Wednesday, November 30, 2011
space western nanofic
"Gol durn," Fremmis exclaimed, removing the protective cover from his anterior bulb and manipulating his dorsal extremities, "these here Terries sure is hard ta kill!"
December 7
Last day of fundraiser for food bank.
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/11/my-annual-fundraiser.html
All proceeds feed the hungry.
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/11/my-annual-fundraiser.html
All proceeds feed the hungry.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
my annual fundraiser
Annual holiday fundraiser
To benefit East Tuscaloosa Community Soup Bowl
This year, I am donating the entire proceeds to the Soup Bowl. This organizations provides hot meals to homeless and otherwise needy people on the east side of my city (where I live). All prices include postage; quantities are limited. All books will be signed.
One copy of Nursery Rhyme Noir, a book of humorous detective stories based on nursery rhymes, $13.
One copy of Night Ship to Never (co-authored with Kendall Evans), a book of science fiction poetry, $9.
One copy of Separate Destinations (co-authored with Kendall Evans and nearly out of print), a book of science fiction poetry, $8.
One copy of Brushfires, a book of science fiction and fantasy poetry, $8.
Five lifetime subscriptions to Dreams and Nightmares magazine, which includes available back issues,$90 each.
To purchase any of the items listed pay by PayPal to jopnquog -at- gmail.com, or send a check to me at 1300 Kicker Rd., Tuscaloosa, AL 35404. I must receive PayPal payments by midnight December 7 and anything mailed must be postmarked by that date and time to qualify for the fundraiser.
Thank you,
David C. Kopaska-Merkel
To benefit East Tuscaloosa Community Soup Bowl
This year, I am donating the entire proceeds to the Soup Bowl. This organizations provides hot meals to homeless and otherwise needy people on the east side of my city (where I live). All prices include postage; quantities are limited. All books will be signed.
One copy of Nursery Rhyme Noir, a book of humorous detective stories based on nursery rhymes, $13.
One copy of Night Ship to Never (co-authored with Kendall Evans), a book of science fiction poetry, $9.
One copy of Separate Destinations (co-authored with Kendall Evans and nearly out of print), a book of science fiction poetry, $8.
One copy of Brushfires, a book of science fiction and fantasy poetry, $8.
Five lifetime subscriptions to Dreams and Nightmares magazine, which includes available back issues,$90 each.
To purchase any of the items listed pay by PayPal to jopnquog -at- gmail.com, or send a check to me at 1300 Kicker Rd., Tuscaloosa, AL 35404. I must receive PayPal payments by midnight December 7 and anything mailed must be postmarked by that date and time to qualify for the fundraiser.
Thank you,
David C. Kopaska-Merkel
Monday, November 28, 2011
Evolution & Cancer lecture, Dec 8, Tuscaloosa
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Ewald_December8_UA_Tuscaloosa_ALLELE_Flyer-1.pdf
http://as.ua.edu/evolution/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Ewald_December8_UA_Tuscaloosa_ALLELE_Flyer-1.pdf
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
At the Mountains of Madness
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-15749757
drilling for million-year ice
in billion-year mountains
geologists find ... concrete
hot drilling fluids sluice
rock chips from the bit
pentaradial barrels warm
drilling for million-year ice
in billion-year mountains
geologists find ... concrete
hot drilling fluids sluice
rock chips from the bit
pentaradial barrels warm
Thursday, November 17, 2011
111711
Yesterday I got from Fantagraphics "Pogo: Through the wild blue wonder," an inch-thick hb of the original newspaper strips. Plus nice intros, etc. It's really nicely done.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
111611
Real life intrudes, as it has been for more than a week. I may not have mentioned here that I will be away from my computer from Saturday, November 19 through Sunday, November 27. I might have access now and again during the interim, but it will be limited. When I return home it will be time to put together Dreams & Nightmares 91. Time, that is, if I plan to be on time with the issue. We shall see.
rain falls hard
on the new metal roof
a tornado roars
I can attest that the sounds are very very similar!
rain falls hard
on the new metal roof
a tornado roars
I can attest that the sounds are very very similar!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
111411
About 1/2 way thru Leiber's Swords in the Mist, in my aperiodic rereading of the greatest S&S series of all time.
an unrelated omep
candles
wait with socks
we know she needs socks
an unrelated omep
candles
wait with socks
we know she needs socks
Sunday, November 13, 2011
111311
There was a green turtle from France,
Who never had learned how to dance
a prosthetic suit
corrected its scoot
That shimmying turtle from France
Possibly I should have warned you about that.
Who never had learned how to dance
a prosthetic suit
corrected its scoot
That shimmying turtle from France
Possibly I should have warned you about that.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Stumped for holiday presents?
When seeking holiday presents you could do worse than some nonseasonal puns, crime, and talking animals and cutlery. This post links to reviews & a sample story.
