oh yes i remember now

by bofa xesjum

when i was just a little flower my mama took me to the see the most famous man in the world he was short lived we had grape juice and corn flakes i was a little surprised as she always put him down she put me in a bag and we went down to main street there he was they all look alike, mama said he is responsible for all the evil in the world he looked like just a man to me when he dies they will pave the streets with tears before him there was reagan and nixon and hitler will always be with us look what the dirty rats have done through the ages war is for lovers all the immune systems in the world will not save you, brother

alf and bet, or miss batby's tale

by emily de villaincourt

i do not care for the stories you have been telling us, emmeline informed miss batby, the governess, when story hour came round and the fire had been lit. is that so, miss? miss batby replied. and what is it that you do not like about them? there are too nice by half, too milksoppy. so you would like a nasty story instead? if you please. and you, master philip, miss batby asked emmeline’s twin brother, would you like a nasty story? it is all the same to me, philip replied, in his world weary way. very well, then, said miss batby, here is the story of alf and bet. alf and bet were best friends. everybody thought so. they went everywhere together, and were almost never seen apart. alf sincerely loved bet. but bet secretly hated alf. alf had happy dreams every night. bet was in most of them, smiling and singing and dancing. bet had dreams every night, mostly of subjecting alf to slow roasting and other torments. nobody ever suspected this. they went on a trip to the south seas. their boat was capsized by a violent storm. they spent days on a raft with seven other passengers, all of whom perished of hunger. as the other passengers died, their bodies were eaten by the survivors. this was more difficult than it sounds, as they had no tools or any way to make a fire, and they were all civilized people who were unused to relying on such desperate measures for survival. also, some of them, including alf and bet, had weak teeth, and could only manage to chew scraps and leftovers. in spite of this, alf and bet were the last two survivors. finally the raft washed up on a small rocky island. there was water on the island, but no vegetation. and absolutely nothing to eat. alf and bet began eating what little was left of the other passengers. both realized only too well that when the scraps were finished, one of them would have to eat the other. in a final gesture of love, alf decided to swim away during the night, to spare bet the agony of making so heartbreaking a choice. waking in the morning and finding alf gone, bet was consumed by a final paroxysm or rage and hatred at being thus cheated out of a last meal or two, and perished of a burst spleen. so ends the story of the best friends alf and bet, miss batby concluded. was that nasty and unpleasant enough for you, miss? emmeline shrugged. it was all right. i give you e for effort. pooh, said philip, i can tell a nastier story than that, without half trying.

today's special - lasagna

by bofa xesjum

the anondyne belligerence of the comatose dissolves the ecstatic fulminations of the growing boy in hot tears here is insolence indeed just when your best friend is crowned king the laughing mastodons of necessity overwhelm the posturing quoters of regulations sad, but totally understandable very well, then, order the expenses to be approved but do it yesterday in the best traditions of the department the time honored traditions of expedient delivery what? did i hear you correctly? there is no more vanilla extract in the medicine cabinet? i have always known you hated me it all goes back to the summer day when we first met at jerry’s thin crust pizza in detroit michigan which no longer exists except in a faded photograph in the wind, and the sad rain

try me again tomorrow

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

you can write a poem on a piece of paper you can catch a fish with a worm you can ask people to listen to your poems and watch the poor creatures squirm i wrote a poem about the sunset though i never go to bed the pillow on the bed was pearly white and the sunset was cherry red noah built an ark of wood jonah was swallowed by a whale my papa called himself a preacher but they still threw him in jail my mama washed rich folks underwear and hung them on the line i polished st peter’s brogans and he saw his face in the shine all you lords and ladies in your gowns and powdered wigs you’ll have a hard time getting into heaven though your bankrolls are ever so big o listen to my sad story and take heed of my fate i ate all st christopher’s biscuits there is nothing left on his plate

romain rolland: a dream

by bofa xesjum

i dreamed i was woodrow wilson with a top hat full of mice i asked d’annunzio for a sandwich but i had to ask him twice when mata hari saw my sandwich she demanded one of her own lloyd george tapped on the window but he was only skin and bone i asked sir edward grey for a pumpkin and up popped stefan zweig he offered me a crumpet and a shoelace and i had no place to hide what is this strange creature playing solitaire in the sand? i thought of asking for a ticket to cairo and it replied: romain rolland the waiter hovering in the shadows looked like babe ruth he asked if i would sign his treaty but i was afraid to tell the truth don’t cry for me, tanganyika on your carefully worded knees but bring me the price of raisins and walk in the rain, if you please

everybody and everything

by chuck leary

everybody wants to be president everybody wants to be a bum bureaucrats like their whiskey pirates are partial to rum my daddy was a preacher my mama was a railroad man some called me mister stanley by others i went by stan i went for a walk with livingstone down a shady street but although we quoted scripture no prophets did we meet we searched the sky for rainbows and signs that spelled the end we did these things together though he was not my friend we came upon a polar bear selling basketballs by the ounce we bought one for a dollar and yet it would not bounce we saw the queen of sheba ride her bicycle on the lawn and we were sorely puzzled because we thought it was frowned upon everybody wants to be president everybody wants to be a bum they tell you they know nothing but they are only playing dumb everybody knows everything you know that this is true everybody knows everything except me and maybe you

thoughts

by jean-claude etranger

there are many things that a visitor from another planet might find curious about this one. one is the situation of the drunkard, a familiar figure in virtually all earthly societies. the drunkard is despised, though not, as a rule, vehemently. he is not quite regarded as a criminal, and he does not excite the horror accorded the “drug fiend” or the contempt directed at the lecher. but the curious thing is that he is not only tolerated but enabled. in “good “ times and “bad”, in war and peace, in famine and plenty, in the golden ages of empires and the desperate declines and upheavals of civilizations, somehow the drunkard always finds a way to his drink. the river of drink never stops flowing. this despite the fact that few drunkards brew their own potions. this although the drunk, by definition, is “lazy” and “good for nothing” and a parasite on society. the constant flow of drink is never a stated public concern. no seeker of votes stands before a cheering crowd and announces, “my fellow citizens, i plan to raise taxes in order to buy booze for every bum in every doorway in the city.” no enlightened reformer of society ever declares, “the most important thing we as a nation must do is provide for the unslakable thirst of the most sluggish and inebriated among us.” no conqueror enters a city and announces, “under my enlightened rule, all law abiding citizens shall work three extra hours a day, so that an army of unwashed and unshaven rabble may sit in taverns and on sidewalks all day wallowing in self-pity and further dulling their feeble brains.” no child says, “mommy, please work as many hours as need be sewing burlap bags, never go to bed or sleep, but make sure daddy has his gin.” the drunkard has “nothing”. but the breweries and wineries and distilleries of the world never sleep, and the ocean pours forth for him, and never recedes. very strange. waiter, a bock!