goodlinesfrombadpoems

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Climate Change

We mix like oil and piss, I am a fister of youth pastors and tragic himbos, getting high off a methane leak in your snatch while scavenging through the pubes for Blue's clues, please put this poem in the compost bin right away before the rot sets in. Climate change is real and our love is a mirage, I'm still huffing your spoiled puss when I realize we're all just fossil fuels, burning away the days listening to lectures about zainichi and a semi-divine Confucius, "The means of production is not your toothbrush," "They liked to count people in ancient China," "Climate change is like aliens." You look like a demigoddess in that denim, and I'm a burnt-out solar panel looking up at the eclipse.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

痛快一时

你是一种兴奋剂， 也是一个催泪弹， 我跟理性打了个持久战， 只是好久没“短恋”过，唉， 给你一个短赞。 有缘无分，但心里有数， 我心里输给了孤独、孤独症以及一种 痴心妄想、不顾一切地追追追， 让我们追悼这场追求， 痛失了尊严，只剩四五鸡蛋， 没有药引子，只剩你的影子， 我很痛快，我很疼你， 你是一种值痛药。

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Going Nuclear

I spend my nights having affairs with aliens and older Sith women in SWTOR. Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
 Through passion, I gain pussy.
 Through pussy, I gain more pussy.
 Through pussy, my chains are broken.
 The pussy shall free me. I am partly rowdy with a 40% chance of pain, I am unsafe at any speed, I am Judgmental Dredd (“I am the right!”), or maybe just Judge Mental. Yes, I drink from the chalice of a young May Pang, sopping up that ripe and butter-soaked artichoke like I’m on life support and living in a cunnilingus-induced coma for the rest of my days. I am contaminated with pussy radiation, A Chernobylled dildo vibrating away until the cherry bomb POPS.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

On Strike

I want to get you so hot that I bring your pussy to a boil and rotisserie my tongue on your beast hole, hold my beer? No, hold my tongue, only because I have to suppress any genuine interest I have in you, compressing it into a ZIP poem, and then extracting it to this Tex-Mex-sex-mess of a copped feeling— the sloppy seconds of love at first sight. I am married and thus marked for mutually-assured-destruction, I need to implode these emotions on the page before they are adapted into a movie, and then into a wicked and dangerous game. So let’s get a Coke and a Cost of Living Adjustment to go, if only we—if only this—could be here to stay, you struck a nerve, but my nerve endings went on strike, and I didn’t have the nerve to cross picket lines.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Middle-Aging

I miss having crushes on the soulmate of what I projected myself to be, the kind of strange mismatched mingling that could only happen in my head, a typhoon of passion-fruit knocking out all of the power of logic— all seasoning, no reasoning. First in high school when we were all little horn dogs, and then in college when we took the socio-path less traveled. Self-conscious, but not self-aware, lusting after love and living to like others, now I get my kicks watching Question Time in the Australian Parliament and looking back at my car, I’m not so much middle-aged as run up on the median, my emotions are no longer in motion, and my passions have long passed me by.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Sleepy in Santa Barbara

The summer smells like burnt popcorn, my diary is full of dying and my journal is full of journalists like Andrea Mitchell and Laura Barrón- López, God raped the Queen and locked me in a brain cell (but I don’t care!), solitary confinement with my thoughts! My feelings flock like spam to an unchecked inbox, a wrong number to a dead phone, but you are my food for thought and my thought for food, I want to snort the discharge off your thigh and skydive into your soul, you poeticize my person and personify my poetry, walking down the beach and into these words, posted to a Russian Instagram somewhere, and washed away with the waves

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Flashes

I don't have memories anymore, I don't even have flashbacks, just flashes of a gỏi cuốn here, a Gran Turismo 4 track there, flashes from a camera and the pictures it’s taken both of and from my mind, you flash through my thoughts and across my blurry vision like a contact lens, we make contact, we are LensCrafters, but I can’t see clearly whatever I saw in you then, and now all I have is hot flashes and a cold splash of reality, a strobe light of passion drowning in the dark, no more hope-hoops and pipe-dreams, only a fallen ladder of what was once dreamt.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

As the world burns

I can be judgmental, I am a mental judge, I sold my Kia Soul to the devil but the devil went down to Georgia to suppress voting rights and propagate reproductive wrongs instead. 1 million dead? Really, what in the hell is wrong with this world? What in the world is right with this hell? Europe at war, China in lockdown, and the US warlocked, and now you come along, in heat like Val Kilmer, a single steaming droplet streaking down your sumptuous thigh. I want to go down on you in all your Amazon prime, throwing myself like a sandbag on your hurricane Katrina and doing your dishes like a dirty sponge left in the sink. 5000 years of civilization down the drain and here I am, wringing out your pube mop as the world burns.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Out of Control

