Thursday, March 25, 2010

Friday, March 12, 2010

DeWitt, You're My Gag Reflex

You are the post-partum depression of Stalin's mother.
Your shoes look like broken possums.
There are only 12 hairs on your chin
and they're all on the same mole.
Did I mention your brain is stupid?

If this poem is bad,
it's because I'm imitating you.
If it's good, it must be something else.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Never Call Me at 3am From My Own Room


Futurists and kissing Stalin? How far in your mouth can you reach before you trigger a gag reflex? Are you even trying anymore?

You're as ugly as the sound of a car wreck. You're the twisting metal in the gut of a lie. You're the bags under the eyes of a bag lady.

For that matter, what are you doing tonight? Castro said your blow jobs are terrible. Said he almost died until that happened. Said if he had died with your lips making that awful sucking noise, he'd have regretted ever cigar he burned to the ass.

Let's go to Cuba. We need to update your shame.


Monday, March 1, 2010

I Missed You Too

There's something fuzzy on your breath. And if you were frozen I would not thaw you. Why would I steal your identity, DeWitt? You're like a giant Twinkie vomiting raw pork all over this blog. I bet when you wake up you kiss a portrait of Stalin while stray cats tumble out your underwear.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

This Has Gone Far Enough


Take this all down. This is identity theft. You're unpatriotic. You can't abuse a man's name like this. American Decadents is nothing but a sham.

I don't care if your parents own Pringles. Your lawyers can't help you out of this.

Do the right thing.


Skinny Telegram


I invented the next flarf yesterday and you weren’t in it. I believe you to be the result of huffing certain volatile inhalants. Oven cleaner and Aqua Net. It must be lonely inside those balloons. No one wants to read a blog written inside a balloon. No one wants to read. Did I mention that your hair looks funny? You smell like Detroit, which is Pittsburgh on a bender. The next time you want a manifesto, go to Detroit. Eat something rusty.

~ Jordan

I Already Did


You're fat. That's your fault.


The World is fat. That's your fault.


You belong to Mission Impossible. You eat glass art works. Your smile ruins the fat.


Handjob? Hand me a heart. I don't want a job.

I jobbed a robber. Now I'm a thief. A skinny blogger.

Give me your skin, you minx.


Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Invisible Handjob


You talk as if Thunder Cats aren't caviar.
As if dementia weren't decadent.

I dismantled your computer and found New York City
buzzing in the motherboard.
I autopsied your cadaver and found Parisian alleys
in your neurofibrillary tangles.

You're a dandy and a faker,
more regal than my Top Hat Voice.

Why don't you give a handjob to your minx petticoat
and put your money where my asshole is?



To The New Movement

Dear Jordan,

Caviar and cadavers...stupid.
New York and France...stupid.

Why don't you just try to be the next flarf?
Why not aspire to all the depth of a Thunder Cats marathon?

There was already an American Decadence
(not decadents...stupid), in the 1920's, in the late 1800's,
in a time of uprising decadence,
not in this new era of American decay.

Face it, America and France are
in a state of late dementia. Their demanic people are
a farce, a joke, or worse,
American. There's no money,
no hope, just booze.

Get rich and get famous
and then what? Retire?
Your as clever as an a-hole
the only movement you're producing
is in your bowels.

All you do is consume your own fecal falsities.