats. Equity is quarreling with Under-representation over Authenticity in fake Wokeness, bellowing and flexing tattooed muscles as the Walmart security staff jiggle their immense wheezing obesity to the scene of the escalating drama. Onlookers are quickly gathering up all the Ukrainian color posters from the parking-posts as they disperse, grabbing as many free samples of THC-infused Delta-8 gummies as they can from the abandoned sales-promotion table on their way out. Uncouth plebeian tremors are undulating over the entire trash-strewn parking lot as filthy seagulls take wing, squawking.

Shut UP shit ain’t LIKE THAT! shouts Urban Degeneration at her baby-daddy who spits cannabis-cola all over her threaded beaded extensions. He drops their child, Criminalisha, still strapped into her carrier, onto the pavement and lunges at Urban D.

I’ma hafta fuck you UP now, bitch, murmurs Poochie tha Kontrolla (aforementioned baby-daddy) and proceeds to tie her hair extensions to the handle of her SUV. He bites her hand until she drops the keys, which he grabs and then he jumps into the driver’s seat. The engine roars.

Meanwhile, in the gathered crowd of onlookers,  Miss Cultural-appropriation berates an old man for wearing a rice-paddy shade hat on a cloudy day when he only .05 percent Asiatic. The Walmart security staff have mistakenly sat upon and handcuffed one of their own who screams for his meds and therapy canine. As police sirens are heard approaching, America Corpulenta rolls her fat bloodshot eyes and launches her immense rolls of adipose tissue into orbit towards the international space-station.
My interstellar-ass rocket gone KICK you punk-ass lil’ space station you racist-ass bigot, she yells  to no one in particular . . .

And America, although no one there realized it, was indeed GREAT.

Sylvan Glimpse of Silver

It was early spring in southern Maine; rivulets of snow-melt were already swelling the brooks running by the side of the forest road. My wife and I were walking along the primaveral path, enraptured by sunshine warming the air with scents of pine and birdsong. We rounded the curve and walked up the hill, past a moldering storage shed, and then past the granite foundations of an ancient homestead farm, overgrown and abandoned in the eldritch shadows like some remnant of an H.P. Lovecraft yarn. We crested the ridge, from which Mt. Washington can be seen on a clear day towering above the White Mountains in the distance, then turned around and went back down the hill

I suddenly glimpsed something in the clear rivulet by the roadside: a flash of silver in limpid running water and sandy silt. Was it just the spring sun reflected on a wet rock? As I approached the object it was winking and flashing while my angle of approach changed toward the reflecting light. It seemed to be a semicircle of metallic plastic. We came closer and I walked over to examine it. It was a DVD half-buried in the stream bed.   I carefully pulled it out and read: Girls Gone Wild XXX: Spring Break Mexico Edition.

We took it home, washed it off and popped it in the player. Not a scratch. It played perfectly. My wife found it mildly interesting. I explored it, adored it, reviled it, fast-forwarded it, slowed it down, hid it from my children. There was one young lady in particular I found myself returning to time after time until I came to my senses. I finally had to cut the damn thing in half with scissors (the DVD that is).

Finding porn has happened at certain crucial points in my life. Interestingly, others have had the same experience regarding sylvan seduction. Someday I will tell the story of the red box my 10-year old friends and I found on the street. An old man was throwing out the contents of his house and we stumbled upon the scarlet stash while walking home from school in the early 70’s. But that is a true-life story for another day of de-pornification.

My Life in the Bush of Ghosts



[This CD is not exactly same as original LP but all tracks are here.]

As every one of them pointed his finger to me to come to him I preferred most to go direct to the copperish ghost from whose room the smell of African’s food was rushing out to me, but when the golden ghost saw my movement which showed that I wanted to go to the copperish-ghost, so at the same time he lighted the golden flood of light all over my body to persuade me not to go to the copperish-ghost, as every one of them wanted me to be his servant. So as he lighted the flood of golden light on my body and when I looked at myself I thought that I became gold as it was shining on my body, so at this time I preferred most to go to him because of his golden light. But as I moved forward a little bit to go to him then the copperish-ghost lighted the flood of his own copperish light on my body too, which persuaded me again to go to the golden-ghost as my body was changing to every colour that copper had, and my body was then so bright so that I was unable to touch it. And again as I preferred this copperish light more than the golden light then I started to go to him, but as this stage I was prevented again to go to him by the silverfish-light which shone on to my body at that moment unexpectedly. This silverfish-light was as bright as snow so that it transparented every part of my body and it was this day I knew the number of the bones of my body. But immediately I started to count them these three ghosts shone the three kinds of their lights on my body at the same time in such a way that I could not move to and fro because of these lights. But as these three old ghosts shone their lights on me at the same time so I began to move round as a wheel at this junction, as I appreciated these lights as the same.


excerpt from a novel by Amos Tutuola
first published in 1954


Queen’s English Demands Rhyme and Metre

‘A lot of people high up in poetry circles look down on rhyme and metre and think it is old-fashioned,’ said Bernard Lamb, president of the QES and an academic at Imperial College London. ‘But what is the definition of poetry? I would say, if it doesn’t have rhyme or metre, then it is not poetry, it is just prose. You can have prose that is full of imagery, but it is still prose.’

Just ask the Poetry Guardian