© FREDInk Productions

Revised and edited by Tom Miller on
Thursday, January 19, 2006

Sloppy Drunks

There’s a fine line between
Socially lubricated and
Drooling scum bag

I get funnier when I’m drunk
Or at least it seems that way to me
But I’m not a sloppy drunk

Like my friend over here
Mumbling how he’d like to fuck
Every woman at the bar

Including the one with
Three tits and a beard

It’s okay, I tell him
You’re drunk. That’s a good excuse for
Everything you ever do wrong

And tomorrow I’ll ask him
If he remembers
Sucking my dick

One Of Those Days?

I want to fuck a jar of mayonnaise
And shit in the bath tub
I want to roll in a pile of red ants
And sift through the ocean looking for feathers

It’s one of those days
Those days
Those days
You know the kind of day
One of those

I want to put my balls in a glass of vintage wine
And open my eyes with my head in a bucket of bleach
I want to ride my motorcycle into a wall
And fart on a beautiful flower

Sometimes I just want to cry
Alone in a dark room
Cry about everything I fucked up in my life
Cry and regret until my nuts swell up
And then I want to beat off on my face
And cum in a contorted position I’ll never be able
To get out of

I want them to find me like that
Twisted into a knot with feathers and cum on my face
Mayo on my dick, shit in the bath tub
Eyes bleached white, skin dotted with ant bites
One dead flower

A puddle of tears and motorcycle parts

And a glass of vintage wine
That my nuts were in

It’s one of those days
Those days
Those days
You know the kind of day
One of those

On The Road Sucks

When the bums pass me by without asking for change
And say, “Hello, Tom Miller.”

I know I’ve almost made it to the top of the bottom

A few more poems and I’ll have my spot clinched

I never liked,
On the road

Dead Sucker Fish

It was one of those black fish
That suck on the sides of the tank
With their lips

Sucks on the rocks and lets the water
Roll over them suck up and down
Sucking up the muck

When the tank turned green
And the orange fish died
The white one was still going
But really really slowly

The black suckerfish seemed the same
Just sucking it— but I noticed
It was turning gray

A couple of weeks later when the
Apartment started to smell, I asked my
Roommate, Why don’t you do something?

Look, the white one’s dead now and the black
One’s turning yellow.

Fish love bacteria, he said. They’ll be okay.
The black fish kept sucking but it didn’t move very much
Especially when the air filter gave out

A week later, the water was green, the black fish was
White, but its eyes were still open, looking…
Looking for something, I don’t know what

Maybe an air filter

The suckerfish is dead, I said, all the fish are dead.
I’ll take care of it soon, said my roommate.

When the mosquitoes began to breed
I moved out

I think of the suckerfish often. Think of how much
It sucked to be that fish. We’re all that fish,
Aren’t we.

Violets Growing in Scum

The scum is a cool green Fiesta-ware plate
There is one violet in the center
Somehow alive and trying to sing a song
Trying to sing Vivaldi in the green scum
Standing proudly

I have survived even this, she sings
A butterfly lands on the violet and plants an egg
I want to step on them both but I don’t
Things take care of themselves

The butterfly drops into the green scum
And flutters around until it pulls itself under
And soon after, the flower wilts and sinks
To the bottom

The scum is a cool green Fiesta-ware plate
There is one violet in the center
Nobody can see it anymore

Rebel With Menopause

I want to go to city hall
And turn off the power main
Right in the middle of a big meeting
As if it will make any difference
I want to go to city hall
And take one screw out
Every day for the next ten years
As if anyone will notice

I want to go to city hall
And plant marijuana seeds
In the garden and call the police to
Arrest all the commissioners
I want to go to city hall
Into the mayor’s office and pretend
I’m Shelly Winters and start singing
Show tunes until they come for me

I want to go to city hall
Wearing only a cock ring and a
Clothespin— you guess where I put
The clothespin
I want to go to city hall
Up to the high security doors to the
Meeting rooms and bang on them and
Scream, “Let me in my building!”

I want to go to city hall
And tie tampons in everyone’s hair
Tampons soaked in blood from
Manatees and Florida panthers
I want to go to city hall
With a protest sign that says, “I
Protest!” And I want to shout, “I protest!
I can’t take it anymore!”

I want to go to city hall
And tell the media that I’m protesting
And when they ask me what I’m protesting
I’ll tell them, “Nothing. I’m just protesting.”

Futility

A snail was making its way
Across the sidewalk
Ever so slowly

And I watched for an hour
The snail making its way
Across the sidewalk
Ever so slowly

And when the snail
Finally made its way
Across the sidewalk
Ever so slowly

I picked it up and put it
Back where it started from

The Rules of Love

Love is the most important thing
In the world

But there are some rules to abide by
To properly love

1. Don’t make love with your friends. Friends
Are for friendship. Lovers should be people you
Can easily get rid of.

2. Don’t say, “I love you.” It will ruin everything.
Instead say, “Would you like to fuck?”

3. When making love to your lover, be sure to
Never tell them who you are imagining them to be
When you’re having an orgasm.

4. Try to flirt with other people only when your
Lover isn’t watching you.

5. When you cheat, try to keep it a secret so your
Lover won’t dump you. You don’t want to lose all that
Free money.

6. Make sure you only steal thing your lover might
Not miss. Don’t take all the bills in the purse, just take
A few. This works better if your lover comes home drunk.

7. Always make eye contact when you lie, and don’t
Blink too much. Sell the lie.

8. If things become so routine that you plan on
Getting married, make sure you buy a ring that looks
Expensive but really isn’t. a used ring is best, or a ring
Stolen from your last lover.

9. Don’t masturbate when your lover is around. You don’t
Want your lover to know you need to get off without them
Sometimes… lots of times.

10. Remember the golden rule of love: What’s important is
What people believe; not the truth.

Whiskey Can Turn Anyone
Into Someone You Can Fuck

It usually only takes a shot or two
But sometimes a bottle will not do

I Was Looking For You in the Library

I checked under butterflies
And planets and art

I looked in the science section
And checked in the literature isle

I tried to find you under poetry
But you were not there

I was sure you were a flower

I tried law and sports and
All the books on chess

You were nowhere to be found
Were you hiding from me?

Why?
Why when I love you so much?

I went through Tolstoy, Einstein, Beethoven,
Faust, the Bible, every periodical and magazine

Jung, Robert Frost, Rimbaud, I almost thought
I saw you in Rimbaud but I was mistaken

Just as I had given up hope, I found you there
Where I should have looked from the beginning

Crystal Clear: The Story of Diamonds
By McKay

I haven’t returned it yet
And the overdue notices keep coming

Live at the Downtown Plaza

After building and rebuilding the
Downtown Plaza, they finally got it right

There’s a nice canopy over the stage
And every Friday, a local band plays

But my favorite show is
The two bums who sleep on the stage

Every night under their piss soaked quilts
Two bums sleep. It should win the Tony

It’s so real, almost like they’re not acting
Almost like two people trying to escape

Hell for real

Mostly nobody comes to the show because
It runs so late and so long

But I’ve caught it several times and there’s
No better performance in town

Not at the Hippodrome or the college theater
Not even at the community playhouse

All that stuff is fake and the prices for the tickets
Are so expensive

But this show is so real and free to watch
Sometimes they turn in their sleep but mostly

They just lie there. It’s so avant-garde, I can’t stand it!

I’m going to invite all my friends and we’ll have
Dinner and cocktails on the patio, watching

The two bums who sleep on the stage

Hell, these guys don’t even bow, they just
Get up and walk around asking for money

The Rat Had a Finger in its Mouth

This hairy wet rat
Came running by
With a finger in its
Mouth

Look at that rat, my
Friend said, it’s got a
Finger

A human finger
Hanging out of its
Mouth

How about that, I said,
I’ve never seen such a
Thing before

The rat had a
Finger in its mouth
And it came running by

Across the street and
Down into the sewer
Drain

Finger and all

I wonder whose finger
It was, I said

Yeah, said my friend,
Me too.

Fight the Poem

This thing almost wouldn’t let me write it
It resisted with every ounce of strength

Throwing punches and kicks
I was swollen and bleeding, trying

To get the motherfucker down
On the page for the one two three count

Probably the baddest poem of all
It must have been in training for months

To give me such a fight— jab uppercut right cross
I stabbed with my pen hammered with my

Typewriter crunched and shimmied with my
Word processor but the poem dodged

Flanked sidestepped turned played
Rope-a-dope cussed and danced and stung

Round four I had the cut man open my eyes
Blood poured down my face

This was one tough sonovabitch! But I had
Seen all its fights and studied the moves

I knew what was coming and just when the
Chips were down and it tried to clock me

For the knockout, I slipped around the blow
And cold cocked it under the chin

It was dazed, and a one two flourish with a
Screaming left hook dropped it to the mat

One two three… the crowd was on its feet
Four five six… the shouts and cat calls echoed

Seven eight nine… get up! Shouted the corner man
Don’t let this pussy have his day in the sun

Ten. It was knocked out cold.
I had won another poem.

by tom miller

“Never confuse the author with the speaker.” — Professor Clay Arnold

once
there was a maggot
born with human
intelligence

he wanted to be
a butterfly, moth, frog
anything but a
fly

the maggot turned and
writhed and turned writhed and
pupated into a
fly

i get weird
on beer
queer

texas hole’m

play poker? asked stan.
sure, said dan.
stan anteed, mounted,
buttfucked stan
in his man can hole

when the drugs wore off
after i got the hair out of my mouth
wiped the swastika off my forehead
with soap and water

iced the bruises
soothed the fresh tattoo on my ass
that said, ENTER HERE

pulled the silver chopstick
out of my urethra and the shampoo
bottle out of my asshole

i thought how great this might have been
with me and at least one other person

what do you get when you cross an octopus?
a blessed octopus.

love

a roach came out of the darkness
to get a lick of something i left
melting on the kitchen counter

i smacked it with the palm of my hand
instead of a rolled up newspaper
it deserved that kind of respect

love

must have puked the most violently
on that colt-45 than any other beer.
goddamn good beer.

love

he was so beautiful, i offered a cigarette
bought him a beer, he looked into my eyes
can i read some of your poems? yes, i said.

wow, this is sick, beautiful, the extremes.
we must have talked for hours. i’m a musician.
really? i’m a musician too. i thought, i could
be with him.

well, he said, i gotta go meet my lady. thanks
for all the poems.

he went over to the other side of the coffee
shop and sat down with the most beautiful
guy i have ever seen.

betty’s sweaty lip

a girl named betty’s
lip was sweaty

the one

i had been so lonely for so long
and there was this beautiful girl
sitting at the coffee shop

i thought,
she’s not going to have me
so there’s nothing to lose

i went over to her
tried to say the most polite
thing i could possibly imagine

hey fuckbitch, how’d you like me
to jam my snot-stick in your dirty
stinking nasty yellow yank?

she replied,
do you have a place we can go?
my god, i had found the one.

good eating

it went down good
in three or four minutes

it came up bad
in three or four days

in three or four ways

i barfed and shat
and burped and farted

that’s good eating!

the rose
has been abused
literature has spread her

so thin as to invisible
her flavor make
the rose

coined, a phrase turned
as a leaf, her much maligned companion
scientists are making decisions

of her color, her fragrance
that bees notice the absence
of and thus begin to vanish

the rose clichéd–you gave me this
piece of shit? how much was it?
ten dollars? we could have bought

beans and rice for a week! the rose
if you loved me
you would be gray

you would die the instant
eyes set upon you
with only thorns to

remind me of your ghost
by pain and blood as
love demands

rebel

i swallow my gum
always have
i dye my hair
the wrong color of blond
big bird yellow
‘i don’t like your hair’
they tell me
good!!!!!
i didn’t dye it for you
i don’t take drugs for you
i don’t wave my dick in the wind
for you
i eat the boogers
right out of my nose
i eat them like steak
and pennicillin
i spell pennicillin my way
i piss on the side of the toilet
i drink on the bus
i don’t fasten my seatbelt
i smoke in the no-smoking zone
i don’t say ‘yes sir’ to authority
i shit in the punch
jerk off in the dog dish
if you text-message during my poem
i’ll kick your goddamn ass
i won’t no i won’t do it your way
i don’t take advice from my betters
if you say fire will burn my hand
i’m going to stick my hand in there
nobody ever got wise doing everything right
nobody ever got smart without breaking the rules.

have i misinterpreted you?

hi.
what?
you’re beautiful.
fuck off.
what?
fuck and off.
what did i say?
shit. i’m sorry, i thought you were somebody else.
who?
tom.
i AM tom.
right. get away from me.
tom miller.
who?
tom miller.
shit. i thought you were thomas reed.
reed is my middle name.
shit. that’s what i thought. fuck in the fuck off!
what did i do wrong?
you know what you did.
what?
i heard…
heard?
yeah.
maybe they told it different than how it happened.
bullshit.
who told you?
john.
john? which john?
i mean, mike.
mike or john?
mike john.
you’re not beautiful after all. you fuck off.
mike john thinks i’m beautiful.
mike john fucks me too.

marriage

(do you take his woman?)
goodbye drugs, booze, frequent and arbitrary sexual
encounters with men, women, men dressed as women, and
all the crack that let to it, the freedom to burn everything
you cook and leave it on the stove for the cat and the roaches,
the internet porn, the absence of reason, spending money
that does not exist on things which do not exist, the
guy talk, the girl talk, the belief in no god, every man
for himself, half of everything, the position of the
toilet seat, TV dinners, the band, the art, the poems,
smoking, up all night with the DVD player, jerking off,
farting, snoring, a bed to call your own, the enjoyment
and solitude of puking alone, washing dishes wearing only
a tie, the meaning of the universe, crying in the fetal
position, the feeling of disgust at pink dirty drooling babies
and their endless shrieking, being right, choosing your
own clothing for the party: a shirt with cum dried on it,
gym shorts with cum dried on it, socks with cum dried
on it, shoes with cum dried on it…
(yes, i’ll take his woman.)

squeeze out another…

i think i can squeeze out another,
i said

i was talking about a poem
the metaphor is fairly obvious

this is the poem
if i’d have written it on toilet paper

it couldn’t have been more perfect
unless i flushed it

i’m not that good.
his poems were crap

i knew this poet once
who i didn’t like

his poems were crap
crap about his girlfriend

crap about his life
crap about his poetry

and i said,
“dude, your poems are crap.”

and he said, “dude, my
girlfriend is crap,

my life is crap,
my poetry is crap.

what did you expect?”

i re-read the poem
i was right about me.

i was exactly right.

the result

i was the result of
drunk fucking

little things

it’s all little things,
they say.

they’re always talking,
giving advice ~they~

the little things
freak me out

it’s easier
to process a bomb

about to go off
under my seat

then worry about
keeping my job

because a customer didn’t get
enough ice in their cocktail

i want to throw the last 40 years
into the dumpster and start anew

but termites are eating my work
it’s all throwing itself away slowly

without any help from me.
who is this going to entertain?

it’s all little things,
they say

i’m going to find them
and I’m going to kill them

i’m
trying to scream
louder than the folks next door

they play war
and yell all night long

they love me because
i don’t care
I’ve seen war
been in it–doing it now

yelling is the least of my worries
they yell because some computer warrior

got fragged

oops.

shit.

AHHHHHHHH!

i dig in the cat litter
with my slotted spoon

dig out clumps of shit
and put it in a bag

so it doesn’t smell.
this is a battle

a battle I will win
no matter your religion

i have a poem for you

you’ll love this one

it’s not about you but
you’re in it.

bland… boring… bad form…
this poem isn’t going to make it

into the so-called poetry magazines.
why? don’t worry… it’s not your fault,

it’s me.

too many contractions.
like a woman birthing

something she didn’t want
to begin with.

they have no taste for the unborn
ugly,

oh, there it is…
find me a toilet or a

trash dumpster to get it
out of my soul.

no, they don’t want to judge your
unborn, born, thing nobody wanted.

it’s for madonna.
she’ll love it.

and the cat barfs,
wet, ugly, and on something precious.

cat barf

i heard
a grumph
two or three
grumphs

then
spat

wet
gross

cat
barf

found its way
on something
Precious

now, the video won’t play
anymore

memories
got barfed on
gone forever

i’ll miss you,
but that’s how stupid and ugly

and quick,
these things go

my cat is a really good cat
she just does it just like nature intended

with no regrets.
nothing natural says, ‘i’m sorry.’

church

i came home
took off my socks

the next morning
i went to put them on

they were soaked
with pee

my cat,
one of the two

peed on my socks

why?

i thought about it
picked up my socks

smelled them and said,
“jesus christ!”

i said, “what the fuck?”
and i said, “holy jesus!”

threw the socks
into the closet with the other

dirty laundry.

i have a place for this.
i’ve maintained a sanctuary

for my cats to pee in.
here is the lesson:

no matter how kept the sanctuary,
pets will find their own way to pray.
i miss sleeping with you
i miss holding you
i miss kissing you
i miss touching you
i miss spending time with you
i miss talking with you
i miss listening to music with you
i miss I miss I miss

i missed again.

you’re psychic!

he said,
“you’re wearing a bonnet in your hair”

“no i’m not,”

“it’s green and is tied in a knot”

“no it isn’t”

“sure it is”

“no, really. look at my hair. there’s no bonnet in it”

“and it’s green”

“okay”

“yes, it’s green, and it’s tied in a knot.”

“sure, whatever”

“thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you”

(audience applause)

no dracula, just blood

my cats know how to love me
better than you

i’m bleeding

i just got home from a show

you weren’t there
that was expected

everything you do
is a known quantity.

you’re old math

i don’t know if i poked myself with a guitar string
or if your teeth got under my skin

either way

there’s no song, no dracula,
just blood, cats, the end of the show

that makes me sad

sad and angry

angry and poetic

poetic and happy

look!
another poem!

i should thank you for that, but so many
people who I thought loved me,

have become poems i never ever
want to read again

dropping in
to say hello

hello.

now that that’s over with,
goodbye.

everything is a lie

he had something to say
and he said it

it came out differently
than what he was thinking

but at least it was out there.
the other guy heard it

but what he heard was
an interpretation of what was said

which was not exactly what was meant
and he interpreted it wrong

as he said, “i understand”
the other guy didn’t believe him

and he was right. so was it a lie?
nobody knew

but at least something was out there
in one form or another

Unidentified Flying Object

These little things bother me.
Like for example, the fact that

What is happening happens differently
Than how it did.

Like if a butterfly goes by and you see
A bird instead, who’s to say what it really was?

Maybe when you saw it, it became a bird.
I’m pretty sure it was a butterfly, but I

Didn’t look so carefully. It might have been
A cricket. Did anyone see a cricket?

Another little thing that bothers me,
Is when you tell me you’ll be there if you can make it.

That leaves ambiguity and if you don’t show up,
I can’t complain because you obviously couldn’t make it.

If you did show up, then you made it. Either way,
You win. I think it was a butterfly.

At least when I was looking at it. Maybe it was
Everything we all saw, a bird and a cricket too.

Another little thing that bothers me is when
I want to meet someone. If our eyes lock, I

Look away. It’s my shyness. I’m thinking the
Other person will notice my shyness and come

Over to talk to me. What actually happens is they
See me turn away and figure I don’t like them.

That’s the total opposite of how I feel. There’s
No way it was a cricket. No fucking way.

Or when I feel good but I just don’t show it on my face.
Somebody passes me and says, “Smile!” which makes me angry.

Sometimes I don’t smile when I feel good.
Sometimes I smile when I’m sad.

Do you know how lonely it is knowing you’ll
Never see anything exactly the way someone else does?

How lonely it is that what you thought was love
Might just not be love? It might be a UFO.

That what is happening happens differently
Than how it did?

How did it happen?

Something flew by.

I don’t know what it was.

Fuck Fish

I took some pills
I’m not a genius

I took pills like many of the great writers
I’m not a great writer

I took pills like the greatest rock-n-rollers
They died… I didn’t… I’m not a super star

I can’t River Phoenix or Jimi Hendrix or
Janis Joplin or Jim Morrison

I’m doomed to be an interesting ordinary
Who takes pills to forget he’s not going to change the world

Yes, many who are great didn’t take pills
And they’re more important than me too

So now it’s between me and God
Whom I don’t believe in

I can’t do anything with conviction
Isn’t that right, God? I know you’re listening

I feel pain and pleasure and remorse and passion
I have all the proper tools to be somebody

So why am I here? Why isn’t this poem any good?
Why do I use the word “I” so much?

Why did I pop out of the womb at a particular time
In a particular place with a particular nose?

I am a fish, like many fish, some get caught
Some are in the news, some swim the wrong way

Who really cares in the end? I, I, I do. Me, me, me!
Fish don’t take pills. Fuck fish. Fuck them!

The Little Girl Who Was Really Mean

There once was a little girl who was really mean. One day, she was playing in the yard when her mother shouted from the house, “Get in here! It’s dinner time!”

But the little girl, who was really mean, didn’t want to eat dinner. She wanted to play in the yard. So she went over to her mother and stabbed her in the brain with a rusty screwdriver.

The little girl, who was really mean, continued playing in the yard. She was playing with her cat by pulling on its tail and smashing it with a rock. “This is fun,” the little girl who was really mean said.

A little while later, her father came outside to see why the little girl who was really mean hadn’t come in for dinner. He saw his dead wife, and the bloody cat, and exclaimed, “God damn, bitch. You are a really mean little cunt! I don’t know where you learn this kind of fucking behavior.” Then he grabbed her by the hair, dragged her to the dinner table and jammed a leg of lamb in her face until her jaw broke off.

“I hope this teaches you a lesson,” said her father. “And the lesson is this: If you kill your mother and beat the cat with a rock, I’m going to shove a leg of lamb down your fucking throat until your jaw breaks off.”

And after the little girl who was really mean healed from her injuries, she shot her dad in his sleep and anally raped his dead corpse with a pitchfork.

And the moral of the story is: There are a lot of people in the world who are totally fucked up and they are written about in the mainstream news media, much to the horror of normal ordinary people who are just trying to make a living and enjoy their lives without pain and suffering.

Poem Number Three Hundred and Seventy-Three Thousand Four Hundred and Sixty-Four

I’ve written many poems
Of this you can be sure

And most of them were failures
And many of them poor

But still, I keep on writing
For the best is yet to come

When I get to number three hundred and seventy-three thousand four hundred and sixty-five, hopefully I’ll nail one.

Poem About The Nanotube

The nanotube, a tiny thing
No poem is written for it

And as I like to lead the herd
My nanotube poem now is word

For there’s no other poet who has
Dared to write of nanotubes

I stand alone in pantheon of
Lesser lame-ass poet boobs

I’m proud to say my poem about
These tiny worthwhile mini-straws

Is with no doubt a masterpiece
That may elicit rude guffaws

To slight me, you may feel the need
Though quite a tiny need it be

Apply a molecule of lube
I’ll pass it through my nanotube

Fuck Poem

I like to fuck
And fuck I do

Often and with
Wild abandon

All I need is a
Magnum condom

Roll it over my
Shaft of wisdom

Then into your
Void I go

In and out
Ew, is that blood?

