Thursday, May 05, 2005

A poem that doesn't wear ULA's fancy pants

I submitted this but I guess it was just too "adventurous" for SOME people. Not all of us sip our wine coolers from expensive Dixie cups and eat the deluxe Vienna sausages in that tasty red sauce.

Those people look down at me. But they won't keep me from writing!



Sunday Morning Spasmodic Colon in the Dawn
by Orlando Hotpockets

agony of counting my change
in the parking lot of the convenience store
unable to buy beer

only a hammer
to hit my head
which is kind of like being drunk only it really does hurt a lot more.

And I finger my nose
in search of the lost
guitar pick

to strum a song of my mother
the lice-infested timber wolf
owwwwww....

The police look at me funny
and say move along.
If only I could.

4 Comments:

Blogger Beowulf-Poet said...

Deer Mr Hotpockets-

I lay my sword at your feat, Mr. Hottpockets. I, a humble exile from the ULA, spurned by there king, have cum to a late revealation, that the King's cort is corrupt.

You are under the underground, and I wish to delve as deap into the erth as possible. Take me to the under under celler my liege. I want to feel the heet of your pockets. I plege myself to you.

Sincerely,
Zeke Brutus, Esquire

9:02 AM  
Blogger Orlando Hotpockets said...

It is good to hear from you, Ezekial. We must make sure the pseudo-demi-puppets never get any rest!

Tell the world more about the corruption!

They think they are so smart, dining on fancy Hormel products and looking down their noses at the rest of us. But the truth will come out. For one thing a lot of them have trust funds. That's what I heard.

9:14 AM  
Blogger Beowulf-Poet said...

King Wenclas writes of Noah Cicero:

"I'm ready to bow down to any great writer who presents him/herself without also being a bullying, vicious prick asshole to those beneath him/her. Why the hell do you think I love Noah Cicero so much? Finally, a writer to admire. If you don't, you should too."

How typical of the psuedo-demi-puppet elite to prop up their own, at the expense of struggling writers who have neither paper nor ink with which to write. I for instance, have submitted to the ULA several poems, painstakingly inked with a solution derived of my own feces, that were, for some reason, deemed unfit for their glossy zines. "Too powerful!" they said. "Too risky."

It is characteristic of the rot in that organization that it is run by a man who calls himself "king" and whose crazy, attack-dog sidekick's moniker refers to a philandering drunk appointed by God to save the world as well as a too-clever-by-half lawyerly orator from the Roman Republic.

But they will not keep us down! The heat from our pockets is rising, and we will not stop until it scars the fancy-pants literary world of the ULA in the thighs and buttocks!

10:33 AM  
Blogger suspected retard said...

Listen up loser, its obvious you can't write and you make shit up.
that stuff about the trust funds is such a weak cliche, get a life. you are a giant, slurping ass! do you think you're a poet or are you just trying to be funny? why are you so stupid that you dont know how to count change? and too young to buy beer? sell the hammer, jackass, or rob the clerk, a real wino knows how to get beer. and steal some pencils while you're in there. you do know how to use a pencil dont you? or are you just too damn underground? I hope those lice eat you alive. love, SR

11:20 PM  

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