opened the fortune cookie
paper's inside
wonder how they know my future
probably printed on a roll
bet its not even from China
those bastards
I saw this in the thinkgeek fortunes
Writing a poem
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffi
not by me, but still funny
The desire
You disserve
The gluttony
The guilt
You remorse
Fetal position
Self-loathing, Sleep
Call me "little bitch"
Slap my ass with hairy hands
But don't take my cake...
...dammit!
XL1
The little orange box just sits there
Bristling with knobs, dials, and buttons
A porcupine
Fanning its spikes
"POWER" creates light
Streaming from the window at its center
Bathing the rack below it
In a soft synthesized glow
"But it's so small!" he remarks,
Giving one of the knobs a twirl,
"I thought synths were huge."
Not this one.
I reach under his curious arm,
Still yanking at the knob,
And tap in a preset
As effortlessly as breathing.
"What did you do?"
He asks.
What did I do.
Hah.
I've just created a universe
Spanning years and miles
All within a pair
Of magnetized cones.
He presses a white key
Moving up to a black
And proceeds, rolling his eyes back into his head
To ascend a scale.
Only the faintest traces of sound
Can be heard
Seeping through the seal
Around the headphones clamped to his head
He removes his hands
He removes the headphones
He turns to me
He says
Absolutely nothing.
The expanding grin
Below his wide eyes
Is enough for me
"I want one!"
"I know."
"Can I have it?"
"No."
My hand through her hair
Who needs those synthetic drugs?
I'm higher than God
Ode to spam
osama bin laden's a hypocrite
hes smart but hes got the morals of a tin can
the taliban was his biggests fan
and their leaders as smart as a can of spam
toasters can fly
osama's high
V8 splash is made with Yellow 5
First Poem in Ages
frigid existence
Eternal Sleep
mahogany box
love's price was steep
A life has ceased
wailing laments
show the Dying wails
herein entrenched
what once was laid here
has come to naught
through nothings of life
he does here rot
the knife to the neck
testimony
to long-forgotten
care for a dream
Death is herein come
on swift-winged steed
for when all is naught
life's naught, indeed
finest silken suit
the carrion wears
respect for the Dead son
the highest of cares
entreat these remains
to cold earth below
that spiritless life
be ended alone
so come now, Reaper
i entreat thee
with one fell swing
of thy blade decree
that another soul
hence forth walks with thee
glitter of metal
struggle to breathe
goodnight to life
sun rises on night
i bid thee fairwell
i bid thee fairwell . . .
~Anon
nizzle.
My bro Gross is quite a schmuck
He burns his hair, doesn't pluck
Always freestylin'
Never complyin'
Yo yo dizzle nizzle... fuck!
Ache.
Madness, woe, and subtly sweet gloom
'tis what lies in the eye of such who live as such
may by no means be
leave thy live, for not a soul can assist
a means to an end
an end to a means
Why?
I stupid poem I wrote late at night