Barfing, to the
John I run

You must be on your
Peri-uhd.

gurilla tacktics

sometimes, you have to squeeze it out
like a sponge, or the love from two people
who pretend to be with each other

i can’t fuss with kites or puppets,
or anything attached with strings to
god, or whatever is controlling the weather

i walk under my own power in my own way
from here to there or side to side going
nowhere or somewhere as i see fit.

sometimes, you have to let your fingers go
and do what they want, especially if you forget how to snap,
clap, gesture, type, or fuss with strings on
kites and puppets. sometimes you have to let fingers
be fingers.

there was a really clever rat once, who
got into the candy. if we put it in a box, he
opened the box. if we taped up the box, he
chewed right through it.

i admired his conviction even after i snapped
a photograph of him in the trap with his head
slammed shut forever. in death, he was as beautiful
as in life. haven’t seen any rats since, and that
makes me sad.

isn’t there enough candy for everyone?

sometimes, what is required is abandonment of
the very idea of purpose. why do anything? if you
think deeply on this, there is no reason. and that is the reason:
to give you something to do before you realize everything
you do has no purpose. so let go of purpose and do something.

letting go can be a powerful reminder that you
don’t have to hold on. if you didn’t know that, you’d be
stuck there, like that kitten in the
hang-in-there-baby poster, which by the way,
is a photograph in which the kitten will never, and
can never, let go.

i’m pretty sure the kitten from that photograph is dead.
but the memory lives on. you can get this poster in
the mall somewhere. which one? i don’t know.
i bet craig’s list has a few. that guy, craig, has so
many things to sell.

sometimes, gurilla tacktics are called for. actions
unexpected, startling explosions least expected,
like in a fishtank, or a butterfly garden. i’ve never known
a butterfly to expect an explosion. and fish, well let’s just say
they have no idea what’s coming, and never did.

i wonder about fish. if i could feed all the flying termites
in my house, the ones eating my poems, to fish, i would.
but i could never keep fish going for more than a month.
i don’t think about fish much, and prefer them outside
the realm of my inaction. fish are as loyal as the food you provide.

this is why cats eat fish. they’re just like each other. fish
are like cats and cats like fish. it’s a perfect circle. you can
see an order in a relationship like this. i never saw any order
in any of my relationships. cats, i can deal with. food, water
and a place to shit. that’s all they need. cats are like me. i like cats.

don’t worry, it’s almost over. i was just letting go, taking a ride on
a track that appears as you roll over it, never knowing which direction
it may lead. it’s a fun ride. but like all fun rides, there’s a time you
have to get out of the vehicle and wait in another line for another ride.

isn’t that right, cat? fish? butterfly? rat? puppet? kite?

when i let go of the string, the kite flies away and the puppet
falls asleep.

but if you think this is the end,
you got another thing coming.

today i decided,
i’m going to get you back

i don’t care if you don’t love me
or even like me

i’m going to get you back
anyway

it’s not up to you anymore.
it’s a decision i made.

now, how to do it:
first, i’m going to inform you

i’m having you back,
you’ll just have to accept it, and deal.

second, lunch and flowers.
you can’t beat lunch and flowers when a decision has been made.

third, i’m going to make you feel good.
whatever it takes: money, hugs, a big dick in the ass

whatever! i’ve got it handled. if i have to push an old lady
in front of a moving vehicle, i’m having you back.

i’ll kill children in a schoolyard with a shotgun if i have to.
you’re coming with me, bitch.

this was meant to be, asshole!
cocksucker! most people just let love die.

i’m going to beat on love’s chest, cut love’s throat open
and make it breathe with a straw, i’ll electrocute it, resuscitate it,
blow life into it, WILL IT back from the grave.

i’m not a quitter. i’m taking a stand. the love we had will
live again, and there’s nothing you can do about it, you piece of shit!

you dickhead. you asshole. you mindless soulless rotting garbage
the cat threw up and the dog ate!

i’ll get you back so we can re-live the glory days
when you lied and said you loved me, and i believed it.

i got the fire.
ever get the fire?

it’s so warm.
it’s so good.

when you have the fire,
everything is in order.

you can see a path.
you can find a way.

fire illuminates
the path and the way.

fire warms the walk and
ignites the soul.

let me tell you about fire.

imagine something from nothing
that glows red, yellow, and white

a ghost that beckons you,
‘stare into me and lose yourself’

it kills and comforts
it controls and is controlled
it cleanses and destroys
it is the closest thing to love

i got the fire
ever get the fire?

it’s so warm.
it’s so good.

to the people who say i can’t write a beautiful poem

to the people who say i can’t write a beautiful poem
fuck you!

you don’t know what beauty is.

when you see a guy like me, cursing, talking about poop, vaginas,
pets that die, when you see a guy like me in a vulgar display

talking about my dick or sucking dick, or sticking a pumpkin up my ass,
when you see a guy like me

drunk and puking and high, and maybe even on crack, rolling in the glory of all that is foul like a pig rolls in mud as if he’s cleansing himself at the spa

instead of preparing to be bacon at redneck farmer brown’s holy table of God, when you see a guy like me setting a bible on fire or hosting a local crucifixion

a guy who paints with his ass and writes poems about roaches
a guy who’s possibly insane or drunk or a genius or maybe just pissed off

a guy who can shoot 151 without blinking and ask for a match
a guy who can suck his own dick and ask for seconds

if this isn’t a guy who can write a beautiful poem, who is?

Jimmy Carter? His poems suck.

Jewel? Her poems suck.

Gandhi? His poems suck.

Hitler? His poems suck.

Ayn Rand? His poems suck.

Everybody that raps? Their poems suck.

Poets? All poets? Frankly, their poems suck.

I got yer beautiful poem hanging,
I can suck it, and so can you.

books where you number things sell
like the 5 ways of love or 10 things to
bring you happiness or how to get rich
in 12 easy steps or 20 steps to stop smoking
or stop drinking or 50 things your mother
should have told you or 100 things i learned
from watching mr. rogers neighborhood or
10,000 things to do with your dick.

that last one doesn’t exist yet but i’m
damn sure the one to write it.

in twenty minutes, my teeth will be whiter

i got one of those kits to brighten my smile
from the green gnarled amphibian thing i
do with my mouth which i think is smiling to
what the beautiful people do with their mouth
that looks like smiling but is actually frowning
on the inside

i hope i can get depressed enough about myself
to make this thing work so i can have a better chance
of getting laid. now if only they made a beer-belly
kit and a self-esteem restoring cream and a penis
reduction pump. yeah, i said it.

then maybe i can find one of those pearly white smiling
depressed beautiful people and convince them their
value won’t go down if i jam my dick in their ass.

i tell ya, fuck these people! just fuck ‘em!

there’s one thing, beyond all measure
that i love more than anything else and that thing
is finding a roach broken in half in a cup of coffee
i almost finished. it’s very emotional for me and i
like to feel emotion.

a sugar bug
took a suicide dive
into my glass of red wine

that’s the kind of commitment
i aspire to
in my drinking

a lady passes by
a bit heavy in the breasts
wearing a tight fitting
zebra pattern blouse

and it is like
i am at the zoo

there are so many things
i do not know
and that is something
i not only know,
but am sure of

i want to be a private investigator
so i can investigate myself and
see if i’m any good at it

if it turns out that
i’m not a very good private investigator,
i refuse to hire me– although if i’m
not a very good private investigator,
how would i know for sure?

i’m going to have to look into this.

a shitty poem

why
do we have to shit?

what in indignity!
i heard Arthur rimbaud
liked to play with his shit,
sexually

i also heard Hitler liked to
put leaches on his penis
but i digress

some defend the practice of shitting
they talk about the earth

bukowski said something along the lines of
to fully love, you also have to love the asshole
and everything that comes from it

i paraphrase, naturally
and naturally, i shit but
i don’t have to love it

i don’t have to love

gay people tell me
if something that big can come
out of your ass, why can’t you take this?

do you know the kind of bacteria
going on in shit?

if you eat it, you can potentially die.
and some people who love each other
eat that shit, and i reiterate:

i don’t have to love, but i have to shit.

which begs the question
i began with: why?

this poem is shit
but i had to do it.

there wasn’t any choice.
i am going to use this poem

to wipe my ass

and then i’m going to
fuck it and eat it.

who could worship a god

that could make a
man like me?

When you’ve done something worth remembering
and people forget,

there you are where you started.
you begin as if you just came out of the womb

brand new, ready to do something
people will remember

this is the god damned circle
the Buddha spoke about

when he said, “life is suffering.”

in other words, you are eating your own
ass, and it never ends.

i met a guy,
and he thought i was a fucked up artist.

and i thought he was a fucked up
redneck.

after we exchanged blowjobs,
he wanted to kill me

and i wanted to paint him.

ME poems,
i don’t like ME poems

every poem is a ME poem

it’s all about ME.

if you say it’s about you,
it’s about ME

i’m the one reading myself
into it

you wrote it so i would feel it,
and to feel it, it has to be about ME

if a poem is good
it is about ME

even if it is about you

in order for a poem to be good
it must be about ME

you have turned ME out,
ruined my ride

spun my head around itself,
forced ME into your thing

but no matter how you try,
all your efforts could fail

unless i approve!
every poem is for ME

and if i decide the poem is
about YOU

what business do i have
bothering with your words?

it’s the thing between us
that makes a poem

it’s the thing we have in common,
the thing we fight over

you write you,
i see ME

a poem about you is
a poem about ME

and now, the dramatic ending
of this you-ME diatribe:

sit in your shadow and beg for light.
sit in my light and beg for words.

life lessons that glow in the dark

if you write on a sidewalk
with the ass of a firefly,
the firefly dies and the words
glow in the dark.

the words were,
“hello, world.”

they faded out the next day.

a little girl
caught glowing angels
and put them in a jar
for a magic night-lamp.

the next morning
the light was gone
and the angels were dead

she did it a few more times before
she realized what was really happening

and what was really happening
was a number of things we will never understand

and the words were,
“hello, world.”

THE CRACK CRONICLES
(The words below have been influenced by Crack
Cocaine, Zanni Bars, and three Draft Beers.)

I don’t want to stay in the middle of things
Sometimes you have to get high
And sometimes you have to get low

The way to get high and be low at the same time
is Crack Cocaine.

I rarely do it. It’s got such a stigma.
It’s supposed to be only for black people in ghettos
Or white people who wish they were black
Who live with their parents.

Honestly, both sides of that coin probably
need a little crack. It makes everything smooth,
Except for the mad sex, gunfire, and blood.

I have had moments stoned on crack where I thought
I was the most brilliant person in the room. I demanded
Attention, the attention of clowns or loud birds.

If a bird squawks loud enough, somebody looks for a BB gun.
It’s not singing, it’s screaming. It’s bird squawk.

And clowns, nobody likes clowns anymore. Not after
John Wayne Gacy. It’s so sad, because Marcel Marceau
was the most beautiful clown, without sound you heard
music. Without words, you heard conversations. The beauty
of his hands–they made dragonflies and currents of water,
the Comedy Tragedy face, the so many faces…

Nobody likes mimes either. They don’t like mimes worse than
they don’t like clowns. What do they like? Crack. On crack,
mimes and clowns are okay. They are birds. They are dragonflies.
They are currents of water. Until somebody gets stabbed or shot.

I only do crack once in a rare while. I can count the number of times
on four fingers. I’d do more of it if I thought it would get me a Nobel
Prize. I’d do more of it if I thought love would burst into the room, instead of the cops. Isn’t a star something burned out, or burning out?

There is no argument of the beauty of stars.

The “I” Poem

I don’t want to read about you
and what you thought.

What makes you worth a poem?

A poem should be firstly, not about poems or poetry.

It should be a way to see something that’s not
been seen or read before.

A leaf as blue crab.

A stone as jaundiced eye.

Then comes, “I”.

I did this and that. I saw this and that.

Throw in an unusual color, to make it poetic.

I saw my room, indigo.

Put in a French word.

I saw my room, indigo–

Au Revoir.

Rearrange words for the academia and

throw in a fancy one or two:

I saw indigo, my room… Au Revoir

Euclidean eponymous ball sucking

Cunt scab licker.

Then, fuck it up at the end,

now you’ve got a “ME” poem.

You’ve got a Tom Miller poem.

I don’t have the time
to think so deeply about my words

i’ve heard it said, Leonard Cohen
crafts a song a year or more before
he plays it to the public.

that’s Leonard’s way, I have mine.
I want it raw, fresh, and now.

If not the prettiest stump on the log,
there is a way to see every stump as
beautiful. Even the one that popped up quick.

And from one difference to the next,
this shape, that color, the way two ugly stumps
are different, makes them all the more beautiful
and each in their own way.

would we rather do one thing well, or one thousand
things poorly?

Let us examine this:

I kill poetry well with bad poems, one thousand at
a time.

Why would someone want to kill poetry? For the same reason
Leonard Cohen puts so much time into a song; to render a work in such a way as to make it live on beyond him and remain beautiful.

I don’t know what point I’m trying to make here.

Maybe if I had put more thought into it.

For now, let’s just call this a bad Leonard Cohen poem.

Or call it, two ugly stumps on a log.

Did anybody notice the log, by the way?

I might have, but I didn’t have time.

I heard it was a great log that’s been loating there awhile.

Not Quite Famous

Not quite famous
Not quite cute
Not quite ugly

Not quite talented
Not quite not.

Not smoking
Not drinking…
Or am I?

Why don’t you call me?
I loved you, you fucking bitch.

Time for some serious poems

I’ve been writing
Cheap dirty schlock poetry

Exploiting vulgar language for
Vulgar people

I’ve done nothing for the poem.
Forgive me…

It’s time for some serious work
Something real, something from my gut

Something that when put on the page
Might write me back, it’s got such balls!

And maybe not write me so well.
Something that may come alive and

Absorb me into it
Like all the loves of my life never did or could

Something that can call me out for what I am;
A shadow, writing invisible ink on pages made of ash.

Burn, baby.

I wanted to set you on fire.
But now, I really do.

Not in a poetic way,
I just want to throw gas on you

And light a match.

When you wake up screaming,
I’ll say, “Now you know what it feels like to be me!”
My teeth are falling out.

My belly is hanging over my belt,
Covering up my dick.

I’m 43 just a week ago.
Worst birthday I ever had.

Nobody called.
Somebody bought me a drink.

I can’t remember who.

I’m growing hair in weird places.
The top of my ear, and one from a mole on my chest.

Cancer!

When it all comes tumbling down, and it always does,
And it’s doing that now, and here I go…

What am I going to do?

My back hurts, I’m tired and lazy.
If you ever came back to me, I’d be
Too tired and lazy to fuck you.

That’s why you left me anyway,
But you’ll be there, in time.

I hope not alone, like me.
I hope not hungry and alone and scared,
Like me.

Shattered Glass Birds

Poems with birds
Have always turned my stomach

Poems with birds made of glass
Have always made me wretch.

Poems with shattered glass birds
Have always caused me to puke.

I think, how awful! What horrible poetry!
And I think how much I’d like to glue those

Shattered glass birds back together again
And let them fly away from every poetry reading

In the world.

My Final Poem

This could be the one.
I’m feeling like I’ll either have a heart attack
Or hang myself.

What can I leave behind?
What grand few words of meaning
Could I poke out on this fancy computer?

When a super charged flair up of the sun
Erases all the hard drives in the world,
Or maybe a nuclear war…

I want my final poem to be the best one ever
To be erased from time.

This isn’t it, is it.

Cheese

My cheese poem is
Perhaps my best

So lovely are its lines

A poem of cheese
I wrote with ease

So fancy is my wine

And wine I drink
While reading cheese

A poem I wrote while drunk

And read it, please!
It stinks of cheese

I eat this nasty junk!

r intrudes

You play chess, but there is no queen. Instead, there is a thimble. You and your opponent agree: The thimble will be the queen. It will follow her rules. The pieces will regard her as the queen. It is a thimble, and it is the queen. On the board, between the two opponents, it is simply, the queen. It is no longer a thimble. It has all the powers, rules, and appearance of the queen. The thimble is the queen.

When the game is done, the thimble will figure prominently. It will have overrun pawns, knights, bishops, and castles. In the end, the thimble will corner the king, and bring it down. Was it a queen when he saw it coming, or was it the thimble he thought it was? Too late– he is lost.

line from a Little Rascals short feature film:
“i gotta’ stay home, and grease Wheezer.”

sick bunch of fucks, the Little Rascals!

i would have made out with Orson Welles

i would have watched his magic tricks
if i knew the secret, i wouldn’t have told him

i don’t care how fat he got, or whether or not
the wine was before its time

i would have kissed him
tongue and all

if for no better reason,
War of the Worlds!

if you can fool that many people
and have them running scared

then you understand the terror of love
and that is what i want to taste from your lips,

Orson.

boone’s farm

one time my high school buddies and I drank so much boone’s farm wine that we destroyed the entire golf course behind my house: the stand where the water fountain and the ball cleaner is, four posts, a roof, a bit of shade, let’s knock that motherfucker down!

we pushed this way and that and the posts gave out. the whole thing vanquished by drunk teen assholes. and then, we went to the green with a pick axe, and carved a tic tac toe into the moist soft grass. we made our Xs and Os out of upside down empty bottles of boone’s farm jammed into the dirt. i don’t know who won, but that game was highly regarded the next morning by somebody… i’m absolutely sure of it.

sorry, but i only liked the golf course when i was getting hurt, running scared, or when i could make it my adventure, which had nothing to do with golf. it had only to do with boone’s farm, youth, and destroying everything the rich covet with their dirty balls.

i’m confused by boone’s farm

the label reads:
boone’s farm – American original

then it says, ‘sangria flavored grape wine’

the more i drink of it, the more i realize
that label don’t know what it am talking about

a grape wine flavored as sangria
can not be an American original

if sangria is from Spain!
and on the re-think, maybe

that’s just what makes it an American original:
the lie.

cats figure me out

got these two cats
who have figured me out

they have me on their routine
pleading eyes direct me

mrs. crabtree?
(Background Noise – The Little Rascals)

they sleep, and shit, and sleep
all day and night

S: hey, don’t forget that watermelon patch
BW: you said it, bud! i can taste them watermelon in my mouth right now…

…and piss, sometimes in the box
i clean the box as best i can

they don’t use it very much
mostly, they use the floor

god, they’re so beautiful… so beautiful.

i can write a poem about a particle of crap on the floor

it’s a claw this time
i pick it up and examine it

it’s a claw shed from one of my cats
still pointy, still dangerous

i put it to the side, next to the butt of a
hand-rolled cigarette in the ashtray

swig on the boone’s farm
i’m going down for another

here is a piece of cat litter
probably once stuck on a cat paw, now deposited here,

once, soaked with cat piss,
now all dried up, i throw it back

i reach down, catch a twist of mangled
hair, it looks like a praying mantis

i can write a poem about a particle of crap on the floor
but for which one? how do i gauge? how do i judge the best?

there’s barf down there, and sand, and mold,
paint blobs, bits of straw, a 1933 penny, heads up

1933…
President Lincoln was so God Damned ugly

the weird bug poem

i write this poem
for the weird bug

i don’t know what it is
i don’t know if it bites

what i do know,
it frightens me.

this bug comes in its own pocket
it peeks out, red worm eyeball

creepy, creepy

carrying its little sock body
that seems to be made

from fabric collected
over a long journey across the floor

does it turn into another bug?
does it bite? does it carry a message?

i don’t know how to kill it
or whether, or why, i should

it’s a weird bug is what it is,
and it’s a weird bug poem.

i write this poem
for the weird bug

i don’t know what it is
i don’t know if it bites

isn’t that what poetry
is all about?

the horror of The Little Rascals

the horrible abuse,
cabbages, and hard apples

thrown at alfalfa,
jesus Christ, his parents named him, alfalfa

the wart-girl, darla, the beloved
starlet of all the boys, even

the fat doughboy, spanky.
jesus Christ, his parents named him, spanky

the negro boy
wide-eyed heidi-ho boy

what a clump of tussled
afro-nest on that poor kid’s head

jesus Christ, his parents named him, Buckwheat
and all I smell is pee and diarrhea!

alfalfa singing, ‘Barber of Seville’
in a dream sequence

I can hear the movie director,
“THROW FRUIT IN HIS FACE!

THROW THE UNRIPE MANGOS,
THROW THE PAIN FRUIT!”

and alfalfa really did look pained
i don’t think he was doing any acting

looked like he was about to cry for real
his face shamed silent with purple ugly fruit

jesus Christ, his parents named him, Froggy
jesus Christ, his parents named him, Stymie

jesus Christ, his parents named him, Wheezer
jesus Christ, they’re all dead! they’re all dead!

Here’s a Poem I Wrote about a Nickel

Oh look! a nickel on the ground!
Let’s examine it:

Heads up, I pluck it from the floor,
In God We Trust; fucking bullshit right from the start!

2004, what a dumb year.
Nothing ever happened in 2004.

Liberty!
What an ugly fucking mug on this guy.

I don’t even know what President this is.
Every year, they make their faces larger.

They start ugly, and go to giant-ugly,
Godzilla!

Godzilla–Presidents of the United States.
Liberty? Stomp down the buildings!

Scare the Japanese!
Is that a wig you’re wearing?

Doesn’t it cost more to print you
Than what you’re worth?

Oh yeah, that’s the penny…
Lincoln. He freed the slaves.

Oh look! A nickel on the ground!

two strangers pass
drunk, down a street, any street

I touch your body – electricity – earthy
a familiar smell

we pass and
you here – now – touch – pass

we pass along
me this way, you that

we pass along whatever we had
or thought we had

we pass like

what the bird thought it understood
before crashing into glass

kesl

i’d probably say,
thanks.

probably, thanks,
the most.

the best time i had:
serving you free popcorn and soda

and sneaking you into the movie.
that’s when I knew,

you were a real artist.

* (to lennie kesl, my friend.)

The Perfect Poem

the perfect poem is this:
don’t try to write one

if you do
you might end up with

perfection

but that’s not what poems
are about

poems are about
mistakes

mistakes like flowers and birds
and how ‘blue’ those eyes were

no poet has ever written
the perfect poem

because
no poem can ever do poetry justice

Pissing Beetles Out My Dick

I read some stuff. I read this kid had maggots or something growing in his nut sack and he’s pissing beetles out his dick. Read about how kids with pin worms scratch their assholes in their sleep and the eggs get under the fingernails and they put their fingers in their mouths and that’s how them things keep their life-cycle going. Read about the worm the doctors took out of that guy’s eyeball. It really happened. Heard about the dude who was picking scabs off his wiener to spoon cocaine into the wound, habitual, and how the wound kept getting bigger and bigger over time until now he’s got a big bleeding lady gash. He can get a whole lot of coke in there, too. It’s not like he cares at this point anyway. He has to jerk off with a toilet plunger handle. Read about the fellow that fell out of the bed and his night-time boner fractured on the floor. Read about the girl who has got stuff coming out of her doughnut and the doctors can not identify this fluid. Repeat: Can Not Identify This Fluid. Then there was the guy who exploded in the morgue from a build up of gas. Some of that guy got in somebody’s mouth on that one, I heard. So, weird shit happens all the time is the best way of putting it. Okay, true story this next one. Guy’s got some kind of rare bacteria in his shit and I kid you not, they have to do a fecal transplant–that’s a transplant of shit–using donors. In other words, he’s gotta’ have his shit ripped out and have shit from other people put inside of his hole. Grossest thing about this predicament is that the dude’s wife got to examine the processed donor feces, feces made up from several people who, I guess, got paid to produce charity dumps, and she said it was, like, clear, and didn’t have a smell. Fuck me, dude. Fuck me. If I start shitting clear shit that doesn’t smell, that would gross me out worse than what I have coming out of there as it is. Or if it was yellow, could you imagine how fucked up yellow shit with no odor would be? I’d freak out and die if my shit was yellow and didn’t have a smell. Here’s the next one. This kid, I forget his name, he got a bite from a Brown Recluse spider and didn’t know it. It started itching and he was scratching the poison all around in there, spreading it around. Before he figured out what the problem was… well, let’s put it this way. He’s got no mouth and there’s no skin where his ears were: Just holes. Red wet smelly holes. Seriously. Alright, here’s the last one. This is a doozy. All of this is true, by the way. You can look it up on the Internet. Two year old girl has a parasite twin growing in her abdomen and the doctors decide it’s in her best interest to cut this thing outta’ there. So they give her knockout stuff, you know, the stuff that killed Michael Jackson, and start cutting into her pouch. They get to the parasite twin, which sort of looks like a row of teeth and a patch of gnarled kinky hair and some of a nose, and the fucking thing starts screaming! Screaming, man! Fucking screaming! And it sounds like a cross between a horny Tomcat and a brutally loud tea kettle whistle. Doctors can’t believe it, and they stab it in the partial nose area and mouth a couple times to put it down. And just before it gives up the fight, it says two words, two words clearly pronounced with no question among those who were there to hear it. It said, “Tom Miller”. And then it died.