I am in Kirby’s Wet-Dreamland looking for an extra life because my past one was overwritten and my current one has been corrupted. Somewhere out there there’s a memory card with happier days saved behind a smiling, spinning icon, along with a rumble pak for all the tumbles we had and a game shark for all the cheating we shouldn’t have, I couldn’t have asked for a better Second Life, but this third one needs a reboot. My life has gone full digital jacket: no box, no cartridge, and certainly no manual, nothing tangible to grasp onto and throw away in anger (“I am the out-of-controller!”). Remap my keys, put on “Passing Breeze,” and— Wait! I need a better ending this time, but all of the good endings are behind a paywall, and my better days are behind a dream.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

COVID-19 Pandemic, Day #858

I miss 2014, I miss being young, single, and ready to mingle instead of being ready for more Pringles, since then, I’ve shat out my stoned heart and pissed away my last cards of sympathy, living to die and dying to live off a diet of hot cakes and even hotter takes: “this pandemic is a war, and war is an epidemic, social media is the cavity of our society, and video games have played us for a pool of novocan’t.” When you wore that skirt, I wanted to jump into your deep end and die a born-again Christian, I wanted to hear your heart beat- up mine, I wanted to suck on your soul until my teeth went bad, before I launch my new liveblog, I’d like to sign off with a summary of where my life currently stands: it doesn’t; it sits, it sits and it shits and it’s shit, my life is a clogged squat-toilet, and you’re the plumber with the plunger coming to unfuck my world.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Pre-Invasion Poem

Ukraine belongs in the EU, and I belong in Ursula von der Leyen, the Canadians have been training Ukrainians since 2014, and I’ve been getting bred by Melanie Joly since I was 14. Yes, that’s wrong, you heard that right, they institutionalized me in the awk-ward and threw away the fob, locked, stocked, with two smoking Carols, I have been fucking my way in and out of  sticky situations since I could pick up my limp, wavy pencil. My poetry is the equivalent of processed meat: cancer-causing blood and guts packaged in flimsy plastic and put out on the shelf for sale, discounted before the expiration date, and then fed back to the same shit that bred it.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Ohio-gozaimasu!

Searching incognito for the Prophet Farrakhan, I got 528,000 results for Mega Turrican? But there ain’t no Nation of Islam in Akron, and I don’t play that shit on no Super Famicom.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Like a Prayer

Look at you, all wet and protected like a rain forest, I gargle your pussy juice to get the devil out and let the Lord in, but don’t praise his name, praise his game and the ten thousand sopping snatches he’s got queued up for the afterlife. Yes, I’ve found Jesus and Madonna, it’s the immaculate hypertension, a burning double-cross, I’m ready  to get wrecked like a Jesuit in your Tokugawa period. Skewer me like a steak, douse me in your lake,  and I’ll resurrect my ass right  off the goddamn cross.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Back to campus

Trying to finding a rhyme for Omnicron, sorry fam but all I got for you is Gloria Estefan, the chancellors get a 28.4% raise  while I get a room full of unintellectual distancing and facemasked hormones, “Josh McDaniels is already building relationships as the leader of the Raiders,” meanwhile, I am already raiding buildings as the leader of joshing you around and fucking up my relationships. Tomorrow I’m going to reenter the 2016 Honda Accord and get all metahistorical on your ass like my boi Hayden White, can I get an X-Men? I say, can I get an X-Men?  No, because this virus has already mutated  and will SHAKE YOUR BODY LIKE THE CONGA.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Vituperations

My poetry bar is already depleted, but I can always restart from the last save. The “sounds amidst the fury” come crashing through the door and I quickly check my Apple crotch, as the humidifier in your pants chugs away like a Studebaker. “Take me to the salt flats ‘cause I crave that mineral.” “No decisions on Ukraine without Ukraine. Golden rule.” Fine, whatever, Dōgen’s slogan was that practice is enlightenment, but I only dip my dentures in virgin pussy juice anyway. No, no more nirvana for me, I’ve smelled your teen spirit enough times that I can’t even get a whiff of myself fading away.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Pussy and Food

I use women’s deodorant to be closer to the stank, I am not just a degenerate, I am a whole degeneration, wire-tappin’ that ass and flashing that vag, my life in grad school can be summarized as being pressurized into snow, frozen into ice, broken into snow again, but never flowin’ like that smooth water. Once more from the top, in Chinese: 压成雪，结成冰，又碎成雪， 但从来没有像水一样流淌。 When the devil comes around asking “what’s good?” Remember that fine fashion will not guarantee you action, and just like the lil’ birdies, you got to sing for that pussy and food.

[goodlinesfrombadpoems]

Sweet Dreams are Made of the Secret Life of Bees

The clouds hanging in the night sky resemble puffs of white hair above sparkling eyes, why am I always attracted to women fifteen years my senior or junior? In one corner, the former spelling-bee winner, and in the other, the infertile tenured professor, one as wet as climate change in the Ganges river basin, the other as dry as Bukowski. “She could be your mother, dear, so if you want me to be your daddy, I better go with her first.” Your pussy croaks to me like a frog and I rush over, heeding the call like a LifeCall operator, but just like so-called political outsiders who go to Washington to drain the swamp, once you go down, you drown, and in Communist Vagina the pussy eats you!