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New Brunswick Dream by The Ruddy Man I was shot out of a cannon in Las Vegas when a troop of large monkey bats
swooped down and ate your mom. I
shouted and felt the years of creamed spinach in my spine.
I slipped into this room of spent hypos and a lot of dirty mattresses and
some woman speaking Mexican about me and smoking generic cigarettes and Sally
Jesse was in a torn negligée holding a cup full of pencils and acting like she
was the average American housewife, the average scum-sucking psychedelic
load-licking life-form I was always looking for.
Still, even as a terrible storm came upon us, I thought of elephants in
granny panties. I was petting my
pet and thinking I could eat a whole box of Ring Dings, the one thing in my life
that's worth smashing the television for. Flip
through 130 channels till I feel Dick Cavett crawling up my ass trying to tickle
my brain. I heard the sound of cough syrup beating in my head like a
jar. Coagulating spurts of sperm
that blew the fuck out of our stiff necks in the dark room of Universal Space
Platform 4. Spew that continued
infinitely into an unknown stratosphere while all my beans overflowed onto the
carpet. Then I cried like a late
August afternoon, red as your hemorrhoid face pleading for more chop steaks
running through my heart with the vengeance of a thousand angry nights. When the pain is too long for the darkness. The last time I
walked into the Chess King at the mall to buy a white plain shirt, I was slugged
over the head by gigantic grunge music, strobe lights and a salesgirl with big
hair and large clams and mussels and oysters and words that rhyme with spam and
a non-illustrated book about birds. Birds.
What's your pleasure, sailor? Suck or fuck?
He touched himself and turned the tourniquet tight as he shot
testosterone directly into his all American beef frank.
Mustard isn't ageless. He
loved me, too. Wouldn't admit it.
Woody. Boner.
Hard-on. Boa constrictor.
Cum shot. Elvis got low,
down by Hell. But no lower than the
slow fuzzy beat of the egg nog floating in your shoulder socket.
Get past scientology and democracy then you can call yourself an artist. So there you are lizard mother, "I love you."
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