Tasteless Poem

I have to write a tasteless poem
For David Maas’s reading
It shouldn’t be too challenging
Since now my dick hole’s bleeding

It must be gross and quite offensive
Sick on every level
So here’s my take on tastelessness
My dick hole’s really bleeding

Wait a minute here while I
Diverge to get a napkin
There’s so much blood that’s pouring out
That Jesus Christ would maybe doubt

I’m bleeding more than he did
When they nailed him on the cross
At least I didn’t shit the cross
When people die, their sphincters toss

The contents of the bowels right out
He may have shit on Mary’s snout
I’m warming up, I’m almost tasteless
Pissing beetles masturbating

Blood and beetles, Jesus poop
Grab a tampon, let’s make soup
I know I’m going straight to hell
But by that time my dick will heal

I’ll pick the scab ‘till it’s infected
Pissing pus through my erection
Pus from which the beetles crawl
From maggots buried in my balls

All this talk has made me hungry
I hear beetles are eaten in Hungary
From my dick they come with sauce
That’s red and green and David Maas

Is hosting shows of tasteless prose
Is this poem good? I think he knows.
Throw up in your panty hose?
Does that taste good? I think it’s gross.

The Gay Buttfucking Old Man from the 70’s meets Little Billy

It was dark and smoky in the Brown Flower Lounge and the smell of diarrhea was in the air. The closer you got to what they called, The Back Room, the smellier it got. There were wet sloshing sounds and Little Billy was almost sure this wasn’t where all the kids were supposed to meet for the field trip to the local pool. But curiosity got the better of him and he ventured forth into the darkness to see what all the sloshing sounds were all about. “Maybe the pool is back in there,” he thought to himself.

Little Billy turned a corner and was suddenly shrouded in darkness. Then, he heard a voice call out from the void. “Hey kid, help me get this brick into my bloom!” He said.

“What’s a bloom, mister?” Said Little Billy. Is that like a flower?”

“That’s right, kid.” The man said. “When your rose has been forced open for so many years by bigger and weirder objects over the course of two decades, what you got left where your asshole used to be is what we gay buttfucking old men from the 70’s call, a Bloom.”

“Uh, mister…” Said Little Billy. “I’m only six years old.”

“Kid,” said the voice, “I ain’t gonna’ fuck you. I just need you to ram this brick up my ass.”

“But is there a pool in here,” Asked Little Billy, suddenly becoming aware that the sloshing wasn’t the right kind of water.

“Let me explain something to you, little boy, that you’re gonna’ learn something from. Sometimes in life you get in a circumstance where you’re in the darkness, it smells like shit, there’s an anxious bloom plumping out of an old man from the 70’s ass, and he’s gonna’ need a little help getting a God Damn brick stuffed up in there. So the way I see it, you got two choices. You can either run-the-fuck out of here and be a normal kid for the rest of your life, or you can guide this greased up brick into my big blooming A-hole. Now what’s it going to be kid?”

Little Billy thought about it for awhile. He remembered what his parents had told him about not talking to strangers and staying far away from 70’s leather-man bars. Then he remembered all the good advice he got down at the Catholic Church from Father, Diabolical Suckadingy. And from the confusion of the completely mixed messages, Little Billy was going to form his very first decision all on his own; a decision that was going to be uniquely personal, and one which would set the course for the future of his life.

“Sure, I’ll help you out, mister. Where’s that greasy brick at.”

It took several thrusts for Little Billy to jam the brick into the gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s ass. But once it was finally in, the gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s took a deep breath and then power-pumped his colon, blowing out the brick which flew through the air and entered another old gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s asshole. Then that gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s, in turn butt-chucked his brick into another gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s ass. And so it went back and forth down the line of leather bar-slung sissies until everyone finally blew a hot steamy load.

There was a group-grunt followed by sighs and moans of pleasure. The slings stopped swinging on their chains and the odor began to gently clear away as the mop man came in with his bacterial disinfectant spray cleaner.

“God Damn! Best action I seen in years,” Said the gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s. We owe it all to this kid, men. Let’s give him a big enthusiastic hand of support.” The men all spontaneously broke into applause, which sent ropes and spatters of semen flying all over the room.

“Little fellow,” said the gay buttfucking old man from the 70’s, “You helped us out real good! So now we’re going to help you out too. We’re going to help you get exactly what you need.” There was a long, thick, hard, angry, purple, wet, uncomfortable pause.

Then he said, “The public pool is right across the street. Go out the door you came in, look both ways – which is real good advice for a kid, and then cross the street and you’ll surely find all your little school buddies over there having a great time swimming.

“Gee, thanks mister,” Said Little Billy. He ventured out of The Brown Flower Lounge, across the street and to the public pool where all his classmates were laughing and playing in the water. Little Billy dove into the pool, splashed innocently around a bit, and found a perch by the ladder at the deep end. Suddenly, Little Billy formed a second big decision of his very own, a decision that would affect him and all his little friends for the rest of their lives. A course was set. A path had begun. The future looked gay and rosy. The world was filled-up-the-ass with possibility. And in the glory of that one liberating moment of reflection and independence, Little Billy closed his eyes, smiled brightly, and began to shit the pool.

The End

I’ve been killing the termites
That fly around my apartment.

They’ve been eating at my greatest works,
The archives of my poetry and tape recordings and paintings.

I pulled out a cassette tape and saw where the tape had been food
And wondered what words or music they might have consumed.

Maybe when I smash them, I’m smashing small pieces of my history
And I’ll be lesser the man for it in the memory of time.

But no matter, I annoy myself to death anyway.

Where It Came From, and Where It’s Going To

for 15 years. She was never very good at it, from what we could tell. We used to say to her, “Gina, you have to get out of it.” But she’d never listen. She just kept cooking those horrible cookies and trying to give them away. Everyone knew they were turds.

Later, when she was cast in the play as the pregnant daughter, nobody thought it was funny but her. We couldn’t figure out why, especially after her—what was it? 5th abortion?—she would covet such a role for herself. Who didn’t know it all? Hell, the administrators knew, and they encouraged her.

Her dad was at the show. Embarrassing. She had this way of smelling things. Now meanwhile, Dan hadn’t even finished the book by the time this happened. He wasn’t really reading it anyway. There were unusual shadows that crossed the wall every so often, but he didn’t buy it. Nobody believed that ghost shit. I mean, seriously, who would? The stories were absurd. Going to the well for water and, oh oh, there she goes. Patently absurd!

So the play begins. There’s total silence. Everyone’s giving Gina a chance. She clamors out to the lip of the stage and

grandmother smell
the feel of wood

unnatural colors posing as poetry
when it’s put on a bird

how fancy can you make your words?
fancy enough for people to care?

mosquitoes hover hungrily before my eyes
and all I can do is slap my face

first of the new year

no poem comes
too many poems about poems

about writing
about not paying the rent

about craving something new
for the new year

but only the old remains
and grows older

chasing the tail
boring myself

wondering if at the same old poetry reading
i’ll read the same old poems

about writing
about not paying the rent

about craving something new
for the new year

but only the old remains
and grows older

chasing the tail
boring myself

wondering if at the same old poetry reading
i’ll read the same old poems

about writing
about not paying the rent

about craving something new
for the new year

repeat until merciful death

Another Magic Trick
By Tom miller

The magician puts a volunteer
Into the box
Grabs a sword

He stabs one in
Then two
Three, four, there’s no way…

The phone doesn’t ring tonight
With your voice
I drink alone but it’s okay

He must be stabbed!
Six or seven swords
One must have hit his heart

I hoped you would come back
If I was wrong, I was wrong
If not, maybe we’d see each other again

He opens the box
The subject has vanished
A dozen swords, crossed over emptiness

The magician bows
The audience applauds

I wonder where he went

the end after the end

i saw you through the window

we had some times
but was it real?

did you lie and get scared?
are you who i thought you were?

i don’t care if you saw me back.
yesterday, yes, today, no.

i moved quickly away
to get here to this typewriter

and put you down
like old yeller.

dionysus drinks boone’s farm

in my greece, dionysus drinks boone’s farm
anyone dares text-message or take a call during oedipus rex
is killed and raped

aristotle masturbates to the climax and the critics are doused with oil
and burned

immortals

the gods look down and say,
“tom, you’ve had too much to drink. here, have another.”

i drop to my knees, spit the butt of my clove cigarette
into the face of god and say, “sure, why not.”

sucker

having never enough money
for anything i want
i take what little i have left
and spend it all at once as if i’m rich

i dine in the finest restaurants
buy all my friends round after round
pick up some weed and some blow
and smoke and snort and toss my seed

when all the money is gone
i am unwelcome in the finest restaurants
my friends offer no easy drinks
and my cock retracts back into my brain

where it most certainly does not belong
and my brain says, “get the fuck outta’ here,
you BUM!”

i wait for the next student loan check
to bail me out; i am getting an education
after all–

if you are wondering where the money went
the government stole it from you and gave it
to me. i am a 44 year old college student and
i’m as smart as a

tick.

the sun singles me out I COULD NOT FIND
from table to table A SHADY SPOT IN THE PATIO
baring down with her cancer OF THE COFFEE SHOP AND SO
they tell me I WENT INSIDE

scientists
with each new study
love and hate her
but always awed

settle in to
a piece of shade
that dissolves
when her eyes set upon it

leaves me naked
exposed like Dracula
to light the stake
death of the immortal

death
i shelter myself
inside the coffee shop
air-conditioning and darkness

cancer, yes, but also
good things come from the sun
but not in here
where it’s safe and sad

she stalks me
she waits and burns

blood on the typewriter

above the ‘()* keys
blood on the typewriter

spilt in the service of poetry
as if a murder has been done

as if menstruation had occurred
as if a baby had been born

screaming and wide-eyed and
been smacked on the ass to life

to breathe, as if old man
coughed up the blood from his lungs

just as his metaphor flew over the
mountain like a bird, a bleeding bird

a reminder of the pain, a symbol of
the struggle, a monument to the flow

we dare not clean it
typewriters are not for museums

as love is not for poems
it is the other way around

to know what is inside us
and bring it out into the world

there is blood on the typewriter
good dark rich red blood.

By Tom Miller
(C) 1993 FREDInk Recordings

Touch The Monkey
By Tom Miller

This was my chance. Koko Anna, world renowned clown was in my bed and ready for action.
“Remember, you have to use protection.” She said in that goofy clown voice. And so I produced a Trojan Maxi-size and somehow managed to fit it on. Koko Anna then convulsed and tied my dick into a poodle. Maybe she thought it was funny when she popped it. I don’t know.

Floatilla, the Beautiful Moth

Floatilla was the most beautiful moth in the whole world until the day she flew into a torch flame and her wings caught fire, and she ended up on the ground crawling around like the worm she used to be.

John the Smoker

John loved to smoke, even after the bypass, even after the cancerous lung was removed, even while on permanent oxygen supplement, even when they removed his tongue, even when his lips swelled up like a frog and he was little more than a heaving empty shell of a man.

Fred was tending the garden as he always did on Thursday when suddenly a bee came and stung him on his eye. “God damned bees!” Fred screamed aloud as he beat on his eye with his fist. “Teach you to sting me!” As he was struggling to crush the insect, he stumbled over a pebble and landed back first on a discarded soda bottle which crushed under his weight and cut him in several places. “Bottles and bees!” He said. “Every time I garden… I’ll be damned.” Fred managed to get to his feet, crush the bee, and began pulling bottle shards out of his body when he looked down and noticed the neighbor’s Chihuahua playing with his now mangled and bleeding ankle.

“If a cow didn’t shit on my head!” Fred exclaimed. “Here’s this little rat biting my leg now. Teach you to bite.” And Fred cast the dog into the air with a swift kick. Coincidentally at that moment in time, a scruffy black bird who felt her territory was being invaded flew down repeatedly pecking at Fred’s peeling head. Fred looked up in astonishment and angrily yelled, “Bird coming at my head now. Saint Peter in Hell, if I ain’t seen such a sight in all my life.” Suddenly, the ground opened up and swallowed Fred to the bottom of a sink hole where his efforts to escape only proved to be fruitless. In frustration, he sat down to be disgruntled and he hardly could have noticed the rattlesnake family nesting where his ass was now heading. Moments later, Fred’s cry of, “Snakes, and they bit me!” could be heard blocks down the street. Then from above, the back end of a pickup truck peered out over the ledge. It was Fred’s neighbor, Blind Ernie. “He don’t drive… he don’t drive… ” Fred said to himself as the truck passed the halfway point and proceeded to drop quickly to the bottom.

“Jesus Mary Mother of Bloodfuck!” shouted Fred, and then he was gone.

Got me a lizard
Sink that bastard
String taught around
The green pulsing waist

To the other end
I tie a stone
And sink that bastard

A thin envelope
Of air surrounds
The writhing reptile

His blurry image
Through the ripples
The lizard stills
With the surface
Of the water

Once I had a tiny puppy
Furry ball of love
Blew some dope smoke in his face
He begin to cough

Put some sugar on my dick
Make him lick me good
Keep him in a tiny cage
Never give him food

When he die I exercise
My necrophilia whims
Yay for bestiality
My favorite of sins

This is my poem and isn’t it great
Some may love it but others may hate
You may think me quite irate
But nevertheless, this is my poem

I think my poem is really dumb
I just wanted to write me one
Write a poem that would eat some time
In this little book of mine
Would you like to drink some wine
Fine Rhine wine from Spain

I don’t care if it doesn’t rhyme
I don’t care if I write too many lines
I don’t like you anyway

I don’t think you like my poem
I think you think my poem is dumb
Do you think you can do better
Write a poem, it doesn’t matter

Eat a peach and bake a pie
Stick a BB in your eye
And now my poem is done
Wasn’t that fun – fuck you

A bug I see
Alight on me
Squishy squashy
Little bee

Nary a stinger
Shall invade me
Not with my
Integrity

Clumsy Waiter

One day, I was walking down the street when my stomach began to growl. “Boy I should feed that periodically.” I thought to myself. Looking up, I noticed a quaint little diner just up the street and to the left. Sure, it looked a little fancy, but as I always say, ‘Indulge now, for tomorrow may never come.’

At the door, I was greeted by a very well dressed food service professional who escorted me to a lovely table next to a window with a view of a pristine duck pond. The waiter, introducing himself as Raplo Burgerman, poured me a glass of water with the flair of a top surgeon and presented me the menu. I was aghast at the phenomenally high prices, and yet a cultured patron would never indulge in such trivial matters as the price. He would instead be concerned with the service, the quality of the food, and the dynamics of the atmosphere. Raplo returned carrying a pristine white towel over his forearm. He used no pad to write the orders. He relied instead on his uncanny memory due to his years of training as a master of service. I ordered the Vienna Chicken and a small garden salad on Raplo’s suggestion and as he disappeared into the kitchen, I began to drool in anticipation.

Several minutes later as I was looking out the window admiring the view of a mother duck and her children following her like a chain of little yellow cotton balls, Raplo Burgerman came through the door leading into that patio and began, suddenly, to chase the mother. I wasn’t sure what he was up to at first, but when I saw the cleaver with glints of sunlight firing off of it like lasers, I reeled back in my chair in horror. He flung the weapon as the ducklings scattered, and caught the tail of the mother which fell from the bird in a bloody spray; Her craning neck stiffening with her God-fearing bird screams of terror.

Still she ran to escape the carnage leaving her tail still writhing with autonomic convulsive muscle reflexes. As she passed on Raplo’s right, he kicked at her, sending her up into the air where her clipped and useless wings flapped to no avail and feathers fell like rain. She landed in a clump on one of her own ducklings, killing it. And then with violent kicks of her duck legs, she had righted herself and was running again.

In the meantime, Raplo had secured purchase of his cutlery and was after her, his face a scowling mask of tight determination. He threw the cleaver and it spun through the air slicing off the mother duck’s beak. She fell in shock and quivered aimlessly in a circle on her side. Raplo neatly crushed her with his boot, picked her up by the face, and de-feathered the bird as skillfully as any chef could. The mother, barely alive throughout the ordeal could only gasp in wheezy bursts as the blood from her torn flesh rolled down her neck forming a puddle of bird blood below her.

Raplo left the way he came, through the door holding the bird and after about fifteen minutes, I was presented with my meal. I studied it for some time, thinking of the horror I had just witnessed, and having anticipated a high quality of service was disappointed to say, “I ordered chicken, not duck.” Raplo’s eyes filled with fire and his face flushed red.

“Are you saying I have made a mistake?” He shouted. “I rip your fucking face off!” And with that, he thrust his hand into the cavity of my chest and tore out my heart, showing it to me as I slowly died. Like I always say, live now for tomorrow may never come. I should have just eaten the duck. And what of the orphaned ducklings, you may ask? Raplo went out there with a net, threw them in oil, and made chicken nuggets.

One day in the Woodsworth Forest, Billy Bob McGinnacutty was out shooting the neck things out of lizards and poppin’ the balloons of various toads when suddenly there came a whirring sound from above. Billy looked up and saw a large cigar shaped flying saucer that landed just ahead of him in the clearing. He ambled over to the site taking cover in the trees, his gun poised for action. Then another whir sound as the metal alloy door slowly opened and out stepped a small French Poodle, it’s coiffure dusted to a powdery white. The poodle stepped off his metal runway, strolled up to a tree, lifted his leg, and began to pee.

Out of sheer panic, Billy Bob began firing lugs into the creature’s body until it was blown to bloody bits. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” he said with each shot. Then a dead silence filled the air. Loud footsteps could be heard coming from within the ship and there at the hatchway was a small boy with a tear in his eye.
“Why’d you kill my dog, mister?” He said. “Why’d you kill my only friend?”

Billy bob walked up to the boy and tried to comfort him. “I’s so sorry, boy I thought aliens had come to take over the earth. I thought your dog there might be an alien and so I shot it to protect the United States of America. But now that I see’s you’s just a kid and that your dog is just a dog, my heart aches with sorrow.”
“It ain’t a perfect world here, is it mister?”
“No,” replied Billy, “It ain’t, but by God, it’s the only world we got.” Shortly thereafter, the boy sped off in his space ship and Billy Bob went home for supper. As he peered out the living room window reflecting on the mistakes he had made that day in taking for granted the power of man to destroy life, a couple of seven foot poodles stormed the house and peed on the bed.

“I accept this punishment on behalf of America.” Billy Bob shouted out, but the poodles didn’t care, they just needed to pee. In recognition of this great day where Billy Bob McGinnacutty saw aliens for the first time in his life, he wrote them a little poem and buried it in a time capsule. The poem reads as follows:

Sky poodle from the great beyond
Make my bed your personal pond
Bring your liquid wrath to bear
Pee into my underwear
Pee so much that I don’t care
If the pee smells in the air
Pee Pee Glorious pee
From a space poodle dog weenie
Blessed be a poodle’s pee
Oh sky poodles,
Accept my apology

Are You For Real?

Judy had been eyeing the over-sized groin box of Mr. Beasley Myerson who in turn was eying and admiring the protruding cannon balls of Judy. As the night went on and the drinks went down, Judy and Beasley came closer and closer together until they were almost touching and then, in an attempt to appear sophisticated, Judy said, “So, how’s it hanging?”
“Beasley replied in complimentary fashion, “About as low as them melons dangling from your chest.” That was all that needed to be said, and they left the saloon arm and arm for what each of them thought would be a night of shameless passion.

When they arrived at Beasley’s house, he immediately stepped out of his pants and Judy removed her blouse. The excitement was building. She just couldn’t wait to feel the length and girth of that Porterhouse tenderloin and he just couldn’t wait to gurgle and shake his face between her billowing cleavage.

“Show me!” She insisted, “Show me your stuff.” And Beasley lowered his underwear in such a way as to cause the rolled up sock he had been flaunting to flop out on the floor and reveal that he had not a Porterhouse, But a Vienna Sausage.
“What is that?” Shouted Judy, astonished, but not before her bra came tumbling off and the bird seed filled pantyhose balls she had been using to inflate her fundillacutties fell away revealing two tiny berries.
“My God!” Beasley exclaimed, “Those aren’t boobs, those are bird seed pantyballs. You got the tits of a bird.”
“Well you got the dick of a mouse.” Judy retorted. She turned to leave, but she spun with such force that her prosthetic leg twisted off with a deadening thunk. Beasley, his eyes wide with the realization that things were not as they appeared to be, began yelling at her while she hopped around trying to regain her balance.

“You fake bitch! I got you up here cause I thought you was a woman, and now I find you’re just another one-legged bird booby just like the rest of them.” By this time, Beasley was so enraged, and the sweat of his brow began to loosen his toupee until it slid askew. Then, as he tried to correct it, he inadvertently wiped off most of the Bottle-O-Tan he had applied to his face earlier in the night. Judy saw Beasley struggling with his hair and looking like a bald white nightmare, and began laughing.

She said, “Well, it looks like your not the man you used to be.” Then her dentures fell out and she began to drool while fumbling for the teeth. Needless to say, she fell over and Beasley slipped on her saliva pool and fell to his head. This popped off the steel plate he had, put on in a recent operation. “My head plate! My head plate!” He shouted.

In their respective grasping and clawing activities, they bumped heads and Judy’s glass eye popped free, rolling across the floor to the cat, who batted it down the stairway.

Several months later, there was a knock on Beasley’s front door. He went to answer it and was surprised to find Judy, all in place and looking as lovely as the day he first met her. He invited her in and they chatted over tea and cookies.

“I’m sorry I have to tell you this.” Judy said through streaming tears, “But somewhere during the course of our struggle, you must have impregnated me by accident.” Under the circumstances, Judy and Beasley got married and later at the hospital, the baby came out in pieces. They named it, Scraps.

The End

Tough Guys

I was in this bar in Philly checkin’ out the boobs on dis chick I seen, when I figured she was hot for me. So I slid over and gave her my line that works every time.

‘Hey sugar cakes, if you got the buns, I got the wiener. Let’s light a fire in your asshole and have a cookout.’ She looked at me like she wanted my stuff, but then this guy gets in between us. ‘Dis is MY girl,’ he says to me. ‘You got five seconds to clear out, or I’m gonna’ give you a knuckle sandwich.’ Well, he don’t look so tough to me. My arms is bigger, my chest is bigger, he ain’t got no tattoos… he don’t look so tough to me. So I raise up my dukes and I say, ‘The lady looks like she wants a man, and you don’t look like no man to me. You look like a cryin’ sissy boy to me.’

He moves up with his pissed off face and says, ‘I don’t fight for no girl. She loves me ’cause she knows I can satisfy her. See, I got what she needs. What you got, tough guy?’

I ‘taut about it. What’s this guy askin’ me? Is he asking me to a dick off? Now I don’t like showin’ my stuff to no man or nothin’ but this was for a hot booby chick here. So I said, ‘If you think you got something, then step right here in the shitter and let’s settle this man to man.’

He said no. That we was going to do it right there in the bar, in front of God and everybody. With the girlie watching so’s she could be the judge. Fine with me. I took my shot O’ whiskey and then pulled my pants off. When I lowered my drawers to my knees and Old Smokey rolled out to its twelve inches hangin’, I began to laugh with pride. ‘What you got?’ I asked. ‘Bring it on, fucknuts.’

Tough guy dropped his pants and starin’ me in the face was a full on pussy! ‘THIS is what she needs.’ he said. And the girl, Pearl I think was her name, she drops her dress and she’s got a two foot thick hard baseball bat of a penis.

‘What are you people?’ I shouted. What kind of twisted shit is this?’ I got so scared that I ran all the way home. Maybe I was a sissy after all. I sure wasn’t tough enough to look at that man’s pussy and that woman’s fat dick hangin’. I was so upset that I stayed in my room and cried.

