Monthly Archives: February 2015

Stolen Fruits

Cupcakes in the pantry,
Muffins in the fridge
Potatoes in a drawer with eyes
Like trolls under a bridge
None of it appeals to me,
None of it is hot,
None of it is tasty
Like this stolen fruit I’ve got

Stolen fruits are sweeter
Stolen wine is red
Stolen meat is bloodier
On freshly stolen bread

Laying in a secret place
Tallying the take
Stolen coins cannot be spent
Because they’re mostly fake
Stolen flavors on my lips
Leave me hungry still
I should not steal any more
But I’m afraid I will

On someone else’s tree
It looks so good to me
And I can’t help but grin
With stolen juices on my chin
And I’m a filthy thief
And I’m a hateful liar
I’ll pay for every leaf
In Satan’s lake of burning fire

So I was not much surprised
To find my cupcakes gone
Muffins warm and buttered,
Hot potatoes on the lawn
Sitting here with nothing
Gambled it and lost
I might have never stolen love
If I had known the cost

Stolen fruits are sweeter
Stolen wine is red
Stolen meat is bloodier
On freshly stolen bread


Lewd Fruit


Gojira: for No Good Reason


Replies to Exciting Emailed Totally Legit Interweb Opportunities : Yu Zhendong’s Purloined 18.5 Million

Response to request from a Mr. Bernard Adams, received via Interwebs, to receive 35% of 18M USD merely for colluding in some kind of sketchy transfer involving illicit funds diverted from a jailed Chinese Bank Fraud Criminal, awaiting only my bank transfer information:

Dear Mr. Adams:

I trust you came in contact with me through the indomitable efforts of my butler, Smuthers.

Frequently I find Smuthers hard at work upon my computer, searching for exciting new business ventures and investment firms (when he’s not trading messages with that cyberfloozy “Lambypnts73”).

Your letter leads me to surmise that he may have found a more lucrative contact than that “Gravy-By-Mail” business plan that he hooked us up with last month. I had to admit: it sounded good: delicious, steaming gravy, delivered on your schedule, still hot because of a small phosphorus incendiary device cunningly concealed in the base of the “Steemi-Gravyboatpak.”

If any of your clients is aggressively pursuing a “Gravy-By-Mail” business expansion plan, you can tell them for me that the U.S. Postal Service has pending litigation with the “Gravy-By-Mail” Parent Corporation, Gravytech, due to some third-degree phosphorous burns evidently suffered by a couple hundred of their carriers. It’s a shame. Biscuits across the U.S. will be mighty dry without their mailed Gravy.

So, anyway, I do have my own corporation -Pulchritudinous Borax Inc.- and a specific business venture that requires some capital beyond the significant amount I can invest. (As you may know, I am the son of the man who invented the Thermidor, which is still used on Lobsters worldwide. (My father also invented the Lobster Humidor (but most people find a Humid Lobster too mushy to be toothsome))).

Say- is it all right to keep piling up parentheses like I just did there? My writing skills are primitive, as I was home schooled by my Uncle Mildred. Uncle Mildred was not so good with reading and writing, but he was a brilliant man in his own right. He won prizes for his macrame overalls.

So, anyway, my aforementioned business venture: Pulchritudinous Borax, Inc. is engaged in the purchase of Old Typewriters and Rotary Phones, which we get on the cheap at rummage sales and  “interface” with cornburning mini-engines (about the size of a shoebox (unless you’re a clown. Clowns have enormous shoeboxes, and the cornburning mini-engine is smaller than that. Are you a clown, Mr. Adams?)) to produce puffs of ancient Native American smoke-signal code which function to provide communication between technology-loathing survivalists.

Basically, the technology-loathing survivalist dials the number of  a nearby technology-loathing survivalist, types in his message, for instance: “I hear the grid goes down next week! I bet you’re envious of my powdered ham supply now!” and then turns a crank to fire up the corn. Puffs of cornsmoke are wafted aloft, coded in Native American smoke-signal language so that government spies are baffled, and the receiver of the message can puff back with his own message, for instance, “you can stuff your powdered ham. I’m sitting on 900 lbs.of Nutria Jerky!”

The business plan, which Smuthers and I have written in utterly indelible ink on terribly expensive paper, calls for this device to net 1.913 Billion USD by 2029. Convert that into euros and squirt with glee, why don’t you? You are a lucky, lucky man to have emailed me and Smuthers, aren’t you, Mr. Adams? Can I call you Bernard? Did you get a lot of Saint Bernard jokes in school? Tell me, also, do those dogs truly wear small casks of delicious brandy or something on their collars? If not, I am disappointed.

I have been so very lonely these many years since my Uncle Mildred died: he was, of course, the inventor of the “Pop Tart,” although, and here’s a piece of trivia for you, he originally had three unusual flavours in mind: Parsnip, Buffalo and Violet. The fools at Kellogg’s refused to produce any of those flavours, instead going the easy route with various fruit and cinnamon etc. I highly recommend the Parsnip ones, but you can’t buy them. I may still have some old demo models of the Parsnip “Pop Tart” around here somewhere, and could mail one to you if you like. One of the marvelous things about “Pop Tarts” is that you can mail them without packaging, as they are the same size as a postcard. Just write on the back, affix a stamp and “Pop” it in the mail.

You need not worry about my ability to keep this transaction strictly confidential. I am great at keeping secrets. Like, I never told anyone how I once surprised my friend Raoul prancing around in his wife’s negligee and feather boa. He was so embarrassed! To tell you the truth, he actually looked kinda cute. But I never told anyone about it. Except you and the free internet Viagra representative…

So, I guess what concerns me most about your otherwise excellent and really, really realistic proposition is this Yu Zhendong character. He’ll be 53 when he gets out of prison in China in 12 years, and what’s to keep him from coming after us, Mr. Bernard Adams?  After all, around Michigan in the USA,  US$18,500,000.00 (Eighteen Million Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars) is not what we call chicken feed, and I suspect the same is true in Guangdong Province.

