Dirty Poetry.

EAT A BAG OF SHIT




Dear heckler,

one day I was

sitting on the bus

& I met your moms & your

moms moms & I moved to sit

closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them

that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records

& drink gin from my asshole.

Not reluctant, they nodded yes,



&



when we got to my place,

I put on that Frampton song that goes



“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”



& we started talking, & your moms said that her son

is the biggest fucking loser this side of the

prime meridian

who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base

& jerks off into his dirty socks.



You sick, depraved fucker.



Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment

she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because

she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.



Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait

& used her fake chompers to open the gin

they came out in the process, but it was a laugh



& your moms pulled down my pants &

commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts

she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since

your daddy promised he’d tell her when



& he lied, of course



(She was excited)



& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.



Dear heckler,

your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest

& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts

& then she poured a shot of gin into

my asshole.

It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack

but she drank it all & licked it clean.



So basically,

your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.



Eat a bag of shit.



*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.

---
 
“How Academics Fuck”




Academics are turned on by academic things.

My friend Adam Strange

Said that they are

Not

Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps

(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)

But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing

Revisionist histories.

One time I crafted my own vision.

I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than

What

The

Books

Say.



In my vision,

Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all

Those crazy conservative things because

He wanted the

World

To see how insane the neo-cons are.



The Academics, of course, disagree.



So do I.



I was just having some fun.



Academics, well, they fuck for fun.



They are very studious and wear formal things,



But in the bedroom, they are animals.

Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,

No rubbers.

Cum on bellies,

Cum on backs,



Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,



FUCK.



They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.

They’re for speech codes and against on-campus

Military recruitment

Good good liberal types

Trangressive behind closed doors,

Sensitive to feelings in the open

And I support transgression, and I support free speech,

In the open.

Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.



When Academics fuck

People listen (credibility)

And follow suit

Fucking in emulation

Intellectual masturbation

For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same

Nation.

¡Viva La Raza! or Why Stuart Antonio Rey-González didn't attend yesterday's marches

See, I have this thing. She's called a "girlfriend." Friday night was her birthday. I spent every penny I had from my tax return on a swanky hotel room in VP. There was Evan Williams. There was cocaine. We drank, inhaled, and watched the NBA playoffs on an HDTV, blaspheming overpaid assholes the whole night. Just me and her. It was sweet. Romantic.

I told her that I had to be more conservative with my excess because May Day (this year) is an important day for us Mexican-Americans. Of course, she's of the blonde-Swiss variety, so she just stared blankly at LeBron James or whoever. I don't know. I started cutting a coupla lines on the glass coffee table when there was a knock on the door. Housekeeping? Can't be. There's a DO NOT DISTURB tag on the doornob. Roomservice? We never called for any. Fuck. The room was like, $450 for a night!

My girlfriend, in a paranoid panic, swept the two lines that I'd been painstakingly molding with my long expired, maxed-out credit card off the table. After some choice expletives, I went to the door, stuck my face to the peep-hole, and saw a strung-out looking hipster and his-- I had presumed-- morenalicious girlfriend. I shrugged, turned to my girlfriend, who was snorting grains from the carpet, and decided to let them in.

They claimed to be part of a big wedding party and were inviting the entire floor down to the bar for the festivities. After prying my Swiss beauty from the carpet, we made way downstairs. We did some shots with complete strangers, and then the hipster dude and morenalicious (they said their names were Homer and Gracie) came back to our room where we played drinking games and did lines of coke off the girls's asses.

The whole time I was thinking, "man... I've written a story that was kind of like this." The last thing I remember is that we swapped partners. At least I thought we did. Because Homer and I woke up naked, spooning on the balcony; finding that we'd been locked out. After the initial, "holy shit, we're gay" scare, we tried to see if the girls were in the room. Neither of us had our phones, so we had to scream for them. Nothing.

Hours later, we were let out and asked to explain ourselves. The girls were gone and the room was fucked. The glass coffee table: broken. The HDTV: the object used to break it. The handle of Evan Williams, tipped on its side. Its contents: soaked into the carpet. Thousands of dollars of damage. Homer and I claimed that we were fucked up and that we didn't know what the hell had happened. I tried to deny that the room was in my name, but was unable to avoid it as I "looked more like a González" than Homer.

In short, I was profiled!

I'll also be hearing from their lawyer.

A poem about H-Town by Robby Mexico

That Old H-town




Don’t be angry, she said in gentle tones



And I tried to listen but screamed instead



At her injustice, at the sheer ugliness,



Of this old H-town you all love so much.



God bless this city, burn it down,



Spread the ashes across the ocean,



Spin beautiful tales of that old H-town,



That malicious metropolis littered with good intentions.



Play honest violins at the funeral; flutes, too.



Trumpets don’t lie and we gather here,



To give our last respects, say our last words-



It’s okay, Houston would have wanted it this way.



Dallas came and cried a bit, as did London, Paris, Rome.



New York gave her condolences, but couldn’t come due to circumstance.