The End

My family went to the Drive Thru Zoo, and as we passed the monkey exhibit, a small chimp got on the roof. I rolled my window down to reach out and bat him away, but he quickly entered the vehicle and bit up my young daughter’s face.
“Enough of your monkey business!” I shouted as seriously as possible, but I couldn’t help laughing at my pun, and my funny looking daughter bleeding like a stuck pig.

Jokes to Bring Silence to a Crowded Room
Volume 2

What jumps up twice, lands in the water, swims to the bottom, and floats to the top?

Frog on a stick.

What do you call a dinosaur three-way?

Menage a triceratops.

How many Pollacks does it take to run a nuclear facility?

Three. One to press the wrong buttons, and one to carry the other’s irradiated corpse to the grave.

What do you call a falling star that lands on a gas station causing it to explode?

A meteorwrong.

What do you call an Olympic champion who lisps?

A Gold Medalitht.

That July Forth, a rocket from the fireworks show found its screaming way to Grandma’s eye. So as not to waste the moment, we spun her around to make a more festive display.

Confusion say…
Man who go to bed with itchy butt wake up with smelly finger.

Questions to ask a small kitten just before it dies:

1. Given the choice of goose pate or a fresh hunk of beef, which would you choose?

2. What’s this thing about eating placenta?

3. What is it like when hippies try to get you stoned by blowing smoke in your ears?

4. May I put your entire head in my mouth?

5. If the Professor on Gilligan’s Island could make a radio out of a coconut, why couldn’t he fix a hole in a boat?

Questions to ask the Reverend Ferguson:

1. What do you think Jesus would think of your suit?
2. Why should we donate to your jar?
3. Would Jesus like James Brown?
4. How old is God?
5. Where does God come from and where does he go to?
6. Is light a particle or a wave?
7. What is Mars like?
8. Where is Mrs. God?

Bad Dog

One day, Edith Beasley was cooking dinner for her husband and children when Rex, her small Terrier, came into the kitchen and began to pee.
“Rex!” Shouted Edith, “No! Bad Dog!” Rex looked up at her, his puppy face carrying an expression of: I’m sorry… my mistake, but I’ve already started and I just can’t stop… but when I’m done… I won’t do it again. When Rex had finished his relief, he wandered back into the living room where Mr. Beasley was watching soap operas on TV. Rex, crouching over Mr. Beasley’s house slippers which were laying next to the recliner, began to release several eggs of poop that fell to the shoes forming the classic spiraling dog poop shape and ending with a point like the tower on a brown ice cream cone. At that moment, Mr. Beasley decided to fetch himself a beer and, stepping into the slippers, was dismayed at the squishy, between-the-toes-melange, of texture and sand.
“Rex!” He shouted, “Bad Dog! Bad Dog!” He administered a kick to the abdomen of Rex causing him to run into the children’s room and throw up in the fish tank.
“Rex!” The children screamed. “BAD DOG!” By this time, Rex had become so incensed by the constant and repetitive shouting in the house of this phrase that he simply snapped. Running for the window, he took a flying leap through the glass and two stories down to the cement bottom of the empty pool. And this is where the story gets weird. One would think that a dog in such a state would just splat open like a watermelon, but this is not what happened that day. Rather, Rex bounced. The neighbors who had coincidentally observed the incident would swear Rex attained a height of at least one hundred feet before the fire that expelled from his butt like a rocket engine sent him shooting away at miraculous speed. Rex was never seen from nor heard from again.

Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from this tale. If you are going to shout at the dog again and again for pissing and pooping throughout the house and then kick him in the abdomen, for God’s sake, cover the fish bowl.

The End

Poor Curser

I wasn’t going to take any poo poo today, no sir. If them surly fandangos fuck me on the road today, I’ll curse them vigorously and bring shame to their mothers. I pulled out of my drive way and into the road that would lead me to work. Sure enough, some silly dummy is driving like he just got out of traffic school kindergarten.
“Diggity split!” I angrily shouted to myself. “I knew it. I knew it! Diggity split!” My cackles raised to their zenith, I was bound and determined to show this stupid dog person that you don’t cross Stan Phladinski. Rolling down my window and pulling beside him as he posted his Plymouth before the stop light, I gave him a piece of my mind.
“You dumb man!” I shouted. “You drive like caca balls. You’re a silly coconut boy, you silly Sally man! Your mother is a big fat thing, mister. Your mother! Your mother!” That would show him who’s boss of the road. But to my amazement, he didn’t succumb to my insulting and cower as I had expected. Instead, he leaned over, rolled down the passenger window and said, “You say something to me, motherfucker?” I was stunned. Nobody had dared before to retaliate against my scathing and revered tongue.
“You think you’re just a jolly boy, don’t you.” I replied. “Well, you drive like a slobbering fool!” That would show him, I thought to myself. And just to put a punch on it, I said, “And don’t open up your mouth again, freak, or your hot air will come out.” Clever clever, I thought. My put downs are so clever that they baffle the darned old simpletons.
“Eat me, you fat piece of shit!” He shouted back, throwing food on me and screeching his tires before speeding through the red light.
“Law breaking dummy!” I said, marveling at his utter audacity. I’ll get him and tell him how dumb his mother is, yes sir. I floored the accelerator and plowed head first into the side of an ambulance. In my state of disarray, I prayed the Lord forgive me for screaming the vilest thing I have ever said.
“Gol dong dingity doo!” Oh the tragedy of my shame.

The End

John Bilking was a physicist and Nobel Peace Prize winner. He had written two national best sellers and was a respected family man with a beautiful wife and three lovely children. Nevertheless, I killed him.

One day while the vampire was at rest, Little Billy Baxter slipped in to the castle and sanded his pointy teeth down to nubs with a power file. When the vampire awoke and tried to feed on one of the village whores, he found his bite ineffective. Shortly thereafter, he died of blood starvation. See what happens when you don’t think of the consequences of your actions? You starve an innocent vampire who was just trying to survive like the rest of us. My God, the abhorrent misery of Vladimer’s pain.

There once was a man named Edgar
Who used to wear all kinds of head gear
He acquired a cough
And his head tumbled off
So he used his neck to make a red smear

Bill was walking along the street when suddenly he was struck by a stray bullet fired by a small boy experimenting with a .22 caliber pistol he found in the woods where Ed the bank robber had stashed it after his successful theft of one hundred thousand dollars. Bill died.

That day in the swamp, the Gopher Turtles found a way to get even with the alligators who had invaded their swimming area. While the alligators were sunning, they dug tunnels underneath them and planted small bombs. At a precise moment in time, the plunger was pushed and the alligators became airborne as a result of the ensuing explosion. They landed respectively on the Gopher Turtles, killing them. No gators or Gopher Turtles were ever seen again in the swamp. The other animals avoided the swamp in respect to the courageous Alligator Gopher Turtle Bomb Initiative that occurred there that day.

If only I
Could see the sunlight
In the dew specked pines
And the old cod

A guy named Jim theorized that if he were to remove his shoes, he would actually be walking about half an inch off the ground where the sole of the shoe used to be. His theory, in application, proved to be correct. And shortly thereafter, he was hailed as the new Messiah until being crucified by irate Elvis impersonators.
“There can only be one king!” They shouted.

Stanley Donavon was so excited to have been fortunate enough to ask the most beautiful girl in the school, Stella Alexandria, to the prom and have her say, yes. He had been grooming himself since early in the afternoon and now the moment had arrived. Stanley checked himself in the mirror one last time to be sure his hair was perfect, his tuxedo was unwrinkled, and his shoes were shining like diamonds when he suddenly noticed a small yellow zit in the middle of his forehead. He moved in for a closer look and was dismayed at the pustule peeking out like a third eye. But looking as insignificant as it did, Stanley felt sure he could pop it and have it not be noticed. He reached up and, centering the deposit between his thumb nails, began to apply pressure. But the thing was tough, like steak.
It seemed to Stan that the harder he pushed, the more it resisted. After several minutes of this, the effort only resulted in breaking the skin around the hard small follicle pellet which now seemed to have swollen with aggravation.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “Now I look like a suited cyclops!” Resorting to stiffer measures, he dragged his plastic Bic razor across the offending bump in an attempt to shave off the tip. Sure enough, after repeated effort, a small nodule protruded through the coagulating discharge of blood. “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Said Stan.

Grabbing a pair of tweezers, he delicately pinched and pulled the offending mass and with each new tug, a larger and larger chunk began to emerge. Feeling confident that he should now be able to easily force out the melange of compressed biology, he began again with his thumbs. Out shot a perfectly formed eyeball which bounced off the mirror with a splat and landed on the floor.
It was moving…
It was looking up at him…
“Daddy.” It said.

In the horror of the moment, Stanley crushed it with his boot heel and began searching for a patch or something to cover his bleeding hole. He found a square bandage and after affixing it to his wound, he put on a layer of Bottle-O’-Tan, effectively masking the evidence.
The doorbell rang. He ran to the door and opened it revealing the subtle contours of Stella Alexandria’s supple body.
“Hello, Stanley.” She said.
She doesn’t notice, Stanley thought to himself.

That night at the dance, they were the envy of their peers. She danced like a princess and he like a prince. They gazed at each other like lovers in the new fallen snow beneath a rainbow with beautiful violins and butterflies… and to spin. They strolled out into the patio and beneath the full moon, he embraced her and began to move in for the kill… I mean, kiss.
“Will it be like mother said it would?” She thought to herself while secretly removing her tampon with her right hand and casting it aside where several years later, it grew into a big red tree. Their lips touched, Stan’s tongue teasing its way into her delicious cherry mouth, and that’s when the blood gushed from the zit well like a waterfall, down Stan’s face and between their working lips.

“Your saliva is so warm and salty,” Stan said.
“And yours is sweet with copper overtones.” She replied. She went to stroke his hair and two things happened simultaneously. Thing one was her thumb accidentally pressed through the tape and lodged in his head. Thing two was that she saw the blood gleaming with light from the full moon and she began screaming and running with Stan trying to keep up behind her yelling, “My eye hole! My eye hole!” Stella tugged again and again with her arm, jerking Stan’s head from side to side, doing more harm than good.
“You’re pushing on my rain-bluh-bluh.” He cried. Stan’s speech became garbled and parts of his body began to spasm uncontrollably. With a pop, the thumb came free and a flurry of eyeballs fired out of the socket.
They were looking…
And screaming…

There was a flash… a jolt of electricity… and Stan bolted upright in his bed. His breathing labored… his pulse, ramped… sweat pouring from him as if from a soggy sponge.

It was all a dream.

Reaching up to feel his forehead, Stan found no blood, no hole, not even so much as a pimple. He breathed a sigh of relief, stumbled on his way out of the bed, and fell tip-first on his boner propelling it out through his asshole, out the window, and into the street where a passing dog got it in his mouth and strolled away.

So the next time you’re feeling low and lonely, sad and blue, fear not! For we may all be but the dream of a butterfly.

Unforgiven Birds

One day, Edith was walking down the street when suddenly a bird flew down from its nest and began pecking her head with strategic and technically advanced air maneuvers. She reached up to swat the bird away and broke the mother bird’s wing. The bird toppled uselessly to the ground, a twisted ruin.
“Teach you to peck at me.” The woman shouted. And she got a long stick and tipped the nest over, spilling half a dozen baby chicks. Then she jumped up and down on them as the helpless mother bird walked in circles. She pulled out a .45 caliber from her purse and blew the mother bird away in a spray of feathers and blood.
“I’m gonna’ kill any bird I see. You hear me?” She peered into the trees. “Any bird tries to peck at me, I’ll kill ‘em. Any bird shits on my car, I’ll kill him, his wife, and the horse she rode in on. You hear me? I’ll kill ALL you birds. I’ll kill every one of you sons-o’-bitches!”
Then she walked quietly into the sunset.

Hey pretty girl
Why don’t you unfurl
Your pair of pearls
Yo Pretty mama
Don’t you wanna’
Meet my iguana
Listen sexy thing
Why don’t you bring
Out your love thing
Hey mandango
Did I see
Your funky mango
Googlianna
Me wanna’
Humana humana

She has a flat butt
Let me tell you what
Flatter than the desert sands
Flatter than a pancake pan

Where should be a crack
There is only a line
She certainly has
The flattest behind

Turn her over if you’re able
For a unique coffee table
And a place to put your pen
In the center of her end

Karate School

One day, Little Billy was walking to school when suddenly from behind a cluster of trees, Stinky Ed, the neighborhood bully, appeared.
“I’m going to beat you up, you little turd! And there ain’t nothing you can do about it.” Little Billy tried to run away but before he could get into gear, his head was already pummeled and bleeding. He fell to the ground, skinning his arm on the hard concrete, and began to cry. “That’s it, cry.” Said Stinky Ed. “Cry like a baby, you little maggot. You little sack of pus.” And then the bully grabbed the back of Little Billy’s undershorts and gave him a wedgie that pulled Billy’s ass crack up into his neck. All the children that had gathered to see what all the commotion was about, pointed and laughed at Billy’s shame.

Several days later, Billy had saved enough money to get a private lesson with Sensei Dick Long, who was a black belt in Karate. The Master studied his student for some time, peering into his eyes, examining his balance and character. And then he spoke, his voice calm and serene.
“Perhaps you are unaware of the deeper sense of the martial arts, young Billy. You see, Violence only begets violence. What we put out, we receive. Instead, our philosophy at the Dick Long Academy is that we create strength through peace. To fight is only a last resort. Why don’t you try love instead. Love thine enemy, so says it in the Bible.” Billy took these words of wisdom to heart as he handed over his only twenty dollar bill. The next morning, he was walking the path to school when suddenly from behind a cluster of trees, came Stinky Ed.

“Hey maggot boy. Didn’t you learn your lesson? I’m going to tear you a new asshole.” The voice of the Master rang in Billy’s head. Peace…love…peace…love. Billy mustered up all his courage and strength and with phenomenal conviction, he said, “I love you, Stinky Ed.”
Stinky Ed said, “So you ain’t just a maggot, you’re a faggot!” And he proceeded to wedge a rock in Billy’s mouth and repeatedly bang on Billy’s chin until his teeth were chipped, and he ran away.

Billy returned to the Master. Sensei Long studied the morose face of Billy, and also the blood. “My boy, ” he said, “Let us perform some breathing exercises which will strengthen your Ki. Ki is your internal life force that surrounds and protects you with light. Little Billy and the Master performed the exercises for several hours until Billy was absolutely convinced that he could triumph over his adversary. The following morning, Billy passed before the tree cluster and sure enough, Stinky Ed made his traditional appearance.
Billy confidently said, “Try as you might, oh vile boy, you shall find yourself unable to penetrate my Ki.”
“Penetrate your Ki?” The bully said, sarcastically. “I’ll penetrate you with a key.” And he toppled Little Billy and scraped him across the chest with his own house keys until he cried.

Later that night, a knock came on the door to the Dojo where Master Dick Long was meditating. He slowly opened the door to reveal the battered and dark form of a small boy named Little Billy; His breath condensing in the frigid air, his eyes staring out in the night like those of a wounded animal thirsting for revenge. The Master said, “Have we tried the imposing Crane Stance yet?” Billy’s rage could be contained no longer and he charged the Master with a lunging claw for the throat. Unfortunately, you can’t just go up to a martial arts expert and perform this type of technique successfully with little or no experience. Sensei Dick Long easily sidestepped the attack, pulling Billy’s heart out of his chest, followed by a reverse kick to the groin sending it propelling out of his asshole, and he died.

The End

Epilogue:
Stinky Ed enrolled for classes at the Dick Long Academy using money he had stolen from his victims. He studied karate and Zen breathing techniques, and became serene and peace loving.

What you are about to read is no ordinary story with fleshed out characters and a compelling plot winding up in a tidy finale. This is a story written purely from the heart with no editing, no contrived dialogue that is rewritten again and again to a dull zenith of perfection. Instead, this is a story of pure and unadulterated love. It is an exercise in futility and a compendium of mouth vomit. In essence, this is the personification of why you should go fuck yourself with a six foot double-headed dildo, and my name is Max Fundillicutty.

The air was smelly and olfactory in its smelling, and from the depths of the trees that lined either side of the highway, there came a scream of such horrendous maniacal horror that it chilled the animal life that normally sang there to a dead silence. Then the trees parted and a gargantuan naked woman of three-hundred pounds came like a bulldozer, her amorphous gonzillos swinging in the wind like crushing balls used to level buildings. She stood centered over the broken yellow line of the highway and waited for the coming of the car. Sure enough, the rev of the engine sounded on the breeze, and the low sparkle of light peered over the horizon of the hill. She tensed her girth and began to run forward, slowly at first with a low growl, then faster and faster until she clomped along full steam ahead at thirty miles per hour. The headlights rose from her feet to her outcroppings and then the driver of the vehicle saw her, his mouth a frozen O of horror. He had meant to put all his strength into his outstretched arm to lay on the horn, but things were moving so fast… she came like a meteor… her boobs!
The collision was a sight to behold. The car literally split in two around the behemoth. And the driver of the car, a Mr. Stan Obromowitz, flew forward into her cleavage where she compressed him between her bosoms with her mighty hands and flailed her body from side to side, whipping the poor man around like Sunday taffy. Shortly thereafter, a rip at his torso caused his lower half to be cast aside and what was within the body cavity was flung to the surrounding pavement with several slaps resembling the weak applause of a small audience. What happened next, I can not tell for the sheer vileness that occurred. Let it just be said that she needed to feed, and the primal carnage I witnessed was so gruesome that I might have laughed in hysterics had it not been true.

Little Ed was reading in his comic book when he came to a catalog page filled with magic tricks and practical jokes. “Neat-O!” Ed said to himself. The page was a child’s paradise. It displayed everything a little boy would want: Stink-O-Bomb, See Through the Dress Glasses, Itching Powder, Sand Gum, Disappearing Puppy, Knife Through the Hand, Rubber Doody, Burn Face Makeup, Butt Stick Toilet Seat, Brine Shrimp illustrated to look like fish with poodle heads, and every kid’s dream, the four dollar fully functioning Submersible Nuclear Submarine.
Ed sent in his order form and anxiously awaited for his package to arrive. Two weeks later, the mailman brought the goods, and Ed immediately took to the streets to enact his sinister plans: Trick number two-hundred and thirteen…Dart Bird. This was a rubber bird with a dart affixed to it so one could propel it from a dart gun at a passing car. Ed hid behind the bushed and waited as a car approached.

Inside the car were Phil Phillips and his wife, Edna. Their two children were seated in the back and they all were singing The Old Rugged Cross on their way to church. Suddenly, Phil saw the glimpse of a flappy feathered thing heading straight for him.
“Jesus, save us!” Phil shouted as he swerved to avoid the bird, and he ran into a tree killing his family and himself. Ed chuckled as he ran from the carnage.

Next, Ed walked up to an elderly woman who was waiting to cross the street. He told her he was a boy scout and he needed to do his good deed for the day. So the woman, whose name was Elma, stepped forward into the road reaching out for little Ed’s hand. She hardly could have noticed the Joy Buzzer poised to go off at the slightest touch. When she made contact, the effects of the toy scared her so much that her heart gave out and she dropped to her knees, a heaving clump of humanity. Ed ran away, giggling, as a car barreled over the old lady’s tortured frame.

Little Ed found a small frail boy that all the school children teased and called Wheezy, because of his asthma.
“Hey,” said Little Ed, “Wanna’ be friends?”
“Friends?” Wheezy replied. “But you usually beat me up.”
“No, no…” Little Ed reassured him, “I like you. I want to be your friend. Look! I have some candy.” And Ed offered some delicious looking blue confections.
“Gee, thanks.” Wheezy said. “I’ve never had a friend before.” He began to eat the candy, which tasted quite delicious, and he never took notice of the blue melange foaming from his mouth.
“Ha ha!” Said Little Ed, Pointing. “Now you got blue shit on your lips. Now your lips are blue!” And then he beat Wheezy until he wheezed and ran, dropping his breather.

Little Ed found a spot in a cluster of bushes and made what he later referred to as a war camp. He began breathing the breather and getting high off the fumes. He found this pursuit to be helpful in giving his mind the incentive it needed to create and execute bigger and bolder plans. Like the Push the Girl Off the Mountain Trick, or the Machine Gun Into the Crowd Trick, or the Exploding Rectal Pet Thermometer. He began to expand, butting together his own catalog and comic book and got thousands of children to buy his products. Soon, he had a well organized army and they set out to conquer and divide the entire free world.

Fortunately, their efforts were thwarted by the atmosphere somehow catching fire. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “To the dull mind, all nature is leaden. To the illumined mind the whole world burns and sparkles with light.”

I am trying
Let me in
For some tea
And company

Let me in
In your arms
In your grasp

Hold me hold tightly
Do not let me
Slip away

Together
We are one
And alone
I am no one

i

haven’t written much lately

but there is still drinking

smoking cigarettes and

marijuana

all the poet’s vices

and idea makers and shakers

with the split pea soup

on the pot

and fingers on the run

pecking out more of a

ramble than a poem

this poet enjoys the gold

in cuervo especial

and me in only a towel

my neck cracks

like a machine gun

the blinds are closed

the light is out

heading into next year

right after christmas

1999

seems like a song i heard yesterday


resolutions for the new year

it’s a new year

and i resolve

to continue drinking

smoking

writing

fucking

trying to fall in love and failing

fucking

avoiding creditors

staining my teeth with coffee

fucking

and i resolve to

check out

at my appointed time

maybe this year

maybe the next


poetry and dingleberries

some poets

remember every word

they ever wrote

and can read their work

anywhere

off the cuff

as for me

I’m not that

bright

without paper

I’m nothing

but at least

I don’t

walk around the

town

with a

dirty

ass.


another cigarette poem

the

smoke from my

smoke

is young and old

together

floating off

into the air

like snow

the ashes

grow

out and off

down and gone

up goes the smoke

down go the ashes

out go the

2 girls

the skin head boy

watches after

he wants to

fuck them

once

and then

hate them for being

sluts

I had better

put this out

before the

filter burns

and the stars

wink out

and the moon

drops into

the sea

another cigarette poem

into the dust.


I monster

I am the dirty thing

in the closet

under the bed

in your underwear

I have no love

for you

you’ll open the door

you’ve been

expecting me

and my cock

will fuck your ass

with no mind…

animal!

Fuck you

like an object

and you are a thing

like me

you’ll say

thank you

when I leave

my cum on your face

and marks where

my claws have been

you’ll think about me

every day but

I’ll forget about you

like money you give

to a stranger

never expecting

to get it back.


the best in town

last time

I ate sushi

a roach crawled over

and sniffed my

fish

then he crawled off

and I knew

it was fresh


on death and a duck

I’ll go out

on a sunbeam

or a

comet

but not

in an ashtray

not in an

empty bottle of beer

I’ll go down

in an explosion

of frightened

glow-in-the-dark

fish

or

evaporate in a drop

on a hotplate

hell!

I wouldn’t mind

a trip

down the toilet

in the shit of a priest

out and into the

sick green sea

but I’m not going out

in the thick puddle

on the sidewalk

of a young girl’s

first cocktail

or on a boat

in a pond

with a duck

and the afternoon

sun

shining sunbeams

of me and ashes

and beer and fish

and mist and shit

and vomit

and a duck

one duck in the pond

dead center

in the crosshairs

of my bazooka


there was a man who had to fart

not an ordinary fart

not a bean fart

not a beer fart

not an egg fart

nor an asparagus fart

but a fart of

such magnitude

a blend of the

worst

best

a biblical fart

a fart for the

history books!

A better fart

than ginsberg

a better fart

than plath or carver

a better fart

than poe or tennyson

a better fart

than even bukowski

a fart to shame

kerouac and blake

a fart to outright kill

e. e. cummings

a fart to kick

ayn rand in her man cunt

a fart to obliterate

gertrude stein

a fart to assassinate

langston hughes

a fart to implode

any and every great writer

there ever was

is

or will be.

stand back

you bastards

because when the stink

is gone

there will be nothing left

but clean fresh

air.

Here’s my ass.

