Creep
We’ve got a situation:
tilted swans are made of butter
magnets and insufferable
twits
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
But have you heard?
The go-to nerve syndrome
new virus and the ever
changing nature of slang
can be quite confusing
like the static
of a Berlusconi media
and your jittery morning
smile as birds hover
over your fevered bedhead.
It is the itch
under the sack
in your scalp
the facial tic
the stutter in your Mom’s
hubbidahubudda Budhha
phone call now.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Never mind the history.
Ignorance is bliss is fear
is the right to be PC
is the right to be offended.
If you don’t like the games
the lines, then gallop
over them like John Lennon
Unicorn and rain piss
on the gods or as the wombat,
if you please, rough as a boar,
hard as a table
appearing cuddly.
Fuck on the water.
Get weird on a raft.
Surf on that wave
going over the dam.
Drink the blood
dripping from the damned.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Mind the outboard motor.
When the hearts of scar tissue
sings of hunger from your intestines
and Bob Kaufmann ceases
to believe in your dreams.
Blow the bass player.
Burn the books.
Buy drinks for the drummer.
Listen to your enemies.
They want to give you universal
access to anything
you can pay for with plastic.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Just as one would not show
one’s hand to the father, that entity
that dealt it, felt it, held it, cherished it,
smelled it and knelt down in thanksgiving
for it, lest he thwart one’s angst-felt wisdom;
so, too, do ignore the lists of the masses.
They are to be burning heaps,
steaming crocks of nothing
good, but for the ones
who conjured them up, wrote them down
and share the profits.
Kill the clouds and blot out
the sunshine if it omits desire
and stilts creativity and love.
Leave the world to sweat
and dream of ether.
Laugh at pain as it melts
or becomes more severe.
Eavesdrop, you Creep.
You will learn something.
She says, “Did we talk about the generator?”
He quotes the idiocy
only to misuse the word.
Grammar is for snobs.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Know your Mother while you teach
her to smuggle your conviction
to master agents of control
if you read this with your pants
on and the headphones turned up just a little
further than your buzz, dial the boss
and tell him it is for the candy-colored
bunions of your stagecoach Betty.
Tell him you desire butterfly dust
in your milk bottles in the morning.
Tell him. Tell him. Tell him there is no stain
without shouting and ape shit algebra.
Tell him you love him. Set him free.
Stir the fear into the corn syrup
and watch the world waddle
in their muumuus.
If you have to engage further,
thank the world equally for pain
and giggles; thank the idea of the cosmos
as you do another migraine;
as you would an orgasm
that cripples;
or polio and the lack thereof
and the drivers in need
of dead pedestrians and rotting birds.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Tell the story about wellness falling
on the pilgrimage into nothingness
when never allowed something to peak
into the abyss
and the rain fell up the stairway
to find the love of a wombat
only to find that they are as hard as a table,
on the trail to moans.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
We are a generation that consumes cultural
identities like locusts, but never digests any of them.
When you eat three then there are nine.
But is that true?
Try it sometime, then yell “HA! LOCUSTS!”
Generosity begat pain and deafness, sorrow.
Tweets and writhing
knew all the buttercups and the lids
of eyes fluttered upon a dismal mid-morning
as goats ate grass with dressing
on the side.
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Tweets are crutches. Count the dead.
But if you need them, use them.
Know that sometimes
They are best meant for pretty birdies
and Satan brought home donuts
and it’s Stanley Kubrick's fault
he typed; he tapped it into his device.
He quotes the idiocy.
...remember a time when a dyslexic
15-year old could perform a tonsillectomy
on a raging river with nothing but a bit
of quartz and a rotary phone
or live in a paper bag at the bottom
of a septic slaughterhouse
and not lose any sleep?
The guy who made those cabinets
told me all about it. Had the meter maid
delivered to his ulcer.
Still, it ain’t over yet, but…
I'm gonna miss my widget frag
my Don guy wag my wiggle in
the diggle of the wonkey lag
at Sunday do my jiggle jump
off the bridge in your slit,
you gape guy.
Poop in the atheist member
of mod flood, you Doufous!
YOU DO FOR US! YOU MARY POPPINS
WIGGLE WORM!!!
But, I won’t share this except
to you, my confessor.
I HATE YOUR SHOES!!!!!
What are you doing there?
They create my fear.
Where do the toes go?
Surf on the wave
rushing across the dam.
Savor the blood gushing
from the damned
Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Learn to love the little squiggles in the eyelids
and the murmurs in the heart.
Brett Lars Underwood is a St. Louis writer, bartender and promoter.