San Antonio seemed broken, lost; New Orleans cried a flood again,



But Milwaukee was too concerned with self to cry;



Seattle cried for days and days, and Galveston?



Well, Galveston attempted suicide but couldn’t



Convince himself to die.



And Moscow sent his heart, from Russia with love,



And Venice and Los Angeles consoled each other,



And Tokyo still refused to believe the news



And Chicago, Cairo, and Vancouver were silent,



Jordan and Beijing strove to be strong,



And Athens and Amsterdam collapsed with grief,



Nairobi and Sydney mourned their brother with



Toronto and Baghdad, and Phoenix and Bristol



And Berlin and Dubai and Okinawa and Barcelona



And Boston and Austin and me.



A moment of silence for that old H-town.


-- Robby Mexico

Run for the Border (¡Apurate!)

"Run for the Border (¡Apurate!)"

look, I may look like a messican
but really, I'm not (scout's honor)
so before you go doing shit like
passing laws to fortify erect walls,
remember: you're only encouraging carlos mencia to steal more material from Jewish-American comedians
shame on you all
&&SG

Trannies on Parade

I drew this on the back of an envelope (it is a bill, unopened). The title is "Trannies on Parade." As you can see, I am not an illustrator. If you asked me the impetus for this insult to art in ink which was cobbled up in mere seconds, I would have to answer that trannies of all shape and sort fascinate me. They are interesting and compelling for various reasons that shall not be catalogued here.


These are stick-figure trannies with no clothes (save a hat on one of them), noticeable deformations, and no variegation save penis size/shape and the fact that one is prostrate (and one is wearing a hat). Two are pissing/cumming, their bodily fluids seemingly defying laws of gravity and physics and who knows what else.

To some, this may be tasteless, even offensive. I'm fairly positive most will never see this, but fuck you all just in case. You are the most joyless, humorless people in existence, and you make the world a horrifying place to live in. You'd rather sit on your ass and choose to be offended by what other people do instead of taking one minute to create something beautiful, and that is what makes you sad, empty, boring, and annoying.

To everyone else:

The opening bid on this piece is a bottle of low-end brandy. I like Christian Brothers. I think you can get 750ml for less than $10 these days. However, I'll gladly give it to you if you promise to frame it and hang it in your living room for all to see.

Some Books I Own.

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

A while back, writer Steve Finbow posted a link on his Twitter to Lookshelves, a website dedicated to people's bookshelves. Finbow's is tidy, but as you'll see, mine is a disorganized clusterfuck of various tomes and lexicons. This is partly because mine isn't a bookshelf. It's a desk.

So, I will not answer any questions, I will merely volunteer information that no one gives a shit about.

There are four Will Self books and two Elmore Leonard books in this photo. I've read Love of Worker Bees by Alexandra Kollontai three times. My favorite play out of the seven Ionesco's seen here is The New Tenant. James Joyce, Hanif Kureishi, Eric Bogosian, HG Wells, William S. Burroughs, and Rétif de la Bretonne all have books here.

Houellebecq's Possibility of an Island is a British hardback edition. I think I got it for $6 at Half-Price. There's more Elmore Leonard here, some film related books; Four Stories by Ingmar Bergman and Rebel Without a Crew by Robert Rodriguez. There is a Border's Twain anthology here, Goodbye, Columbus and Patrimony by Philip Roth, an Oxford Pocket Dictionary, Troubled Sleep by Jean-Paul Sartre and some essays by Albert Camus. Also, note: Graphic Novels Pussey! and David Boring by Daniel Clowes.

The 501 Spanish Verbs has been very used. It was irreparably damaged in my relocation. The thickest of all the books in this photo is an anthology of Twain that is much more complete than the Border's version. Complete versions of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court can be found betwixt its covers. Also here, some college notebooks and a Spanish dictonary, also worn from usage.

Closeup here... My Idea of Fun, Cock & Bull, and How The Dead Live by Will Self. The Body by Hanif Kureishi, the man who wrote the screenplay for My Beautiful Laundrette.

Whores for Gloria and The Atlas by William T. Vollmann are here. Poetry by E.E.Cummings and Ezra Pound. Plays by Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest/A Woman of No Importance) and David Ives (All in the Timing) and Eric Bogosian (Sex, Drugs & Rock N Roll). Fuddy Meers (Samuel French playscript w/my hand-written lighting cues) by David Lindsay-Abaire. Books by H.G Wells and an Irish comedian/actor (Ardal O'Hanlon) are also in this picture.


Recently added: Dorian: An Imitation, The Sweet Smell of Psychosis, and Psychogeography by Will Self, and Ablutions by Patrick deWitt. Two of which have been reviewed on this site. Also missing from these photos is God Hates Us All, which I lent to Adam Strange, and was subsequently stolen from him along with his faux leather jacket. At one point he also borrowed Panegyric by Guy Debord, which was not stolen. Hmm, I wonder.

Doug Stanhope Wikipedia Photo, "Ablutions" by Patrick deWitt, and a snippet of a story

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