Here’s my butthole.

Here comes jesus to

send you all to burning

white hell.

I feel it.

this is real.

this is poetry.

This is your stinking

motherfucking cocksucking god

almighty poetry sucks my cum spurting

ball licking SATAN FUCKS

ALL THE HORSES IN THE BARN


JESUS!!


JESUS!!!


GOD!!!


JESUS!!!


URGH…


UMPH…



“poot.”



the irony of fire

the old

wooden church

burned down.

arson,

they said.

So they

collected funds

and built a new

better

bigger

church.

But nobody thanked god

for the arsonist.


for you god, sincerely

the climb up the tree

a child’s joy

the climb down

an adult terror

what of the fall

god?

Where are you

when summer leaves

turn into light

the ground into

darkness

I only know

I want to be

a better man

we all have sinned

some less

some more

I

perhaps

more than most

to be good

is an intangible

savior

but I do want love

and redemption

what of the fall

god?

What of the fall?

I pray

let me fall well

or at least

better than before

let me fall

like a child


forever
(for roger)

is a sound

ringing

in the silence

of space

in the stones

buried deep beneath

cities

penetrating

even diamonds

forever

is not a word

but something

beyond the

boundless ocean

of lights and

cold suns that

dream of us

together


Things You Can Do – 1999

1. Bring helium balloons to an old folk’s home and tie them into everyone’s hair.

2. Pay for City Hall to close down a street for a parade you’re planning. On the day of the parade, walk down the street.

3. Go into the library and shout at the librarian, “I DON’T HEAR VERY WELL! WHERE DID YOU SAY THE HUSTLER MAGAZINES ARE?”

4. Kill a mosquito with a needle.

5. Pull the wings off of an Africanized honey bee and put it in a red ant pile. That’ll show that motherfucker!

6. Tell your boyfriend or girlfriend you’re from Mars, and then anally probe them with a kitchen utensil.

7. Try to get a cat and a snake to fuck each other.

8. Fondle a parrot, but don’t repeat yourself.

9. Pull a fish out of the water, and when it opens and closes its mouth for air, put a little chewing gum in there.

10. Fill a squirt gun with milk and shoot cows in the mouth with it.

11. Go into a church, and when everybody is silent for a moment of prayer, shout, “I DON’T HEAR SO WELL! WHERE DID YOU SAY THE HUSTLER MAGAZINES ARE?”

12. Go to a hospital and find the maternity ward. Switch out one of the babies for a porcupine.

13. Go to the most expensive restaurant in town and order the steak and lobster, to go. Eat your food in the patio of the Homeless Shelter. If any of the hungry homeless people ask for some, say, “Get away from me. Can’t you see I’m eating?”

14. Ride on the public bus system with a turkey neck hanging out of your pants.

15. Next time you’re out at a club, try the following pick-up lines and see which ones work the best:


· Feel like gerbiling?

· Anyone ever tell you you’re buttfucking ugly?

· So, what’s it gonna’ cost me to get you into bed?

· Nice tits. Where’d you buy ‘em?

· You’d love me. My dick is shaped like a starfish.

Football – A Play for 2 Male Actors

Ed and Bob are sitting on a park bench, talking.


Ed: I was watching you last night.

Bob: Really?

Ed: Yes. Out there on the field. At the football game.

Bob: We kicked their asses.

Ed: I know… but YOU were great.

Bob: Really?

Ed: The way you threw the ball to the receivers?

Bob: That was the easy stuff.

Ed: But then, in the last few minutes of the game, you ran it in

for a touchdown.

Bob: Just a lucky play. But we sure kicked their asses. What a

game.

Ed: The way the coach patted you on the butt…

Bob: What a game.

Ed: …and then, all the players patted you on the butt.

Bob: Yeah. They were congratulating me for the touchdown.

Ed: And I wondered if maybe later…

Bob: Now wait just a minute…

Ed: …maybe later… YOU’D let ME pat you on the butt.

Bob: Hey… um… that’s just a football thing. It doesn’t mean

anything.

Ed: It means something to me.

Bob: No… that’s okay.

Ed: Bob?

Bob: No.

Ed: Do you think I could…

Bob: No way, man.

Ed: …just pat you on the butt?

Bob: No.

Ed: Just one time? Just one little pat on the butt?

Bob: Listen man, are you queer or something?

(There is a long pause.)

Ed: Can I pat you on the butt?

Bob: Maybe if you played football, but you don’t.

Ed: I could learn. I could learn the rules. I could study the plays.

Bob: It just… wouldn’t be the same.

Ed: But we’re friends, Bob. Friends! Not like those guys on the

field, who you see just for practice, and for the big games.

We see each other every day. We eat together; go to the movies

together, laugh together, and yes, sometimes even cry together.

So I’m asking you, not as your team mate, but as your friend.

Can I pat your butt?

Bob: Are you sure you’re not gay?

Ed: Just one time, and I’ll never ask again.

Bob: If I do, you won’t tell anybody, will you?

Ed: I promise. It’ll be our little secret.

Bob: Well… okay. Just this once. (Bob offers his ass.)

Ed: (Pats Bob’s butt a couple of times, like a little girl.) Thank you, Bob.

Friend! My best and only friend! Thank you!.

Bob: Don’t mention it.

Ed: Can I suck your dick?

End


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Stuff I Wrote that Gave Me Crabs

by Tom Miller

 
Stuff I Wrote that Gave Me Crabs
by Tom Miller

#1 – A Double Dirty Girl

     Little Wendy Snapsnatch was crawling along in the dirt when she noticed her dress was dirty.

     “Oh, look at my dress,” she said, “It’s dirty, just like the writer of this story said it was. Fuck him!”

     “Well sorry, bitch!” I exclaimed, “You get put down the way it’s happening and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. Now crawl in the dirt and get to the next bit before you bore the reader. This isn’t all about you, you know.”

     She continued crawling through the dirt just as written, but soon revolted again.

     “No! I won’t do it. I reject your writing. I don’t want to be a dirty girl. I want to be a princess. Why can’t you write me as a princess?”

     I told her I don’t do that kind of writing. I write hysterically gross shit. Starting a story called, ‘A Double Dirty Girl’ with a girl crawling around in the dirt is what I’m all about. I told her she had as much of a chance of being a princess as she did of not using dirty language, which would be the second play on the title of the story, ‘A Double Dirty Girl’. She’d not only be dirty, she’d talk dirty. That’s two! That’s double! Hence, the title! And then, I wrote this dialogue which is exactly what she said next.

     “You can suck my shit! You can eat my balls, fucking vomit-whore cunt-monkey! You cock sucking faggot-fucking cock-sucking…”

     And I said, “The mouth on you, bitch! You talk like a dirty girl. Hence, the title, just one more time. Now who’s got the upper hand? And besides, your dress is covered in dirt. That’s two ways I got you; your dirty mouth and your dirty dress. There’s no place left to go. Give it up. If I made you a princess, you’d still be covered in shit. This is what I do for a living. Don’t fuck with me, slut.”

     And in chapter two, she’s a princess covered in shit and there was nothing she could do about it.

     Later in the story, I gave her a set of amphibian gills and two assholes.

The End

#1 – The Second Story in a Series of Stories in a Book I Titled, Stuff I Wrote That Gave Me Crabs, by Tom Miller.

Mub

 People didn’t like Mub. They didn’t like his name, they didn’t like his boils, and they especially didn’t like how he sang.

 He was a Karaoke regular and always sang the same song, sometimes three times a night. He sang the song, Jingle Bells; always, Jingle Bells.

 And we’d yell from the back, “Mub! Stop singing that fucking song. We hate Jingle Bells. Nobody sings Jingle Bells for Karaoke unless it’s Christmas; Christmas in Japan. What the fuck is a Jingle Bell?”

 And he’d yell back at us, “Mub!” That’s all he said. “Mub mub mub… mub mub mub MUB MUB!” Jingle bells would be playing in the background while he was trying to make his point. This would make us laugh because he kept saying the word, ‘mub’, instead of singing the song. So we’d taunt him and tell him how dumb he was. And he’d have no option but to assert himself so as to avoid being picked upon. But his response only made him look stupider because all he would do is say, “Mub mub mub,” over and over again while the music of Jingle Bells was playing in the background. It’s the only way we could get any worthwhile entertainment out of the guy because when he sings the song, he just sings:

Mub Mub Mub
Mub Mub Mub
Mub Mub Mub.. Mub-Mub

Mub Mub Mub Mub Mub Mub Mub
Mub-Mub Mub Mub Mub Mub Mub… Mub

And that makes people not like him.

But I gotta’ tell you, he was a lot better than Bloob.

Bloob always sang Jingle Bells too, but who wants to hear;

Bloob bloob bloob
Bloob bloob bloob

Bloob bloob bloob bloob bloob…

#1,
#2,
#4 – Bloob  (Not a Limerick)

There once was a guy named, Bloob
Who only sang Jingle Bells
He sang better than Mub,
But worse than my mom,
Who’s crawling around in the dirt, cursing.

#1 – Further Picking on Mub

Some guys tried to pick on Mub, but there’s no way to do that and avoid picking the scabs on his numerous boils, which all sing Jingle Bells with their little pussy mouths. (It’s funny how in writing, one means to pluralize the word, ‘pus’, the leaky response from the body to infection, vs. the word, ‘pussy’, which is a female’s leaky response from the body to infection or also infection). And I believe, if both definitions are correct, that a pus-pussy can also sing the words to Jingle Bells, and you can put a Jingle Bell inside one. But it won’t ring anymore and it will be infected.

#11 – Words That Are Spelled Differently but Mean the Same Thing

Mom: One’s Mother.

Mom: When a person moans but they have a cleft palette and their N’s and M’s sound alike; as in, “Mom. Yeah, hot. mom. Fuck me. mom. mom. I’m moming, mom. Oh God, mom. mom.” And they’re saying, “Moan,” but it sounds like, “Mom”. That’s the wrong impression to be giving unless you moan when you fuck your mom. In which case you’d be saying, “Mom, yeah, I’m moming for you mom. Good, mom. Mom, mom, oh mom mom mom,” which is completely different.

Meow: When a person moans but they have a cleft palette and their OW’s sound like M’s; as in, “Meow! Fuck yeah! Get that hot cock in there. MEOW! God, mom that hurts. MEOW! MEOW! Now feed me some cream. Meow! Meow! Eat that sushi off my tits. Meow! Meow! Where’s my kitty litter? I have diarrhea.”

For the record, meow is spelled exactly like mom, which means to moan.

#7 – Misunderstanding

I said to him, “You are insulting me.”

He said, “You mean, when I called you a pinga muncher?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I know that in Spanish, pinga means penis. So you’re saying I munch on Penises.”

“You’re not Spanish,” I protested. “You must munch on dick.”

“So now you’re saying I’m not Spanish? I am in fact Spanish, sir. Another insult!”

“Well if you’re Spanish,” I barked, “Then you can’t munch penises. You have to munch pingas. Otherwise, you’d be an American.”

“Now you’re insulting Americans,” He said.

“Only if they’re pinga suckers,” I replied.

“I’m a Spanish American, an American who is of Spanish decent.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place. We must have had a misunderstanding.”

And then we blew each other in the bathroom and were arrested for being Senators from two countries; Mexico and Miami.

#6 – Story #8

     Story #9 was so poorly written that a deal was struck between story #10 and story #12 that story #11 would proceed story #10 and become story #9, if and only if story #11 agreed, in which case story #9 would become story #11. To make a long story short, story #9 and story #11 changed places with the permission of story #10 and story #12 who both agreed that story #9 as written was so poorly written.
 

#7 – This is Not Story #9

There is no story here. Please do not read.
 

#8 – Story #9 as Originally Written (The Poor Version)

     Once upon a time, there was a man who not know English good and sucked as many pingas as possible until he was arrested for being a Senator from two different countries; Mongolia and San Francisco, which is not a country but is in negotiations with other countries to be a country if Story #10 and #12 agree.
 

#9 – I am Story #11

     Hello. My name is Story #11. Earlier on in this document, it was claimed I agreed to switch my numerical title with another story. This is not the case. To make matters clear and so there is no misunderstanding, I am a story about munching pingas and I was written much better than story #6, who is now taking credit for what was originally work written as me. So I am retracting my arrangement with story #10 and #12 as mentioned as a matter of record in story #8, and rewriting my original story as story #11 which follows this one. Yes, I know this is story #10 entitled story #11, but I am story #11 and you’ll read me next.

#10 – I am Story #10

He’s lying. He’s lying! I’m me. I’m the real thing. Don’t listen to him. I can prove it. Just look at my title. It says very clearly, 11. I am Story #10. Would I be story #10 if I was story #11?
 

#11 – The Pimple on the Exact Center of my God Damned Nose
 

     One day, I awoke to discover a pimple on the exact center of my God damned nose. A pimple off to one side or up under the nostril is hardly noticed. But a pimple on the exact center of my God damned nose stands out like a pimple on the exact center of my God damned nose. Friends come up to me and say, “What’s up with the nose pimple?” Believe me, they notice.

     I kind of pushed on it hoping maybe a coagulated hair pustule might pop out, but this just made it bigger, angrier, and bleed. So now there was a pimple on the exact center of my God damned nose with a scab on the exact center of it. In the King’s English of modern day, this is known as a, ‘prom pimple’. Because whenever a boy takes a girl to the prom or vice versa, one of the two is guaranteed to have a pimple on the exact center of their God damned nose. It’s generally caused by stress or diet or excess oil on the face due to a condition. But I wasn’t going to the prom so I wasn’t stressed out, my skin isn’t excessively oily, my diet has thus far produced perfectly clear skin. No, this was something else. This was a vengeance pimple. This was some kind of revenge.

     Over the month, the pimple got better and worse. I just couldn’t stop trying to pick off that scab. I couldn’t stop pushing on the pimple, hoping to pop the son-ova-bitch. Sometimes, I’d leave it alone for a day or two and it would get better, but not so much better to where I didn’t notice enough of a scab for me to pick. Soon, I got so frustrated with it I told it I was going to worry the fuck out of it. I said, “Fuck you, dude. You’re going down ugly.” And I got some tweezers and pulled off the scab and dug around in there with the pointy end to see if I could pry out a coagulated pus ball. I was met with failure on several levels; a bigger pimple, a bigger scab, no pus ball, and copious blood.

     I lost my girlfriend over this.

     It’s been three months now, and the pimple was just about healed when I clipped off the tip with a small pair of scissors. It bled for hours and when the blood dried into a scab, I picked it.

     One day, hopefully in the near future, this pimple on the exact center of my God damned nose will have run its course. And when that day comes, I fully expect I’ll contract genital warts, pink eye, or cancer. But it will no doubt be off to one side.

God willing, it will at the very least be off to one side.

 
The End
 

#12 – Goodnight

The beer has worked its magic
The brain is shutting down
Better to be the ringmaster?
Or better to be clown?

A circus of reality
I’ve finished with this town
Better to be a man who lasts?
Or better to be put down?

Alone with words I call my friends
What horrors do they say?
Better to work a hard man’s life?
Or better to laugh and play?

I chase a bug who’s found a light
And clap until he’s dead
Better to sleep and wake tomorrow?
Or better to stay in bed?

Better to love than not at all?
Or better to never have said?

Goodnight, sleep well, and dream away
Accidents happen every which way.

Rhyme and meter
   d  i   s    s     o      l      v        e

Poems

die too.

#10 & #9 – Stupid Poker

     The boys was dumb, alright. Dumber than a dead mule caught on a fishin’ line. Mules don’t even eat worms, not off’n a hook, anyhow. And what’s he doing in the water? Trying to breath down there? Naw, I’m talking dumb. Some dumb ass boys. That’s why the fight broke out that night. That’s why Elmore is dead.

     I dealt out the cards, one buh one. I can tell this story because I knew how to count cards from years of cheatin’, so I knows what they all had from one hand to the next. You got Elmore, Bubba, Festus, and Gubba Bubba, who’s relations with Mama Gubba Bubba and Jeba Dubba Hubba Blubber, but he ain’t alive any more on account of his nose pimple getting outta’ control, getting all infected, and he died. You know that damn thing was in the exact center of his God damned nose? Freaky shit, man. Freaky shit.

     Elmore gets two aces. He had the game. Bubba got a two of hearts and a six of clubs. He folds right off. Festus gets him the other two aces. What are the chances of that happening? Pretty good, I reckon. I had about twelve in there. And Gubba Bubba gets a queen and a three; about the queerest hand I ever did saw. But then again, Gubba Bubba did like the men on occasion, out there in the woods with the goat and all that. I try not to mention it. It really don’t have nothing to do with this here story anyhow, not that I was ever watching it happen again and again over a period of days before the goat got syphilis. He dead.

     Anyways, Elmore gets up and says, “Did I lose? This game’s fixed!” He said that because he didn’t know how to play poker, not even after four years of trying. I told him we was just getting started and there was more cards to come, but he pulled out his gun to fire on Gubba Bubba ‘cause he was the queerest one. And on the way out of the holster, the gun cocked cause it was in backwards and he shot his own mouth off. He’s still alive, but he talks like a retard, and that’s on top of the fact that he is one.

     Wait a minute. Sorry. He’s dead. God damn, I’m stupid. He’s the one I told you that died at the top of the story. Shit. Fuck me. I couldn’t have screwed up the story more. He’s dead. It was everybody else that lived, minus the goat. But I’m getting to which one, and I’m taking the long way.

     So anyhow, I give Gubba Bubba a couple more cards, three I think, and that’s not the right way to deal. But nobody knows it, and neither did I at the time because I was so fucking stupid. I took a sip of my whiskey and said, “I’m cheating! I got me about twelve aces in this deck and I’m counting out the cards so I know if I’m gonna win or not.’

     Gubba Bubba says, “Well who won then?” And I said, “I did, you dumb ass.”

     And I took the money and walked out of there. I left all them stupid people behind. I left Elmore and he’s dead, now that I think about it. I left Festus. Nobody liked him anyway. I left Bubba and Gubba Bubba, and the two of them got together and had butt babies, I reckon; Bubba Gubba Hubba Bubba Goat Babies who all turned fag and probably died of Syphilis. And I went to get me a drink, but the man at the gas station told me, we don’t take no plastic chips for whiskey. You gotta’ bring real money in here. And I fought with that gas station attendant for quite some time before he realized how stupid I was. He knew how stupid I was though, cause during the fight I was punching my own face as hard as I could and I damn near knocked me out until that other fella’ won.

The End
 

#1 Again – Animal
 
All I wanted to do was fuck. It shouldn’t have been what it became. It should have been simple. It’s all in who you get, really. You might get a romantic, you might get a hooker, or you might get an animal. That’s what I got on that fucked up night; an animal. And all I wanted to do was fuck.
 
She was sweet at first. We talked about the kinds of things that let you know whether you have a romantic, a hooker, or an animal. There are questions that seasoned people who like to fuck know how to ask. Normally, by what the answers are, you can figure it out. But this one totally threw me for a loop. This one got by me.
 
The romantic questions: Would you like to go out to dinner? What color are your eyes? Could I search for myself and find me in you? Mind if I light a candle?
 
The hooker questions: How much? You clean? Got any crack? What is this scab here? Would you mind taking a shower?
 
And the animal questions: You lay eggs? Eight tits? Who shaves you and how often? You like peanut butter? Why is your dick bigger than mine? Rabies?
 
All I wanted to do was fuck. It shouldn’t have gone down like it did, but it did. It went down and it went down ugly. Maybe I should have seen the signs; a vagina the size of my head, a beak, webbed feet, feathers and wings, can run 40 miles an hour…
 
I mounted her and I was inside, thrusting, when suddenly she bucked and ran. I realized in that very moment I was fucking an ostrich. Who knew! I asked all the fucking questions. Bitch lied to me. I held on for dear life. She jumped a fence and I fell off and fractured my boner. There was blood and squawking, a whole lot of squawking.
 
It did a U-turn and started kicking my head into the mud. It did an ostrich dance on my screaming fucking head, and my eye popped out and I shit myself. Quoting a line from my favorite poet, Ron Palovcik, I said, “Is this love?”
 
And she squawked back at me, “SQUAAAAK”. Another lie!

#R – Dear God

     I don’t believe in you. I think you are a made up story. Maybe the most ridiculous story I have ever heard. But here I am writing about you, cursing your name. Maybe I am the most ridiculous story you ever heard. Maybe you don’t believe in me. But believe me, I’m as real as I think I am and as ridiculous as I think you are. So when I get to the pearly gates of Heaven, if that’s the way I’m going, I hope you’ll give me a pass. If I don’t make it into the club and have to burn in the eternal flames of Satan, who I also don’t believe in, I hope he finds me as imaginary as you. Otherwise, I’m totally fucked.
 

#8, #76 Trombones, #Shit Princess, and #Number – Spider Bit My Fucking Face

A spider bit my fucking face
And hurt me rather amicably
I got some Raid and found her web
And sprayed down her whole family
 

#76 Trombones – Nest of Wasps

A wasp stung me for no good reason
That sure made me mad
 I got some Raid and found his nest
And killed his mom and dad

#Shit Princess – Roach Poop

I went to get a spoon so I could
Eat some Miso soup.
And on the spoon was something gross,
A tiny log of poop.

I knew a roach had dropped his load
And soiled all my silverware
I got some Raid and found his lair
And sprayed his face so much he pooped.
 

#Number – Noisy Baby

This lady had a baby
And it cried a noisy shriek
I got some Raid and sprayed it down
So I could get some sleep

The lady was irate with me
And punched me in the eye
I sprayed her face with Raid
Until that screaming cunt bag died

Her husband came and yelled at me
And tried to intervene
I got some Raid and sprayed him down
And he stopped being mean

I laid my head down, tried to sleep
To get much needed rest
A spider, wasp and roach showed up
And bit and stung and pooped-on-my-tongue

The cops arrived and maced my face
I peed myself and made my case
They tasered me upon my penis
And all I could do was to ask for leniency.
 
 

#Onety-Four – Man vs. Roach

I was looking at myself in the mirror when I saw two antennas wiggling around at the edge of the frame. Doesn’t this roach know I have a zero tolerance policy toward all bugs in my house? It mocks me. I should get the scissors and snip the ends off its antennas to cause it grievous pain. I’m going to murder this creature. The roaches can have it when I’m done, and no sooner. I slowly lifted the mirror off the wall and leaned it over so as to see behind it. There he was. He was looking at me. I could hear his thoughts. “Yeah, so what? What are you going to do about it? You and me, mister. This is the end of the world.”

I took the mirror over to the toilet and popped it against the seat. The roach dropped in. “You’re in the sea now. I am God. I control the sea.” I flushed it. The waters churned up and the roach and my log of shit spun around. Poseidon awaits, you scourge. Down you go to Davy Jones’ locker. Off to the ninth circle of hell. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Bond. Let’s have our martini stirred. Thank you for playing. See you on the other side. Give my regards to Natalie Wood. And eat my shit on your way down there.”

But the water did not go down. This old apartment plumbing was a hit and miss, a three flusher at times. Fucking Mexicans, I thought. If a kike did the pipes, this never would have happened. He crawled up on the log of shit and got his breath. He looked at me. I could hear his thoughts. “What now, God? Free will. I’m going to beat you. I know something about you.”

On the toilet was a can of Lysol disinfectant spray, and this was indeed an infection. I got the can and aimed the spray nozzle at the roach, the rather big and powerful roach that stood atop my log of shit, slowly spinning. “I got this spray here, and buddy, you are going down.” I sprayed the roach in the face.

He stood defiantly. I brought the full brunt of the spray to bear; I put the spray right to him. I heard him. You’ll have to do better. You’ll have to do better than this to put me out. I was here first. You are the only infection in the house. What impudence. I unloaded half the can before the log of shit rolled over and he sunk beneath the water.