Even 35% of  US $18,500,000.00 (Eighteen Million Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars) is enough of the long green to inspire a desperate individual to, for instance, disguise themselves as an old lady, rappel over the 15 foot-wall of my palatial new estate, cut an old-lady-shaped hole in my sliding glass patio door for entry and pour a basket of vipers over my head as I lay helpless, asleep.

Now, you ask, do I dare risk this? Sure. I have many enemies already. Black Pete McGillicuddy, “Flaming” Jorge Diego Arturo Fernando Snyder, Captain Harshly, “Ham” Glazier, and Charles Nelson Reilly, to name a few. But I confront you, thus: are YOU truly prepared to live a life of subterfuge, Mr. Bernard Adams? It’s not for everyone. You have to keep a false moustache in your vest pocket at all times. You have to have a dartgun that looks like a nosehair timmer. You have to be able to speak with a convincing Italian accent, like Chico Marx.

Think it over. Take a long, hard look in the mirror and decide if you really want to do this thing. Because as President of the Largest Pigfat Rendering Plant in Southeastern Michigan, when I commit, I’m commited 327%. So if I say I’ll do something, I’ll actually do it three times, and then I’ll do it a little less than a third more. That’s why they call me 327% von Borax. AND I’M GODDAMNED READY TO RIDE THIS MOTHER ALL THE WAY DOWN TO HELL for that 35% of  US $18,500,000.00 (Eighteen Million Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars). Are you ready?  Or are you kind of a Nancy-Boy, Bernard? Do you wear Pink Lacy Knickers? Aw- do you weep easily? Do you collect doilies and “Precious Moments” figurines? Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just asking.

Let’s Tango!

God Save the Queen,

Nitro von Borax
1134 Frottage Alley
South Detroit, MI 48131
Fax: 97
CB Handle: Rubber Goat

Vomit Boy

(Here’s my soliloquy song for the hero of a Broadway Musical I have in treatment, who’s engaged in difficult profession as the (hitherto) unsung Carnival Vomit Boy.)

If you notice me when you look at me
If you look at me at all,
If you happen to wonder what I be,
You can listen: Hear them call:

Vomit boy needed on the Tilt-a-Whirl
Vomit boy, vomit boy
Vomit boy wanted at the Shaft…

I drag my ass across this carnival from six o’clock to three
I watch the yokels stuff their gaping maws with stuff they shouldn’t see
‘Cause Carmine’s made the corndogs out of rat, bathes in the lemonade,
The caramel corn is dank and foetid and the pretzels are decayed
I watch these rubes get in machines that snap their flabby bodies ’round
And fling them roughly upside down, leaving lunches on the ground.

Yes they’re throwing up and I’m cleaning up
And the Ralph never ends
Oh they’re blowing chunks as my mop it dunks
And this mop’s my only friend

Vomit boy needed on the Hoist and Hurl
Vomit boy, Vomit boy
Vomit boy to the Roto-Raft…

These lousy rides are old and deadly, there are frequent injuries,
(our main mechanic is a drunken and depressive chimpanzee)
But the gate receipts exceed the payoffs and the lawyer’s fees.
I’ve mopped up tongues and heads and hands and several sets of broken knees-
I’ve found the strangest stuff ejected- I could fill a small novella,
Here’s my tip: don’t go beneath these rides without a good umbrella.

They say from the top of the Ferris wheel
You can see for miles
Here down below, see chicken peels
And variegated bile
They say on the top of the Toss it Up
They’re halfway to the moon
But here below as they rise up
The puke is raining, soon…


A Postcard of the Massive Gravel Pit at the Top of the Lower Peninsula

rogers city quarry



There was always something weird about
That dog
We had him four years
Since the night we found him sitting on our porch
My wife said he was trying to break in
I don’t think she ever liked that dog much
He was a big dog, brown and fuzzy
With floppy ears
Fed him regular
He never ate much
My wife said there was soup missing
But I never paid her no mind
He was very affectionate
Used to pat him on the head
While I watched TV
Always used to greet me
At the door after work
With my slippers in his paw
I loved that dog
Though the house did smell of cigarettes-
I thought my wife was smoking on the sly
Sometimes when I came home I’d see his big head in the window as he stood
On his hind legs to see me outside
Then one day he wasn’t at the window
And he wasn’t at the door
And my TV and stereo were
My wife came home from shopping and
Said we had to call the cops
We had that weird dog four years
I’d have loaned him any money he needed

So Here I Sit

I should be singin’ Italian arias
With my campadre Mbembe
Strolling through Paris
In a toga and a fez
Doin’ a little Greek dance
And aiming a Mauser at that rat Ngyuen
-He killed Sonja- that rat Ngyuen
I should be running through an Egyptian desert
On Tokyo time
I should be eating Swedish meatballs
In a Brazilian falafel hut
And sadly warbling a Micronesian threnody
On Chinese bagpipes
I should be applying an English riding boot liberally
To the accelerator of a Hispano-Suiza
On a black Carpathian mountain road
With a bellyful of kim chee
Weiner schnitzel and absinthe
Nadia should be waiting for me at the Pink Nightmare
Club with her beakers
Wreathed in smoke
And the dancers around her
I should be rappelling
Down the center of an extinct volcano to find a lost land of dinosaurs
Locked in a battle of wits with Professor Mandible and his robot squid
Swordfighting a trio of Zombie Vikings
Slipping silently through hot jungles by night

And so
I will eat biscuits until the pain goes away
These biscuits… these biscuits
are tasty…

A Devilgirl for No Good Reason

devilgirl circle

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