Hey it’s viperslang coming down the chimney with a big bag of questions. Let’s do this.
1. why write?
Because sometimes when you get your brain to turn off and put the words together in weird ways it makes your spine light up like Christmas. Sometimes if you try and solve a Rubik’s cube…
After so many years of one-night stands and flings and breakups
and possibly even eventual divorces with happy women,
women full of joy who put their slippers in order by color
and always seemed to know exactly what to do with
the dirty tea cups, washing them instead of letting them pile up
"Because You Were Bad"
(A Classique Doodle from 9/29/2011)
After his mom died, Little Edgar cried every night.
He wished she could come back and tell him it’s alright…
And one night she appeared, as he lay dreaming in his bed!
Through teary eyes he asked her, “Mommy, why are you dead?”
She sighed softly, tilted her head, and quietly said—
“Oh, dry your eyes my child, don’t be so sad!
The only reason I died, is because you were bad.”
“You never cleaned your room directly after being told
And you’ve grown less cute as you’ve grown more old.
You fought with your siblings; wouldn’t eat your veg’
You gave me no other option but to jump off that ledge.”
“It’s your fault I’m dead, because you just wouldn’t behave
And I hope this lesson haunts you till you’re rotting in a grave.”
With that! she is gone, disappearing into space
And bitter tears roll down Little Edgar’s grubby face.
While he’s sorry for all the naughty things he did
He knows it’s too late… he’s just a bad kid :-/
Originally Posted 9/29/2011
Where the Text Things Are
Hoards and hoards of documents exist
in the washing machines of English literature.
All chatter, weakly spent from the mouth-pen of man,
like stenographic ignoramus ressurexit
tearing apart the control centre of your head.
The things we thought explain everything
don’t explain everything anymore.
Tell them your uterus is broken.
Tell them the openness of love continuously erupts.
Lambs coexist in the harsh lights of red districts.
Needles are formed with bombs.
You are a pinenut of heavenly eternity,
a conquistador of sauvignon blanc
waiting in the dancehall of antithesis.
art by Leo & Pipo