The fucker was swimming down there. He was washing off the poison. He was swimming and powerful. He reached the side and started climbing up. It was as if he was coming up the side of the bowl to get me, to overpower me somehow and take my things. There was an intention. I could hear his thoughts. Is that all you have? Is this what you’re made of? You could have simply crushed me, but you cower behind your Lysol. You can’t stand the sight of me, the smell of me. You’d die if you touched me. I’m going to climb out of this bowl and fly at your face. All I have to do is touch you. All I have to do is touch you.

I got the shaving cream. Yes, it was cowardly. I flushed again, and the water oozed down the sides washing him back into the maelstrom. He climbed on my turd and slowly rotated around. I could see through his eyes my own big face slowly turning. He kept his eyes on me. This thing sees me. It’s reacting to me. It knows me. It wants to kill me. It’s me or him. This is the end of the world.

I covered his eyes with shaving cream. I brought my next weapon to bear. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. I coated him, smothered him with shaving cream. Now you see your end, I thought. Now you know your master. I am God. I control the seas. Asta La Vista. Arrivederci. Don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. And give my best to Steve Irwin. You’re breaking my heart.

But the water did not fully go down. And the roach swam with even more vigor, beneath the water, washing off the shaving cream and coming to rest on my spinning turd. He spun there. I could see the effort of his breathing. He looked me in the eyes. You are the Devil, he said. I could hear his mind. If only I could touch you, you would die. Your fear would kill you. You have no honor. You spray your Lysol and you spray your shaving cream, as you cower in fear. You’re afraid of death, you’re afraid of life, and you have no soul. He said this to me. Why don’t you have your soul? Why are you empty? He said this to me. What are you? Why are you alone? Why is this the end of the world? A battle with a roach?

I’m not a roach. I’m God. I’m the Devil. I’m everything you’ll never know because you live in a world of little things and meaningless pursuits. We’re all going down the road, he said. Maybe me first, but then you. Will you go with courage or will you cower behind your sprays? Will you look in the mirror and see yourself, or will you see me behind the mirror, just trying to be somebody, just trying to live. All I’m doing is trying to live. And all you’re doing is trying to kill me.

I jammed the toilet plunger into his screaming head. I fucking hit that roach a good three or four times, breaking its wings, driving it down, down beneath the water. And then I just watched. Maybe fifteen minutes transfixed in the last death throes of this valiant creature.  I saw him throb, the air pumping ever slower through his dying body. Slower and slower, the contractions came, and all the while, he’s looking at me. He’s looking directly into my eyes. I could hear his thoughts, and I heard nothing in those thoughts, except for one thing: If only I could touch you.

That’s what he said.

And then he stopped moving altogether, and slowly sunk to the bottom of the bowl, beneath a piece of spinning shit that began to fall apart in the water. This is the real mirror, I thought. I see myself here.

I flushed it all down, and the sea churned and the whole mess went away like it never happened, into wherever the pipes go. I don’t know where the pipes go. And the new clear water filled the bowl, and there was my face in there.

And I wasn’t God, and I wasn’t the Devil.

I wasn’t anybody.

#32 and a Half  – Gross Fucking Shit I Wrote on the Phone with my Friend Don

     My friend, Don, called me on the phone and told me I wasn’t gross enough. I told him, I’ll show you gross. You’ll see. Then I pulled a small maggot out of my girlfriend’s pussy and forced it into his mouth which caused him to gag and barf, some of which got in my mouth. His barf must have been infected because my throat began to swell up, and the roach that was caught in my esophagus, the one that crawled in there during the night when I was sleeping, imploded and ran down the corners of my mouth in a stream of white steamy ropes.

Ewe, I said. Looks like I just got done blowing a dead wino’s sticky uncircumcised flesh-banana. And I might have caught the syphilis that was oozing out of his blood-rod, but luckily it broke off because he had been dead for several months, so I spit it out. Then I barfed a hardened globe of infection, dead guy penis head, foreskin of a green nature, a maggot, my girlfriend’s pussy juice, some urine, and, my God, it couldn’t have gotten grosser.

Except that Tom Miller was writing the story and he had to take it so far into the realm of gross that no man could possibly survive without being scarred for life with the insidious horror that was Miller’s horrible writing. An angry ostrich ran over and viciously sucked out my butt hole and spit diarrhea butt-hole sauce back into my sphincter and I started to jack my bleeding dirty penis as hard as I could until I shot back with several spurts of brown encrusted sponge globules, which unfortunately landed in my mouth and began to gel with the vomit and the infected pus and the animal sperm.

And the intestinal gasses began to expel from my dilating anal cavity, and there was a set of teeth in there that gnawed on my hemorrhoids until white infected blood saturated my own face, because I was hunched over sucking all this maggot infested bile into my mouth so I could gag again and vomit my life all over the vagina of the corpse of the rotted mutilated chicken I had just fucked with my girlfriend’s anally encrusted vagina vibrator.

     Too bad it tore out the chicken’s vagina, but that there is good eating! I ate it and barfed and came all over the wall, and barfed again into my own mouth, and my balls were bleeding, and a roach leg was caught in an impacted recess in my tooth which kept my throat convulsing and gagging until stuff came up which I’m not sure humans are supposed to produce out of their bodies. After I cooled off awhile, I fucked our poodle, Pickens, in the depths of its animal ass, and I came blood and kidney stones.

Top that, bitch!

#Second To Last – My Daughter’s Balls

     We were delighted at first. She was the most beautiful baby ever born into the world. My husband Dick and I never had a doubt when the expert in fertility we hired told us about the new technology that would allow us to conceive. And when Dick shit this baby out and after they rinsed her off, I could tell she would grow up to be a beautiful creature.

     “I have to tie this off here,” said the doctor. He clipped off the tube that was coming out of my husband’s ass and into our daughter’s stomach. And as he pushed gently on her little stomach, a set of balls popped out of her cunt. “Holy fuck!”

     “Don’t worry,” said the doctor. “It’s just balls. We can work with that.”

     “What do you mean, Doc? Is my gay husband’s butt baby a boy or a girl? Is this a transgendered kid here?”

     “Not at all, Peter,” he replied. “Nothing to worry about, really. You have to relax. Sometimes in a situation like this where we’re splicing genes and using chemicals, a set of balls is the least of your worries. I’ve seen much worse. Why just last week, we were trying to get a butt baby turned around right so it wouldn’t be anally choked to death, and the guy had explosive diarrhea and… wait a minute. Wait just a minute here. Something’s not right.”

     “Doctor,” I said, “This isn’t what they warned me about earlier in this book, is it?

     “Oh my God,” said Dick. “I knew it. I just knew it! We’re in a fucking God damned Tom Miller story. That explains everything.”

     “Oh shit! Well what the fuck are we going to do? We got no control here.” Then Peter turned to the Doctor. “You’re a medical expert. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

     “You’re problem’s going to have to wait just a minute here until I solve MY problem. I’ve just noticed I have suddenly developed a set of amphibian gills and two assholes, and one my assholes is bleeding. NURSE! I’m going to need some gauze, and a pail of hot water, STAT!”

     Nurse Snappersnatch ran down the hall to the sink where she slipped in a puddle of shit and broke her mouth on the concrete floor. The baby began to scream. “Somebody shut that baby up,” said the Doctor. And somebody mop that shit up. It’s getting the nurse dirty. She’s crawling around in it. I can’t operate like this. This baby hasn’t got a chance with Tom Miller writing the story. We’ve got to get this baby out of here.

     “But what about her balls? My daughter’s balls are just hanging out, exposed. Should I tear them off or push them back in? Doctor, for Christ sake, say something medical.”

     “Best advice I have, and I’m speaking now as a medical expert… Pull them. You gotta’ tear those nuts outta’ there!” I pulled her nuts off. Baby died.

     “Oh God,” said the Doc, “My asshole is bleeding into my other asshole and clogging my amphibian gills. I can’t breathe. This is so fucking gross. When does it end. This story is so revolting. It’s got blood, assholes, asshole babies, a nut sack poking out of a baby’s vag, a puddle of shit, and all of the puke I’m about to bust out with.

     The doctor vomited, running through the hallway trying to make it to the can. He failed at every step, slipped on the shit nurse, and propelled himself face first into the rotting distended belly of a 300 pound male corpse which would have been properly autopsied if this had never happened.  And it would have been found to be murder. And how the lobster that crawled out of the corpse survived an extended period in the digestive track of this bloated part-time sewage worker is still a mystery to this day.
     “Dick,” I said to my husband, “You like lobster?”

     “Do you mean to raise as our own child in place of our dead one, or to eat?” He paused, then laughed.

     “What a thing to say,” I laughed. We were laughing together. It really was all a bit absurd. Besides, we didn’t even know what sex it was. So I offered a compromise. If it’s a female with nuts, I say we give it all the love we have and raise it together. If it’s not transgendered, we eat it. What do you say?

     “I don’t know…” said Dick. “Lobsters have a lot of mercury in their flesh, I’m told. “Do lobsters even have nuts?”

     The lobster slowly crawled over the dead doctor’s torso, slid his largest claw into the front of the pants and snipped off the penis.

     “What is this story about Tom,” Peter asked me. “Are you trying to say something here? Is it a story about sexual identity, or how fucked up the world is?”

     “No,” I replied. “All I’m trying to say is this: We need to look at the first pair of swimmerets under the tail of that lobster. If they’re hard and rigid, we have a male. If they’re soft and feathery, we’ve got a female. But we don’t have to look under there to know how delicious it will taste if we eat it. So don’t look, or do. But either way, it’s time to make a decision. Decide. Decide.

     And so how is this going to end, I wondered.

Story #Last

There once was a dude
Who was totally rude
He’d fart just to see people squirm

He was vividly lewd
Expressively crude
In his anus, there lived a small worm

The worm up in there
Enjoyed the off-air
That more often than not blew with vigor

There was one thing our man
With the worm in his can
Could not stand, and that was a Mexican.

Mexican beans can make Mexicans mean
With the powerful bombs they can blow

With only burritos and Negro Modelo
A Mexican fart can explode a bordello

And because at the bottom of their Mescal bottle
There’s always a worm that’s prepared to do battle

Our Dude met his match on the ranch when he unzipped his pants and let go a flambé that was swell and did dwell

In response to this volley the Mexican entered the lexicon of
World class farters by smoking our hero to toast with intestinal
Hose through a hemorrhoid encrusted brown bread and buttered
Opening, rivaling the gate to the ninth circle of hell.

The worm crawled out of the dude’s anus
The Mexican ate it and now he is famous.

And although the Mexican doesn’t like niggers,
At least he’s not white and that’s good, so he figures.

‘Cause the smell of white fart will linger and hang
With Jesus, whose fart will come back once again

To save us from sin
From the worm in our brain who lives in our anus

How totally heinous!

Tom Miller – Schlock Writer
9/9/2008 – Gainesville, FL

hi
me ernie
me dumb
i got all nine fingers in my mouth
i got a job
my job to
sit right here
and not get in trouble
i not smart
i not know much
but i know one thing
me ernie
that my name

napkin

i blow my nose
into a paper napkin
crumple it up
and throw it away
love is simple
why complicate things?

winter shadows

he talks to
imaginary people
i see him every day
i wonder
maybe i’m the
imaginary person
i can not see
the real people
he’s talking to
and one cold day
i never see him
again
i wonder
maybe he made it
to the world where
his imaginary friends live
maybe i am
a phantom
 about a
ghost in
two separate
dreams

seagulls drift
aimlessly overhead
eyeing the ladybug
crawling across
the dumpsite

3 cats, a nun, and her industrial park

3 cats
each different from the other
none like a nun
3 cats are
not the nun’s
she has none
not one
3 cats and a nun
none like an industrial park
3 cats don’t have that
but the nun has one
3 cats, a nun, and an industrial park
each different from the other
but 3 are cats who
own no industrial park
and one is a nun
who has one

a poem about poets who write poems about poetry

some poets
don’t like poems
about poetry
some poets
don’t like the
poets who write
poems about poetry
some poets don’t
like poets who
write poems about
poetry and poems
written by poets
who write poems
about poetry

as i am a
poet writing a
poem about poets
and poems
hated by poets
who write
poems which are
not about poetry
some poets must
not like me

ocala (my suggestion for the city song)

o, ocala
the emptiness
of your character
the Serene
and distant
sounds of
construction
and maybe a factory or two
the beauty of
your prisons
and the glee
of the police department

o, ocala
your uselessness
compels me to
stay just at bay
of your borders

the temptation of
dullness i resist
with every fiber
of my being
may i never experience
the repellent nothingness
that is you

sloth telephone

life is like a flower with smells as sweet as wine
life is like a birdy flying all the time
life is like a feather falling to the ground
life is like a buffalo walking on the ground

life is like a pencil, who knows what it will write
life is like a ball point pen, who knows what it will write
life is an umbrella so you won’t get wet
life is like a rainbow with a pot of gold to get

life is like a venus flytrap eating up a bug
life is like a piece of gum stuck into the rug
life is like a matchbook going up in flames
life is like a pancake cooking over flames

life can be a bean stalk, just ask jack, he’ll tell ya’
life can be a puppy dog coming up to smell ya’
life can be a baby falling from the sky
life can be a renaissance painter painting flies

life is like a football game, 23 hut hut
life can be like diarrhea coming out your butt
life is like a fairy boy holding a banana
life is like a ping pong ball shot out of the labia

life is fair and life is fun, eat me on a stick
life is making sticky buns, painter painting flies
life is like a kumquat, who knows what it will write
life is like a clothes pin holding a banana

Life is like a doughnut
life is like a frog
life is like a game of darts
life is like a fish

life is like a stringy dump
hanging from a fish
life is like a sloth telephone
who knows what it will write

life is like a hamburger tree
pick yourself a burger
life is like a bowl of shit
garnished with some cherries

the old pig who had no food

     one day an old pig was walking down the street when suddenly, a car came speeding around the corner and struck the pig sharply on the right underside of his nose. the pig was killed instantly, and he also had no food.

the singing of the birds

     when baby bird was born, he hungered for food and longed to fly as the other birds did. fortunately, mother bird arrived at the nest with a gigantic juicy worm. “thanks ma,” said the bird, eagerly anticipating his meal. but mother bird ate the whole worm herself. “mom,” said baby bird, “what was that? i’ve just been born, waiting for food, and here you go and eat my dinner. what about me?”

     “don’t worry,” mother bird assured him, “in just a few moments, i will regurgitate the worm and you can eat it out of my neck.” baby bird pondered the implications for some time before finally saying, “mom, you are one sick bitch. that is the most disgusting thing i have ever heard. if i wanted to eat vomit, i could have just eaten the worm myself and made myself puke. at the very least, it would be my vomit, but you’re asking me to eat your vomit. why don’t you just shit it out on a platter, have dad eat your shit and then throw up in my mouth. or for that matter, why don’t you eat the worm, take a shit, have dad eat your shit and shit the worm out himself where he could then eat it and barf it into your mouth and you can shit the whole mess down my throat. in fact, why eat the worm? if you really want to gross me out, mom, you can eat worm shit, throw it up into dad’s ass and he can fart the shit out into your mouth and you can shit dad’s worm shit into my asshole, you sick fucking bitch. i am out of here!”

     and with that, baby bird stepped off the nest and fell to the pavement with a splat. several days later, worms ate baby bird and saved his asshole for dessert.

End

porta potty disaster

     i had been standing in line for what seemed like eternity. my legs were crossed so tightly that i thought i’d have flat balls for the rest of my life. and worse, i wasn’t standing in line for broadway theater seats; i was waiting for the portable potty. suddenly, the thin fiberglass door sprung open and the 400 pound security guard walked out with the look of satisfaction clearly evident on his bulbous face. i entered the stall and closed and locked the door behind me. the first thing i noticed was the thick fog of smell that hung in the air like pea soup. i’m serious; pee soup.

     the moist aroma seemed to cling to me. it was like i was inside the colon of a wino. looking down, i noticed that the security guy had misplaced his asshole during his efforts and left a brown pancake hanging on the seat lip. my face spontaneously contorted into a grimace as i pondered the implications. i wasn’t capable of waiting in line for another stall, because my burrito was about to blow.

     i was going to have to straddle this mount and keep my buttocks out of the security guard plop. in order to make this possible, i would have to pull one leg completely out of my trousers to get the appropriate spread.

      you can imagine my discontent when my drawers rolled down my leg and into a puddle o’ piss. i was amazed at the rate with which corduroy absorbs large quantities of warm liguid. moving into position, i constricted my bowels as tightly as i could, and then launched a spray of colostomy into the mouth of the commode. i felt a certain satisfaction that given my explosive condition, i still managed to accurately place every drop exactly where it belonged. if the receptacle wasn’t so tiny, i might not have had to shift forward to aim my dick, which unfortunately provided the catalyst for what happened next. at that moment, i lost my footing, slipping in the pee pee, and landed ass first in the security guard discountenance.

     “My butt’s in shit! my butt’s in shit!” i angrily exclaimed. maybe i shouldn’t have jerked away so quickly because in my unbalanced condition, i tumbled against the wall of the unit sending it toppling over. it was like slow motion as the thing hit the ground and i saw the blue thick dirty tidal wave flying at me. the whole episode might have ended there had not an errant dukee ball found its way into my horrified mouth and down the back of my throat where an autonomic convulsion of my uvula caused me to swallow. an immediate churning of bile ensued and it wasn’t too long before i hacked up a green parage of raison bran and bread blops all over my chest.

     the chemical compounds used to break down a five square foot tank of poop began to dissolve my skin away and i kept thinking to myself that this must be the worst of it. but to my surprise and utter befuddlement, i saw something alive crawling over the potty seat, onto my leg, and up over my thigh. i had to ask myself the following question: how in the fuck could there possibly be a live 12 pound lobster in the porta potty? but before i could realize the danger of the agitated sea life, my penis was snipped at the trunk.

      fair readers, i share this story to illustrate not how disgusting things can get in life, but rather to demonstrate that with the proper will, skill, action, and state of mind, people can come back from their tragedies to triumph over overwhelming odds.

      that evening, after the surgery, i ate that lobster and had my sweet revenge. and i’ll tell you something else, too. you can be sure i boiled the screaming shit out of it.

end

 i may not be here

writing a poem
i may be a gazebo

i may be a six foot four
dark handsome stranger

like on t.v.
i may be a

display case
window glass

porcelain dolls arranged
facing magnetic north

i may be a
sidewalk etched with

the broken backs
of many mothers

i may be a
space alien

or a bible
or a knife

i may be a
poet in a

coffee shop
with ideas

too trapped to
make the page

i may be looking at you
from behind closed doors

i may not be here

the old skanky hag

once upon a time, there was a dusty old skanky hag of a bitch
who lived in a cave. each morning she would drink a cup of tea,
only to discover she was sipping old denture water and her teeth
were in it. birds would shit on her and it would fucking rain. in
the dark and stormy afternoon, the bitch would burn some toast.
the smell reminded her of her own uncontrollable farting. later,
the stupid cunt would step on her cat again because she was so
fucking blind and ugly. cat hated her. and at night, she would drop
to her knees and pray and the rescue workers were getting sick
of responding to her medic alert calls to come and get her off the
floor. stupid cuntbag.

the old lady

once upon a time, there was a nice old lady who lived in a cottage
on the hill. each morning, she would sip a cup of english tea and sit
on the porch admiring the effortless flight of clouds and birds. in the
early afternoon, she would bake fresh bread from scratch in her stone
over and then set it out to cool. the smell reminded her of when she
was young. late afternoon, she would read in her book and enjoy
the warmth of her pet cat, who gently kneaded itself into a blissful
purr. and at night before bed time, she would pray that peace and
good health befall the people of the earth, and that sweet dreams
befall children. she would drift off to sleep and relive the things she
did that day. stupid cuntbag.

 ———————————

the approach
so final
a twisted fragment
of a loose garment
falls away

———————————

slut cat

fee fee the cat was in heat and began to wipe her puckering labia on bill’s knee as he sat on the couch watching championship wrestling and eating day old twisty bread from the pizza place down the street. bill took a last bit and got himself another of the delicious bread sticks. he held it in his fist ready to eat, but fee fee had backed up on it and was working it to a nub. bill, not noticing the feline bread frenzy, pulled out and took a bite.
     “now this is the butter sauce i remember from the old country,” bill said.

a disturbing dinner

one morning i awoke with a burning sensation in my nose, way up at the back near where i swallow. closing my right nostril off with my finger, i exhaled and out shot a roach, splitting in two as it bent and snapped through the narrow passage way.
     “hey, i was eating!” it complained.

cribble and dame and de ferret game

cribble de doo a lady says
cribble de doo de dee
a bibble of fat bethought a ball
a bibble de ball was he

formiddle befuddle a friendly lot
perella a smiggle of dame
she smeggle de ferret de smell a lot
but tibble be member her name

cribble de lady de ferret she got
came tumbling down de lane
dey twisted it up and threw it around
and played dem a little game

the game be de gambit ta ferret about
until the poor critter be dead
a ferred deteriorated dey got
and buried the thing in the bed

grand de be momma set off to de bed
to catch her a wink of de eye
she sat on de ferret and barely could bare it
and so she did crumble and die

dat is the tale of cribble and dame
and the ferreted game dey did play
that causet de grandma to crumble and die
on de bed where de dead ferret lay

the story of the mop

     one day, this mop was hanging around with not much to do. the cleaning lady came in and almost used the mop, but she didn’t. then she left. but the mop didn’t care because it’s just a piece of wood with some yarn tied on it.

the story of the frightened monster

     one dark and stormy night, little billy baxter thought he heard something moving under the bed. he leaned over the edge of the mattress and slowly pullled the covers up so he could see into the dark recess beneath him. there in the corner, cowering in fear, was a small furry monster.
     “i’m sorry,” whimpered the monster, “i didn’t mean to bother you. i farted.”
     “come here, you purple mangy mongrel,” shouted billy as he got a fist full of blue fur and dragged the creature out into the open. “i’m going to kick your shit out for waking me up!” the poor best shivered with fear. little billy baxter jumped on the creature, bit its neck out, ripped and clawed its tender flesh, and pounded it into oblivion until the thing was dead.

     grover never knew what hit him.

fable of the clam

     at the bottom of the sea there lived a clam. one day, an insurance salesman swam up to investigate, but the clam would not open its shell. “are you home?” asked the insurance salesman.
     “if i open up, i fear you’ll eat me,” the clam replied.
     “i won’t eat you. i’m not a trigger fish, i’m an insurance salesman.”
     “oh. in that case, okay.” as the clam opened its shell, the insurance salesman got him and ate him. some clams are so fucking stupid.

red boats (the poem)

i like red boats
especially if they floats
i can sail them in the moat
or even give a lift to a goat

if you do not like my ship
fuck you faggot, suck my dick
i don’t have to please you anyway
’cause it’s my boat and i’m
a better writer than hemingway

in fact, i’m better than kipling or poe
even better than my neighbor, joe
he’s not famous or anything
he just don’t have no boat or moat or goat
nor can he write

musky man

from down wind on the hill side there came an unusual smell
musky man came running with his smell spread in a swill
his hairy armpits sending out a musk into the air
a wet and soppy ball sack pasted to his thigh with care
he bore the fruit of twenty en and some would swear aloud
musky man came running by followed by a cloud
a cloud of brown and yellow with a rain of smelly sweat
causeing wheat to die away and none has grown there yet
so when you breathe the summer air and suddenly you hurl
musky man is sure to come with all his manly burl

Stupid Fish

     one day, stupid fish was swimming along the bottom of the bay when he saw a worm with a hook through it.
     “they think i’m so stupid,” said stupid fish, “but i’m not so as dumb as they think i are. i’ll just eat around the worm so it don’t get me.” stupid fish bit into the hook and was hauled to the surface by two boy scouts who beat him on the hard concrete road until he was dead.

the end.

how to write a poem

a brand new
top flight pad of
legal yellow

a black felt tip
expresso
extra fine point

wrote a poem
about god

how he killed
the most people
in the bible

read it back and
threw it away

“well,” i said,
“there’s one.”

for the love of chess

my opening
strong

soldiers
stake their best
positions

lines of attack
open

the king
begins to shake

then
my move
and the blunder

i have lost again

smack smack squirt snore

the couple on the couch
kiss
     touch gently

quiet sounds i’ve
heard before

she is
feeling him

tonight
he’ll squirt
his ratty little juice

and snore

one for the birds

how about it!
and one
for the roaches.

can they have theirs?

how about the music?
one for the music.

and i’d like another one,
this one for fun.

this one for love.

this one for me.

this one
also for me.

i am drinking.

i am drunk.

one for you ladies.

one for the hippy
that looks like jesus.

one for jesus.

can i get one for jesus?

can i get one for jesus?

what do you mean, I’m cut off?

i clean my hole

it is not coming out
in one piece

there is residue
and toilet paper
won’t do

someone is knocking

“just a minute,”
i say.

i get a paper towel
fold it over
wet it

put on
a little soap

i stick it in there
good

rinse and repeat

they knock again

“hold on,” i say

there is still
some brown coming off

i wash again with
a new paper towel

until it comes out
clean and white

knock! knock! knock!

“for christ’s sake,
i’m cleaning my
goddamn hole!

give it a rest!”

when i open the door
there is nobody there

the lady and the dog

they came walking by
the lady and the dog

the dog took pause
to sniff me

“come on,”
the lady said

she pulled the leash
and they continued
down the road

i liked the dog
but i wouldn’t
sniff the bitch walking her

for a liver treat

11:10 p.m. – gainesville, florida

there’s no fitting in

a half moon
bitches over gainesville

people in little groups
smoking chattering
standing around

telling bad jokes

allowing time
to run them down
like road kill

birds
shit and sing
on the fence

nonsense

they scatter
at their own noise
then return

people talking to
themselves
to the air

shouting at the
traffic lights

plodding along
wide eyed

pissing on the
bricks in the
road

you allow a
mosquito
feeding on your arm

to have its fill

mirror

you don’t care about my poems
why say anything?

i hate you
go fuck yourself!

you are the ugliest
man in the world

monkeys wouldn’t
waste their shit
to throw it on you.

thank god for
affirmations

without them
i’d be nothing

darkness

where ever you go

the club the
     coffee shop

the store
     they are there

you say hello
and they say hello

you go home alone
they go home together

you think about
what they do

the things you
used to do

how the intimate
moments

are given up

until there is
nothing left but
darkness

and they are there too.

goodnight coffeebar

thanks
for your encouragement

your inspiration
you have done me well

i trust you
coffeebar

with my secrets

you have never
wronged me

in the smoke
music and
dark lights

there is hope

the chess players
lose and win

the bands play

the streets
wait patiently
to guide me

home

each footstep
a kiss in the
madness of the
moist night’s
soul

– Tom Miller

Duck Farts
By Tom Miller

© Jan. 2006 – FREDInk Productions

Introduction

In all my years of professional writing, I have never written such a professional book as the one you are about to read. The level of story, typing and craftsmanship surpasses my greatest previous works by leaps and bounds in terms of the story, the typing, and the craftsmanship. It is no less than a work of genius, and I say this with absolute modesty and humbleness. The last thing I am, after all, is a modest and humble man, and this is what I am saying now. I hope you will enjoy the stories and learn from them, as I have, that the world can be a terrible place if we only try our best to make it so with considerable effort, story, typing and craftsmanship. I hope you’ll do the same. Enjoy!

– Tom Miller, Oct. 1961

Squirrel Blow Jobs

One day as I was out in the forest walking my sheep, I chanced to notice an unusual thing. A small bush was shaking as if something were going on behind it. Using my best effort to sneak over undetected despite my sheep, I peeked over and saw perhaps the most disgusting thing a man can ever see in the forest; a gay squirrel blow job was going on, and in public! Thank the balls of Jesus, my sheep didn’t see.

And as I glanced around me, there were many small bushes shaking in the same fashion and I realized I had wandered into a gay squirrel blow job park and for the sake of myself and all the sheep of the world, it had to be stopped before harm was done. I moved into a clearing and used my cell phone to dial 911, but the signal wasn’t strong enough to connect. Thanks, Cellular One. And I’m sure the blow jobs continue to this day.

I have never told my sheep about this, not even when we fuck.

I had been perfectly clear on the telephone, but these days, people just don’t care any more about the quality of service offered the general public, particularly in the arena of home pizza delivery. I had no complaints about the speed with which my pizza arrived. Indeed, it was quite a speedy delivery; surprisingly so. It was reasonably priced, and on this level I was also satisfied. But when I opened up the box to enjoy my meal, my pizza was absolutely riddled with vagina. Friends, I simply can not eat pizza with vagina on it. They remind me of anchovies, only much saltier. I registered my complaint in the most polite fashion but the gentleman on the other end of the line called me a foul name and told me he would make it so I could never again order a pizza for delivery. I mean, who came up with vagina on pizza anyway? The people who thought up pineapple and ham? Vaginas… Sick! Do people really eat those things?

I Farted Brown at the DMV

I was at the Department of Motor Vehicles taking my written exam when some kind of a pop happened in my ass. I had hoped it was simply a tiny fart and that nobody would notice, but as it turned out, I farted brown. I knew there was a trickle forming, and a faint smell rose up. On the test, there was a triangle shaped yellow sign. Which one was it? A stop sign? Oncoming train? Road blocked? Suddenly, some raison sized peas leapt into the situation and worsened it considerably. I clenched my ass cheeks together to contain the damage. I checked off a mark for “Slippery Road Ahead”, turned in my test, and passed it all with flying colors. Later, I wiped up privately in the restroom and a man at the urinal in there had the biggest penis I had ever seen.

“You looking at my dick?” he asked, angrily.

“Not me,” I replied. “Just cleaning up my ass here.”

“Gross dude,” he said.

“You’re one to talk,” I replied, “Look at that ungodly ding dong hanging. Your dick head is resting in the bowl of the urinal. Talk about gross.”

“Ah ha!” He exclaimed, “You WERE looking at my piece. I ought to call the fag patrol on you.” And this incensed me so much that I threw my dirty toilet paper on him and ran out. I got into the line for the driving performance test and who do you think the driving instructor was? That’s right, the big penis guy.

“Well well well,” he said. “You think you’re going to pass this test after what you did back there?”

I replied, “Maybe not, but I’m passing something right now.” And I farted so hard my small intestine got caught in my asshole and now I have to shit in a bag I carry around with me where ever I go. When I get road rage, I throw the bag.

I was feelin’ a might horny and I had smoked up a shitload of weed. When Redneck Joe come over, I give him some beer and got him good and drunk. If’n I couldn’t fuck his wife, I’d get him to suck my dick and he didn’t care ’cause he’d fuck his daughter and his dog one after the other. So he does a number on my wang dang doodle and proceeds to depart. “Where’s you going?” I ask him. “To beat some queers,” He says back to me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he shoulda’ be beatin’ himself since he just got done sucking my dick. Havin’ a man suck your dick is just horny. But if’n you’s sucking a man’s pecker, you’re a damn queer if’n you ask me. I should have done beat him my own damn self. I hate fuckin’ queers. I don’t hate fuckin’ queers; I just hate them what IS queers.

A ratty cat

Had caught a rat
And almost started eating

The rat fought back
And bit the cat

And now the cat is bleeding

Deep within the Forest of Shame, as legend has it, there lives a creature so odd and horrifying that almost anyone who has actually seen it is said to have been consumed by it. I’m talking about the giant Forest Oyster. Often seen during months with the letter “R” in the name, it opens its mighty shell and can clamp down on an owl or a bear in a split second. Beware the giant Forest Oyster, for if you come face to face with it, you are sure to be eaten. Warning signs have been posted to fend it off. The signs read, “There is a risk associated with consuming raw humans and we can not be held responsible for illness or death.” But this has not reduced the number of kills for this treacherous beast. For giant Forest Oysters are unable to read, and even if they could, they would likely ignore the warnings because consuming humans are rumored to give the Oysters very rigid boners.

“Dad,” said the bee, “Pollen won’t stick to my ass.”
“Maybe you’re a queen.” He replied.

One fine afternoon, I was outside mowing my lawn when there was a terrible grinding noise, followed by an explosion of blood and gore coming out of the side of the lawn mower where the grass comes out. I don’t know the technical name is for that part of the mower, but it was definitely covered in blood. And something shot out of it and landed against the wall of my house. I went over to examine it and it was basically a set of teeth loosely held together by a couple tendons of red meat. There was also an eye, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what I had run over. Certainly an animal of some kind, but with only a set of teeth and an eye, I couldn’t be certain. I collected the teeth and eyeball in a ziplock bag and took it over to the natural history museum for a professional opinion by one of their staff animal people. I don’t know the technical name is for these people, but they are trained professionals when it comes to identifying animals from just a couple of parts. Zoo people or animalogists or something like that. Whatever. Anyway, the guy studied my find for several days before informing me that whatever I had run over was certainly an animal of some kind, and had been badly damaged. That was all he could tell me. So I took the bag of parts over to the Vet’s office and the Vet told me it was dead. So now I knew three things: It was an animal, it was damaged, and it was dead. And I never did figure out what that part of the lawn mower is where the grass shoots out, nor what the professional animal people are officially called at the natural history museum, but there’s a quote that springs to mind and it goes something like this: “If you don’t know something, it will hurt you” or is it, “What you don’t know hurts me,” or “Hurt me if you know what you don’t know…” Oh, fuck it.

Stanley Pookins was sitting at the bar drinking his eleventh double shot of scotch whiskey when the most beautiful woman he had ever seen walked in and sat next to him. “I’ll have a Margarita,” she said.

“And I’m buying,” said Stanley. He introduced himself.

“Pleased to meet you,” said the woman in a rich velvety voice, “I’m Dora Climax.” They had a pleasant conversation, which led to the idea of going home together to fuck and suck each other’s hidden parts, and they did so with vigor until they both fell asleep. When Stanley woke up the next morning after his buzz wore off, he glanced over next to him to bask anew in the glow of his woman and instead saw laying there a beast of ungodly horrid appearance. Her eyebrows were like mustaches and the hair coming out of her nose was of sufficient length to braid into a rope and hang out of a window. The drool that had dried in the corners of her mouth was brown and yellow, and the tip of her nose was made out of some kind of crust. She had a small goatee hidden between a fold under her chin and one of her breasts was a sagger. Her natch was shaved into a long thin triangle with an arrow pointing to her green clitoris. The legs were bloated and discolored with gutters and alleys of varicose veins. Her toes, the few she had, were mangled and the nails were blackened. There were dust bunnies between them and fungus beneath them. “Good Morning,” she grunted in a voice like sandpaper mixed with lye. The smell of her breath was chlorine and rat butt.

Stanley got up from his bed, went into the kitchen, opened the pantry, had eleven double shots of whiskey, and fucked her again.

One day, Stupid Ed was walking through the woods when he ran headfirst into a tree. “Ouch!” He said, “Stupid tree. I’ll show you!” And then he punched the tree but hurt his hand badly. “Ouch,” Said Stupid Ed, “Damn tree hit me in the hand. I’ll kick you good for that.” Stupid Ed kicked the tree and broke his foot. “Ouch!” said Stupid Ed. “Now my damn foot’s broken because of this tree. I’m gonna’ chop you down for this.” Stupid Ed chopped at the tree with his hand, and broke several fingers. “Now he’s after my hand again!” Several days later, a man named Stupid Ernie found Stupid Ed lying at the foot of the tree in a heap of tattered flesh.

“Why did you do this?” he asked the tree.

One day, a small boy named Billy found a baby grasshopper and took it home to show his mother. “Can we keep him?” he asked her.

“Yes,” his mother replied. “We’ll raise him like he was one of our own.” Billy and his mother taught the grasshopper to eat with a little knife and fork, and schooled him in the basic skills of reading, writing, and arithmetic. Soon, the grasshopper was old enough to go to college and majored in musical theater. After a short but successful career off -Broadway, he was offered a part in the feature film remake of The Miracle Worker. The grasshopper was nominated for an academy award for his uncanny portrayal of Helen Keller. Things seemed to be going well for the grasshopper until a cat got hold of him.

A duck was swimming in a pond when suddenly, he heard a gun shot in the distance. This caused the startled duck to fart and the fart rose to the surface of the pond and formed a bubble, which held together because of the soapy oily toxic pollution that leaked into the pond from a nearby chemical factory. The bubble took off into the air and was carried on the wind, by coincidence, to the hunter who had shot at the duck. When the bubble burst near the hunter’s face, a horrible smell permeated the air. “Duck farts!” said the hunter. And then he died.

Old Ed Crotcher stepped into his shower and turned on the water. It was freezing cold. “Come on, you bastard!” He shouted as he quickly turned the handle on the hot water side. Suddenly, the water became extremely hot. “Now the hot’s on too much!”

He tried to turn up the cold water but the cold water was all the way turned up. Ed reached for the hot handle to turn it down but turned it the wrong way and the water became scalding. “Jesus, help me!” Ed shrieked, “My skin’s burning off.” He adjusted the knobs until he had finally reached a temperature, which pleased him. “Finally,” he said, “That’s what I like.” He grabbed for the soap but it slipped from his hand and fell into the drain. “Now my soap’s down!” Ed muttered. As he bent over to pick it up, his feet slipped out from under him and he landed teeth first on the bath tub faucet, knocking his dentures into the back of his throat. As he began to gag up the dentures, his wife turned on the washing machine in the other room and the water in the shower became scalding again. “Garfa garfa gaa…” Ed gurgled.

After a series of coughing and retching, he vomited the teeth, which lodged in the drain with the soap, and the tub began filling up around him with boiling water and puke. “I’m soaking in my puke!” he shouted, “Turn off the God Damn washing machine!” As he attempted to right himself, he noticed a piece of bone sticking out from his hip, and as a result of this injury, he only managed to wedge himself down deeper into the water. Then in the stress of the moment, his asshole dilated and released a quart of diarrhea into the human soup he was now cooking in. After some time had passed and the soap had dissolved, the tub began to drain and Ed was left toothless and covered in shit and puke. “This is the total opposite of what I was trying to do with this shower.” said Ed.

And the moral of the story is: Legalize abortion.

Once upon a time, a small mouse was seeking to journey across a river when he saw a duck. “Oh Mr. Duck,” said the mouse, “May I jump on your back and ride across the river with you?” The duck replied, “Of course you may, but I must warn you in advance, I masturbate.”

“It is of no consequence to me,” replied the mouse, “And I would be grateful for your assistance.”

“As you wish,” said the duck. He positioned himself at the river’s edge and allowed the mouse to climb aboard. Then the duck made for the other side when in the middle of the river, he turned over on his back and began to stroke himself with his webbed feet. The mouse tried to swim for his life but could only keep his head above water to say, “My death is all that’s left for me.” and to hear the duck reply, “Hey, I told you I was a Masturbating Duck.”

If you’re walking down the street
And find you need to pee
Just piss half into the road
And save the rest for me

One day, the Easter Bunny was Hippity Hoppitying along the road deep in the woods when he came across an old run down cabin. He could tell the cabin was occupied as he heard the sounds of hoops and hollers coming from within, along with the sounds of a banjo. “Maybe they might like some colored eggs.” The Easter Bunny said. He reached into his basket and pulled out the best of the eggs. “Since they must be poor, I’ll give them the most brightly colored egg, and that will lighten their spirits. The Easter bunny opened the door and saw Bubba and Billy Bob. The banjo playing stopped. Bubba put down his beer and said, “Well what do we got here? A furry little rat.”

To which Billy Bob added, “Let’s fuck it!” In a flash, they were up from their chairs and kicking at the Easter Bunny with their boots. Eggs went flying in all directions. Bubba got the animal by the ears and held it down as Billy Bob pulled out his engorged pecker. “Hold him,” said Billy Bob, “You gonna’ git some now.” He stuffed his hose into the Easter Bunny’s asshole and began to grind. Shit and guts came out of the ass, along with a few Easter Bonnets. “Look here,” Said Billy Bob, “I’s fuckin’ a rat.” Bubba beat on the Easter Bunny’s face with his fist until it was unconscious and after they both fucked it for several hours. Then they cooked it and ate it.

“Better than Santa?” asked Bubba.

Billy Bob replied, “Tighter. Not better.”

I was sitting on a park bench minding my own business when suddenly, I was approached by an officer of the law. “Excuse me, sir.” He said to me. “Have you seen anybody suspicious come running by here?”

“No,” I replied. “I haven’t.”

“Thank you, sir.” The officer said, and then he walked away.

on my way down the street, i was attacked by a fucking bird.
i said, “hey, you fucking bird. get the fuck off me.” fucking bird
still kept coming. it was fucking pecking at me. fucking pecking
at my eyes. i said, “goddamn you fucking bird.” and i started waving my fucking arms to get this fucking thing off the fuck of me. i mean what the fuck? i couldn’t believe this fucking shit. i didn’t know if i fucking got in its fucking territory or if it was just pissed the fuck off, or what. i started running to get away and it followed the fuck out of me. it took a fucking piece out of my head. it started flying around with a patch of my hair in it’s fucking beak. “fuck you, dude!” i shouted. and some lady heard me and told me to watch my dirty mouth and i said, “fuck you lady, i got a bird coming at my head here.”and she said, “serves you right for your potty talk.” and i said, “lady, you’re a real fucking cunt, you know that?” and she distracted me and that’s when the bird pecked my fucking eye out and i was so mad i beat the lady up and shit in her mouth.

santa bear

little susie couldn’t sleep that christmas eve. she was too excited.
suddenly she heard some noises coming from the chimney. “santa!” she
thought. susie quietly made her way to a hiding spot where she could see santa emerge, and soon a large figure came out of the chimney wearing a red suit, a red hat, and a bushy white beard. but that’s where the similarities between santa and a large smart bear end. he immediately sniffed out little susie’s hiding place and took a vicious bite out of her pelvis. susie’s screams attracted her parents who were also killed and eaten by the bear and the only presents he left behind were several piles of putrid scat.

the end

three frat boys were walking down the street when they overheard a drag queen mentioning that all frat boys act like straight guys but when you get them in the bedroom, they’re the first ones to throw their legs up in the air. “wow,” said one of the frat boys, “that drag queen really knows her stuff.” and after i took my dress off, i wrote this.

the end

greta was the girl nobody talked to at the school. she wasn’t ugly nor beautiful. she wasn’t smart nor stupid. for no reason whatsoever, she was the girl everyone teased, especially on valentine’s day. i gave her a valentine invitation to a party and the address on it was to a human waste facility. i wish i could have seen her face when she got there and realized nobody loved her and there would be no party. the next day in school, she was crying. and i was whispering to her, “go on, cry. cry like a little baby, you ugly whore.” that afternoon we threw rocks at her.

when greta’s mom died of a stroke later that year, we used to tell greta that her mother was rotting meat. and we also poisoned her dog. she really loved that dog. and i’d like to tell you she had some measure of revenge on us for being so hateful to her, but she just curled up into a ball and they put her in an institution. on her first valentine’s day in the institution, i sent her a card that said how crazy people will never find love and die alone, and that’s exactly what happened to her.

Unwilling Meat

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out my steak. I was looking forward to this particular piece of meat and had paid a hefty price for it. As I pulled back the wrapping, a strange thing happened. It bit me. I don’t know how or why, but the steak took a big chunk out of my hand and started to chew on it. “You bastard steak!” I shouted as I wrapped my bleeding hand with a dishtowel. I stabbed it with a large fork and threw it into the hot pan of olive oil. When the screaming stopped and it finally began to cook, I felt some sense of satisfaction. And in the end, I ate the steak and it was delicious.

But the chunk of meat that steak took from my hand never grew back. And later, I was very disappointed to find out that people don’t regenerate their flesh no matter how much meat they eat.

We first saw each other in a bar. I was so shy I turned away when our eyes met. She thought this meant that I wasn’t interested. But I actually was, and that’s how things began.

As we came to know each other, we had fun going out on dates. But there came a time when she wanted to fuck. I didn’t want to get that involved since, now that I had come to know her so well, I figured fucking would just ruin our great relationship. I only like to fuck people I’ve just met who I don’t particularly care for. Then I don’t have to deal with all the baggage. I’m a selfish bastard, which is my way of saying I’m an artist. So I resisted her unspoken advances and kept quiet on the subject. That had the uncanny effect of causing her to want to fuck me more. The more she hinted at the subject without actually saying anything, the more I avoided it, and her.

Now she was much more interested. She fooled around with a couple of my friends on the side but that was fine with me since she and I weren’t exactly an item, or were we? No, I guess not since we hadn’t done the deal clincher, and at this point we probably weren’t going to because I was becoming very attracted to her. My friends asked if we were an item and both of us kind of thought we were, but she’s fucked a few of my friends and I was fucking other people. Little did I know that by avoiding her as much as I was, it was making her want to fuck me more and also making her feel rejected. This was depressing the shit out of me.

She began to think of all the reasons that I might be rejecting her. Was she fat? Was she stupid? Of course she was perfectly beautiful and very smart. She became sad and I became troubled, and neither one of us talked about it because we couldn’t explain it to each other. It was embarrassing and made no goddamned sense. Now I can’t sleep because I keep trying to figure out a way to explain it to her without her feeling as if she’s being rejected. I’m not rejecting her at all, quite the opposite. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings explaining that, even though both our feelings are already shredded. If it keeps up like this, I’m going to hate her and she’s going to hate me. You’d think under those circumstances that we’d probably finally grudge-fuck each other. But like I said: I only fuck people I like and don’t care for.

And she’s someone I love so much that now, I can’t stand her.

Back to Tom Miller’s Home Page

by tom miller 

Contents

three aliens

fred fartenmapants

judy’s tit problem

questions of logic

judy’s tit problem – a follow up

fact:

a funny thing happened

a couple of lady lizards

tom miller tackles, the aristocrats

my wet pussy

How To Write As Good As Me Do
Chapter #1. The importances of technique

Rub Me

The Failure of the Bunny Poems
or The Rotting Dead Otter in My Mother’s Asshole

Seahorse Boy’s Education

The Day my Nose Farted

Questions of Logic II

Once Upon a Time in the Maggot Factory

Speaking of hookers…

three aliens, gible, snorky, and pebah-bittley bah arrived to earth on schedule from planet nib-2-gumpa dump. their plan was to form an alliance with the animal kingdom to smite the human infestation from earth before earth’s inevitable ruin at the hands of mankind via pollution, nuclear armageddon, and odd experiments being performed at the university of florida on anti-matter. the rag-tag band of extra-terrestrials made their way through the woods until they spied a bear.
“let me handle this…” said gible, the most fluent in bear. gible approached the large brown animal but before he could speak, was gored horribly in the stomach, mouth, and pleckum; which is a small protuberance in the neck of nib-2-gumpa dumpians. he died. the other aliens ran and the bear took chase. it was no contest. nib-2-gumpa dumpians don’t manage rough terrain well with their single pogo-leg method of movement. the plan was a failure, and the bear died a short time later from e-coli and a gunshot wound, both of which originated from the same hunter; the e-coli from his ass which got into the stream several years ago and multiplied, and the other from his gun which was a very large gun designed to kill bears. and that is all i can think of to happen in this story and so we end.

fred fartenmapants was wandering through the park when he noticed a small baby bird with a broken wing at the bottom of a large oak tree. “this must have falled out of the nest,” said fred, who failed several courses in english during his tenure at the local community college. “i am going to get and fix it the best of all,” he said, “and that way when throwed up into the air, it will fly away as good as new can be.” fred reached down to get the bird when suddenly, the mother bird flew down from a nest and began to peck at his eyes. “oh my black Jesus,” he shouted, “not my eyes.” fred went to shield his eyes from the attack and accidentally smashed the baby bird into one of them. “my eye!” shouted fred, “my eye!” and then he farted and ran head first into the tree knocking himself unconscious. when he awoke, fred found himself seated about one-hundred feet above the ground in a large nest. he threw up and a small group of baby birds formed a circle around him and began to eat. the mother bird was chewing on fred’s penis because it looked like a worm, and i don’t like this story so i stopped writing here.

judy’s tit problem

judy had just had surgery to make her breasts voluptuous. they used to be ample, but that wasn’t good enough for her… not good enough by about eight thousand dollars and a week and a half of severe pain. but now, she felt sure that with her improved voluptuous breasts, she could bag herself a man to spawn ugly babies with. she put on her make-up, stuffed her voluptuous breasts into a victoria’s secret support bra, donned a fabulous black evening gown, and set out for the only nightclub in town, fatback-dan’s dippin’ hole, to find the man of her dreams. on the way there, she went to adjust her expensive diamond broach and accidentally stuck the pin of it into her tit and through the implanted bag of silicon. one would think this would simply cause a slow leak, but for some reason, maybe the pressure of “voluptuous”, it blew up and a piece flew off to the side of the road where it was scooped up by a bird and dropped into the mouth of a big man who was sitting in a nest about one-hundred feet above. “come back here with my nipple, you cock-sucker,” shouted judy. to make a long story about this short, i stopped writing it.

questions of logic

Q: hi. i read your story about the baby bird and i was wondering how the man got into the nest. it’s not explained and i’m sure a mother bird of any kind couldn’t lift a full grown man into a nest. please respond as soon as possible as i’m about to cum.

A: thank you, reader, for your thoughtless question. in literature, it is very easy for anything to happen because a writer can write his story exactly the way he or she wishes. if i wanted to, i could have had the man fly up there with his own pair of hidden wings… if i wanted. i hope this gets you off.

Q: in the story, judy’s tit problem, you never mentioned whether or not she ever found the man of her dreams. i was hanging on that bit, but you pulled the rug out from under me. would you consider a follow-up to judy’s condition?

A: yes, that’s a good idea. a short follow-up could fill some space in my new book, “in the arse of the european pronunciation of ass”, quite nicely. thank you for your reply and i hope you consider nailing your rug down. it keeps the dust out. fuck you, by the way.

judy’s tit problem – a follow up

remember judy, the young lady who had her breasts enlarged so she could attract the man of her dreams? you know… the lady who popped her tit with her broach pin and the thing just fucking blew the fuck up? remember? and the tit flew off and landed on the ground? bird picked it up? cock-sucker? oh come on, i just wrote the damn thing. how can you not remember? dude, is your brain on? neurons all firing? what… nothing but a brain stem in there? god damn it! you ruined my follow-up!

fact: men suck dick better than women because men know what men like. But nobody sucks dick better than a fat chick, thus invalidating my initial sentence and replacing it with this one.

a funny thing happened

ed called his dog. dog didn’t come. where’s that damn dog, said ed. dog didn’t answer. ed looked everywhere. he looked in the yard, he looked in the garage, he looked under the bed. no dog. but then, a funny thing happened.

a couple of lady lizards

a couple of lady lizards were trying to blend in to the scenery so as not to be recognized by flies as a mortal threat, when suddenly they noticed a young male lizard, walking slowly towards them across the branch of a bush. “oh oh,” said zelda, “here comes trouble.”
“give him a chance,” said linda, “we haven’t even seen his neck thing.”
“if it’s big and red, i’m gonna puke.” zelda said, and then her tongue darted out to the left and caught a big juicy diptera by the back. half the fly hung out of her mouth as she began to chew.
“nice one,” said linda. “that’ll keep you going for a few hours.”

meantime, leroy lizard was only a few feet away, and he inflated his neck thing a good half inch. the colors were glorious; reds, greens, a patch of vivid yellow. “god, did you see that,” said linda. that’s making my lizard pussy drip. somebody get me a mop, this boy’s got it!”
“mmph mmph,” replied zelda, munching on the fly.

but in that instant and out of the blue, a giant cat paw plunged through the foliage and trapped the poor horny squamata by the tail, which broke off in defense and began to wriggle. luckily for leroy, the cat went for the tail instead of him. he wasn’t horny any more and darted away. “fiddlesticks!” linda said. “i just can’t get it on with an amputee. it’ll take days for that to grow back.” the stress of the moment made linda change colors, and after zelda got the fly down, she laid an egg.

“aw, fuck ‘em.” she said.

tom miller tackles, the aristocrats

a talent agent was sitting in his office looking over some of the new acts, when his secretary rang. “yes, mrs. fucklestein?”
“there’s a man here who says he’s got an act that you won’t believe. he says it’s urgent.”
“send him in,” said the agent. a few minutes later, the door opened and a well dressed man entered the office. he was holding a picture of his family.
“how can i help you,” asked the agent.
“good afternoon,” said the man. “my name is norman chandler and i’ve got an act that will blow away any other act in the world of entertainment. this act is so good, you’ll never believe it. all i ask is that you let me explain it to you. it’ll just take five minutes.”
“all right,” said the agent, “you’ve got five minutes. but make it a doozy, because i’m counting.”
norman held up the picture and showed it to the agent. “see this?” he said. “this is my family. they’re all in the act. see there, that’s my wife, norma. that’s my nine year old son, norm jr., and that’s my four year old daughter, numbnuts. she has scoliosis, herpes, and an anal fistula.”
“anal fistula, what’s that?” asked the agent.
“an anal fistula is a narrow tunnel-like passage that connects the remains of an old anal abscess to the surface of the skin. the opening of the fistula eventually becomes plugged with draining debris, causing the abscess to flare up again as a firm pocket of pus. but don’t worry, it doesn’t affect the act.”
“a very nice family, indeed,” said the agent.
“now what we do is this. picture it. the lights go down, the curtain rises, and there is my wife spinning a plate on a thin rod attached to a dildo that’s sticking out of her twat. she’s on her back and the plate is spinning. i start the plate spinning before the lights go up.”
“i’m sorry,” said the agent, “you said a dildo? what?”
“yeah, she’s spinning a plate on a stick attached to a dildo coming out of her cunt. she wiggles her cunt and keeps the plate going. it’s a trick she does. believe me, she can keep a plate going like that for a good ten minutes. anyway, while this is going on, i strip the kids and get them to pee on her. and while she’s getting peed on, i masturbate take a dump at the same time. i dump right on her face and jizz on her tits. the audience will never believe she can keep the plate going with all this distraction, but she can. we’ve been rehearsing this thing every day for months.”
“go on…” said the agent. “i’m liking what i’m hearing.”
“just when you think nothing better could happen, she flips the dildo stick out of her pussy and catches it in her mouth, and the plate is still spinning up there. have you ever seen anything like it?”
“my god,” said the agent. “she can keep that plate going like that? even with shit in her mouth?”
“oh yeah. we’re talking puss, piss, shit, at least 8 good shots of cum, naked children, anal fistula… nothing stops her. she’s a plate spinning freak is what she is.”
“this is much better than the ventriloquist act i was gonna’ hire. how does it end?”
“well,” said norman, “here’s the clincher. my daughter, numbnuts, got her name because she was born with a set of nuts in her cunt. and when she holds her breath and squeezes her stomach muscles, the nuts pop out. tah dah! and for the finale, i barf in my wife’s pussy and fuck the kids with a burlap sack full of roaches. what do you think?”
“it’s incredible. what do you call this act of yours?”
“the aristocrats!”

my wet pussy

my cat
goes to the litter box
hangs her ass
over the side of the box
and pisses on the floor

then she smells the litter
in front of her face
and scoops some of it
over the other side of the box

she exits the litter box
walks through the cat piss puddle
and jumps on the bed
and begins to kneed her piss
into the sheets

i love her so much.

How To Write As Good As Me Do
Chapter #1. The importances of technique

Many people who try writing as their primary thing do so not so goodly. This book, which i have wrotten myself, will help those writers whom seek to be a master of their calf. The first thing we will discuss in our discussion of the craft of writing as good as me do is, technique. When writing, it is helpful to first have an idea. For those whom don’t know, an idea is a thing that pops into your brain and all you have to do is to get it out of there and put it down on the page through our next technique: typing. Many people who chose to write have absolutely no idea how to type. But there are some things you can do to quickly master the art of typing. One of them is to take a typing course at your local community college. The other way to do this is to get on an internet and go to a typing teaching web page and learn from there. Although it may, at first, be difficult to type your way to a typing page on the internet, once you get there, your typing will improve. Soon, you’ll have no problem typing quickly and using the internet for information, communication, and lesbian mud porn.

The other way to get your idea down on paper is to write it with a pencil or pen. Most people have learnt this in school early on in their lives. If you are one of these people, you can write it just as goodly as you could have had with the typewriter, only maybe not as fast unless you don’t type so goodly and then otherwise the opposite of what i said before. But what makes a good story idea? The answer is that a good story should have a beginning, a middle and an end. If your idea has these, then when you type or write it down, your story will too. If your story doesn’t have a beginning, it won’t ever exist at all. If it doesn’t have a middle, nothing will tie the beginning and the ending together. Here is an example of a story without a middle:

Once upon a time, there was a man with a large brown beard and he was well dressed in clothing. And it fell to the ground with a thud and died, and as it did so, she couldn’t help but to wonder why the martians hadn’t killed her too. The End.

Not much of a story, is it. That’s because there is no middle. And of course if you don’t have an ending, people will feel the same way they feel during a blowjob that never goes anywhere. Most people want to cum. Here is how a story might end without an ending. And you noticed the story didn’t end there, it ends here. Oh my God, I came.

The End

Rub Me

He arrived at the game clad in only an adult diaper, much to the shock of the other players. “I’m here!” he announced, rather pompously. “Nobody does it better than I do!” And with that, he began to rub himself vigorously on the groin.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” said one of the players.
“I’m rubbing it,” the gentleman replied. “Any of you guys can rub it better than this? We’re sure to win!”
“That’s not how you play Rugby,” the player retorted.
“Rugby? I thought it was, Rubme.” The gentleman stopped his rubbing and apologized. And the Rugby game did not excite him.

The Failure of the Bunny Poems
or The Rotting Dead Otter in My Mother’s Asshole

if i had a bunny
i’d pet it’s little head
and i’d treat it so nice
until it was dead
then i’d sweep the little bunny pellets
out of my bed

bunnies are funny
their poop is never runny
they fuck, but not for money
they’re not too fond of honey
their dispositions, sunny
for dinner, they’re a little gamey…
tasting

there’s a bunny i know
who hops around the floor
the thing i hear
is don’t grab them by the ears
it’s a very painful thing
and bunnies don’t like it
so i grab them by the tail
before i puncture them with nails

if you get a bunny
and you put it in your butt
the animal will bite your hole
before you get a nut

the last bunny i fucked
was bloody and tattered
and bit on my dick
until more blood was splattered
this poem is disgusting
and so am i
i’m bleeding to death
and so is my bunny
which i then ate
starting with his tiny bunny prick.

how’s that for a poem,
fuckface?

also, it was gamey…
tasting

and more, if i may,
there’s a dead otter
rotting in my dead mother’s
asshole

and i’m going to eat that
too, after i gargle to get the gamey
taste of my dead bloody bunny’s cock
out of my mouth

thank you,
and now i have finished this poem

oh but wait, no…
there’s even more.

no, there’s not more.
i just said that to make you worry
and having said that
there’s now more when i
said there wasn’t going to be

so i’m a fucking liar.

now the poem is really over,
and i must wash the gamey taste
of my dead mother’s rotting otter
asshole bunny dumb dumb

Jesus Christ! shoot me!

Seahorse Boy’s Education

“Dad… or mom… whatever you are…
Where do baby seahorses come from?”

“Oh, fuck me.” Thought the adult seahorse.
“I knew he was going to ask. How am I going
to explain this one.”

The adult seahorse gathered his wits about
him and began to speak.

“You see, son… if you are my son and not my
daughter… What happens is a male seahorse
puts his sperm into his own seahorse pouch…
or something like that. And the female seahorse
swims around doing the dishes. So in a way,
we’re sucking our own dicks out here. But we’re
really nice to look at. Does that help at all?”

“Dad,” said the young seahorse, “That’s some
fucked up shit. Do you know what you’re talking about?”

“Watch your mouth, Snorky! At least we’re not
roaches. Did you know roaches don’t even need
to fuck? If there’s no mate around, they’ll just
drop an egg, and I’ll be damned if the goddamned thing
doesn’t hatch a new roach. You want to be a roach,
kid? You want to be a roach? Who wants to look at a roach?
You know anybody with a roach tank? Did you know roaches
have a language made out of hissing? Is that what you want?
You want to go around hissing and shitting unfertilized eggs that hatch?
Just shut your fucking beak, okay? You’re lucky I don’t tell your
mother… or my husband… or whatever the fuck it is.”

The End

The Day my Nose Farted

One day, I was enjoying my lunch; a delicious wild boar cooked in mayonnaise, shrimp and muskrat sauce, when suddenly my nose farted. And because this happened so close to my nose, i was nasally permeated with the ungodly stink of my ass and this made my wild boar cooked in mayonnaise, shrimp and muskrat sauce smell like diarrhea. Which was just the way it smelled before I farted. I went to the doctor and told him about my problem. “Your nose farted?” He said. “There’s no way that can happen. The human being isn’t biologically capable of reverse farting up through the body and out of the nose. “Oh yeah?” I replied. “Pull my finger.” The doctor pulled my finger and I let rip a nasal thundershnozzen that blew a hole through the wall. The odor was incredible. “That’s the damndest thing I ever saw and smelled,” Said the doctor. “But what do you want from me? I’m only a practicing physician. You need to go to a doctor that isn’t practicing anymore… one who knows what he’s doing.” So I went to a doctor who had practiced enough to know what he was doing and showed him my nose fart. “Oh that’s nothing,” The doctor said, “Watch this!” The doctor squeezed his eye shut and it farted. He farted from his eye and the smell was just exactly like my lunch, a delicious wild boar cooked in mayonnaise, shrimp and muskrat sauce. “See,” said the doctor, “You never know where you’re going to fart from. Next one may come from my balls.”
“So what can I do about it?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you,” said the doctor. “When I stopped being a practicing physician, I retired. Now all I do is fart from my eye.”
“I know what to do.” I said. “Let’s start a band!”
And so we did. It’s called, Mouthfart Nosefart Tittyfart Eyefart. Our music stinks.

Questions of Logic II

Q: Are you mentally ill? I noticed many of the stories have language and ideas that are so foul, I question your sanity. How do you respond to this accusation? Because Frankly, I think you are mentally ill.

A: I’m glad you asked that question because it’s a question I’ve been wanting to put to rest for some time now. The answer is yes. I am incredibly mentally ill. And also, I fart from my nose, my eyes, my mouth, my balls, and from the asshole of the dead otter in my dead mother’s asshole. I hope this answers your question in no uncertain terms. And thank you for writing.

Q: In your poem, The Failure of the Bunny Poems, you write that you sweep bunny pellets off your bed. That means there are bunny pellets all over the floor. Where do you sweep those?

A: Under the rug.

Q: The follow up to Judy’s Tit Problem was a funny gag, but you still didn’t resolve the issues brought up in the first Questions of Logic question about Judy’s Tit Problem. Did she or did she not find the man of her dreams? I was hanging on that bit but you pulled the rug out from under me.

A: Now you’re standing in a big pile of bunny pellets.

Once Upon a Time in the Maggot Factory, there was a problem with one of the gears. The whole thing had to be shut down and during that time, no maggots were produced. The CEO was so pissed. You should have seen him stomping up and down in the shit. “We need maggots! Get this thing back on line!” He screamed. “No maggots, no money. No money, no hookers. No hookers, no flies. We need maggots, people!” Luckily a few days later, engineers solved the problem, filed down the imperfections in the gear, and the maggot machine was up and running again. The maggots were produced with greater efficiency and there were maggots, money, hookers and flies for everyone on the earth to eat, enjoy, fuck and swat.

Speaking of hookers… have you ever heard the story of Julia Flapbladder? One night, she was working her regular corner when a limousine approached and the rear passenger window rolled down. Julia stepped over to the vehicle and looked inside. There in the back was a 900 pound man. “Lady,” he said, “I’m Fatback-Dan. Nobody will fuck me because I’m built like a dirigible. Will you give it a try for 300 bucks?”
“Mister,” Julia Flapbladder said, “For 300 bucks, I’ll suck a Chinese guy up through the earth, in yer’ ass and out yer’ dick!”
“Hop in, lady.” She did so, and off they went. It was a major struggle to get the man’s pants off. Judy had to resort to her sharp self-defense blade she kept hidden in her crafty vagina. But finally the man was laid bare and Julia began swimming down into the folds of fatback to get to where there may or may not be a penis. On the way down, she noticed several emaciated whores swimming around lost in there like a school of dolphins that lose their bearings and end up in fresh water lakes, barely able to breathe. “Hi Jessica,” she said. “Hi Mertle. Hi CoQuesha. Hi Jasmine. Hi Loquat. Hi Factitious.” Soon, she was about eight or nine feet below the surface and she saw a small object… it looked like a tiny pebble hidden inside a miniature dirty sock. “That’s gotta’ be it,” Julia said to herself. “If I can just get my mouth on it…”
Suddenly, she heard a loud pop. There was a tremor, then strong vibration, and then something that sounded like the roar of a steam train. And looking as best she could through the murky depths, she saw a tidal wave of brown and corn and white castle burgers rolling towards her like a tsunami. “Oh shit,” she heard the man say, “I’m sorry. I had to let it go! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, lady. I had to let it go.” And in the next few seconds, Julia Flapbladder was overtaken by a record sized tidal wave of wet angry crappy crap that washed her and her friends out of the lard, out of the car and back into the street. And in that frightful dark stanky pond of steaming throbbing flunch, the death throws of seven fish-flopping hooked hookers came slowly to an end. The limo sped off, screeching tires, fire from the tailpipe, and ran off the bridge into the sea where it sank and the resulting sludge killed off all life on the shores for miles and miles. And this is how in the arse of the european pronunciation of ass ends: with the end of life and the eternal stink of God’s bitter wrath.

The End

Special credits:

Kris Francis for the line, “I’ll suck a Chinese guy up through the earth, in yer’ ass and out yer’ dick.”

Mr. Spagandy for the line, “Crappy crap.”

New Words Invented by Mr. Miller for this tome:

Flunch
Pleckum
Thunderschnozzen

Word Count Including All Words in this Word Count plus the number:
4,470

Notes:
Tom Miller Tackles the Aristocrats was at one time voted the #2 best version of the joke on DeadFrog.Com out of thousands of entries. The word count above does not include Notes: or this sentence and the sentence that precedes it.

Correction:
The word count is wrong. This may invalidate the second sentence of Notes: and brings into question many of the truths contained in this work of fictional reality.

Tom Miller’s Home Page

© May 1996 FREDInk Productions

The Glory of the Poem

Oh, glory to thee
The poem – the poem
Feel my angst
I am so angry
And my forlorn loves
All four of them
Believe me to be
Bad in bed
And a waste of time
And kind of a slime
So I say again
Oh, glory to thee
The poem – the poem
One day I will learn to rhyme

Me Ernie 5 – The Legacy Continues

I have a match
Two pair of socks
And I can not light
My cigarette
With it

Mamma’s Boy

I am not a prancy boy
Nor am I a fancy boy
Some say I’m a Nancy boy
Fancy fancy fancy
I can sing and dancy
Poo poo in my panty
Oh so very rancid
Rancid rancid rancid

Let My Flowers Grow

Oh lovely flower
With your radiant petals
Calling out to me as if
I were willing to
Cover you gently with
Fertilizer
Grow
Grow

Couple of Old Bitches

Mother is not fond of raisins
Neither is Aunty May
For raisins are grapes
Dried out by the sun
And so is Mother
and so is May

Eat Me

When a cannibal comes to
Eat your flesh
Do not run away
Cannibals have spears which
They can throw a real long way
And surely you would suffer
A humiliating wound
The cannibal would cook you
In a cast iron pot
He would make you into soup
He would make you into pie
He would eat your asshole for dessert
And likely bite your eye
So when you see a cannibal
Do not run away
Or the cannibal would cook you
In a cast iron pot

Throwing Up Worms

The
Miserable
Bird
Sings
About
A
Worm

Regurgitated
Into
The
Mouth
Of
Her
Baby

I Doth for Naught

For sooth I say
For sooth for sooth
Fair lady only the moon
Can compare to your
Glowing full complexion
Some say cheese is
What the moon is
Made
of

I say,
No… I think it’s dirt
Like you
And your face

Quit Throwing Rocks at the Poor Hornets, They Ain’t Bothering You

When comes a flock of hornets
After me for throwing
A rock at their stupid
Nest
I make for the water
Blue as the night sky
And fresh as a new born pup
To protect myself
From numerous stings
These pesky insects
Will eagerly and angrily
Stab into my skin
With their little butts

Fly, Bird, or Pterodactyl?

Fly
I said to
The bird I
Helped nurture back
To health
From the pain
Of a broken wing
But I ain’t no fly, I’m a bird
It said
I released it into the wind
It dropped like a stone
As a pterodactyl might if shot with a torpedo

Languish with Language – In 5 Parts

1.

Yaaahhh!
Uga buga boo boo
I am not frightened of you
Moo moo a cow goes moo
I need not your heathen milk

2.

Galloping across the Sahara Desert
A big green goblin
Shouts and shrieks
To let us know
How goblins
Shout and Shriek
It’s like this:
Yaahhh! Eeeeek!

3.

Lickity split
Lickity split
Lickity split some more
Lickity split ’till
The juices flow
Then let her lickity dick
Lickity dick
Lickity dick
Lickity split
Fuckity fuckity
Fuck fuck fuck

4.

Fuck you, bitch.
Get the fuck out, you fucking hole.
What?
What did you say to me?
Nobody talks to me that way.
Huh?
Oh yeah?
Well fuck you, mother fucker
Fuck you
Fuck you you fucking fuck fuck
You fucking fucking mother fucking
Fucking mother fucking fuck
Fuck my fuck you fucking bitchbag
Get your shit and get it the fuck out
And you along with it
And see this?
See this fucking dick?
You’ll never see this again.
This is my dick now!
My dick, you fucking twat!

Poets Who Use Bitch And Fuck In Their Poems Are Weak
Misogynist Pigs Who Wish They Could Write Like Real Poets

Fuck you, bitch!
Fuck you, cunt!
Get the fuck out!
Oh, and by the way,
You’ll never touch
My fucking dick again, you skanky bitchrag!

If Only Her Eyes Said Love

Her eyes
Told stories
She spoke
With her eyes
Her eyes waxed poetic
And blue as the azure sky
I found myself
Lost in her
Magnificent eyes
And the stories they told
My favorite was
The one about
That fox who was jumping to
Get those grapes and
When he couldn’t reach them
He gave up and said
So passionately
So eloquently
Like her eyes
I didn’t want them grapes anyway
I gracefully pick
That junk out of the corners
Of her eyes, her eyes, her eyes

Mountains of the South

Them is
The mountains of the South
I seen them once before

I seen them
Mountains of the South
Done seen them once before

I recollect
We ate some possum
Up on yonder hill

And if’n I recollect correctly
It was pretty good

Grandma come a’runnin’
And she took a terrible fall
Grandpa try to catch her and
He took a terrible fall

Mountains of the South
That’s where my poppa beat me so
After slugging several quarts
O’ dat dare moonshine dat he sold

Hot diggidy do da dog
I hear them mountains singing
Think I’ll fuck them cattle one more
Time before I go

Three Three Word Poems

1.
Please eat fleas

2.
Mustard Flustered Custard

3.
Ants oppose Anti-opposition

4.
Opulent and Mysterious Frogs

Morals of a Milky Butt

I know
You may wonder
Is this poem
Disgusting?

Well
Let me just give you
The poop

When white milky substance
Pours forth from your asshole
Like some kind of alien goop

You can bet that’s some sick shit
Right there mother fucker
I’m sorry if this poem is gross

But at least it’s not nearly
As sick as the time when
Dead maggots bled out of my nose

The End

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