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/nursery-rhyme-noir-excellent-xmas-gift.html
Another sample: the story "Arachnophobia," posted last month.
And here's one more.
Who Killed Wee Willie?
Ever since the leaping cow caper I’ve been jumpy, so when a middle-aged broad knocked on my door I heaved a sigh of relief. I should have known better.
“What is it, Ma’am?” I asked.
Mrs. Winkie told me her son William had had a good job in curfew management, but two days ago he’d disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since.
“Curfew, eh?” I probed, “Anybody you know who likes to stay up late?” She hadn’t a clue, so I hit the streets.
It didn’t take long to garner some suspects. Word was that a rough crowd called the Nine O’Clock Gang had objected to Winkie’s zealous enforcement of the 8 p.m. curfew. They’d tried to buy Winkie off with a sack of suckers.
“Dey even said dey’d trow in some jawbreakas,” Chas told me. But it was no good. I was developing the theory that, at approximately 8:01 last Wednesday, the Niners had offed Willie so they could stay up late.
I cornered the leader of the Niners in a dive near the waterfront. He denied killing Willie. “But we seen somethin’,” he told me. He and his boys had seen Willie knock on a window. The window had opened and Willie had been dragged inside. They hadn’t seen him come out.
I visited the two-story brick house that night. No one was home, so I entered through a back window. When Miss Muffet came home about 4 a.m. I was waiting for her.
“Why’d you do it?” I asked.
“Do what?” she asked innocently. I showed her one of the odd-shaped packages from the freezer and she broke down.
“It was that incessant rapping and calling. Every single night at 8 o’clock! I just couldn’t take it. My nerves haven’t been the same since the spider incident.”
“I sympathise, lady, but you can’t kill people because they’re irritating.”
* * *
Mrs. Winkie took it hard. I tried to cheer her up. “Willie was a martyr for decency, order, and bed time,” I told her, “maybe some day they’ll write a song about him.”
The end
http://dreamsandnightmaresmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/10/nursery-rhyme-noir-excellent-xmas-gift.html
Another sample: the story "Arachnophobia," posted last month.
And here's one more.
Who Killed Wee Willie?
Ever since the leaping cow caper I’ve been jumpy, so when a middle-aged broad knocked on my door I heaved a sigh of relief. I should have known better.
“What is it, Ma’am?” I asked.
Mrs. Winkie told me her son William had had a good job in curfew management, but two days ago he’d disappeared. He hadn’t been seen since.
“Curfew, eh?” I probed, “Anybody you know who likes to stay up late?” She hadn’t a clue, so I hit the streets.
It didn’t take long to garner some suspects. Word was that a rough crowd called the Nine O’Clock Gang had objected to Winkie’s zealous enforcement of the 8 p.m. curfew. They’d tried to buy Winkie off with a sack of suckers.
“Dey even said dey’d trow in some jawbreakas,” Chas told me. But it was no good. I was developing the theory that, at approximately 8:01 last Wednesday, the Niners had offed Willie so they could stay up late.
I cornered the leader of the Niners in a dive near the waterfront. He denied killing Willie. “But we seen somethin’,” he told me. He and his boys had seen Willie knock on a window. The window had opened and Willie had been dragged inside. They hadn’t seen him come out.
I visited the two-story brick house that night. No one was home, so I entered through a back window. When Miss Muffet came home about 4 a.m. I was waiting for her.
“Why’d you do it?” I asked.
“Do what?” she asked innocently. I showed her one of the odd-shaped packages from the freezer and she broke down.
“It was that incessant rapping and calling. Every single night at 8 o’clock! I just couldn’t take it. My nerves haven’t been the same since the spider incident.”
“I sympathise, lady, but you can’t kill people because they’re irritating.”
* * *
Mrs. Winkie took it hard. I tried to cheer her up. “Willie was a martyr for decency, order, and bed time,” I told her, “maybe some day they’ll write a song about him.”
The end
111211
In base 111211, this is the first day of the rest of the year.
fat birds
pretend winter is here
Mr. Blue Sky don't lie
fat birds
pretend winter is here
Mr. Blue Sky don't lie
Friday, November 11, 2011
111111
Veterans Day. I am grateful for their sacrifices. I hope their treatment soon will approach what they deserve.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
111011
Hmm, did I mislabel a previous post? Why yes, I did. Oh well. Now, really, tomorrow is palindrome day. My palindrome is no longer "yay." In honor of this minimalist form of palindrome day, my palindrome is "I".
you fell asleep
did not, she said
then how'd it end
...
I saw the credits
you fell asleep
did not, she said
then how'd it end
...
I saw the credits
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Genre market listing
Just found out about this low-tech list. Seems pretty up-to-date.
http://aswiebe.com/
http://aswiebe.com/
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
110711
It's my lucky day. Or would be, if I had a baby. A barefoot one.
scarf poised on the desk
in 70F heat
banks on winter
scarf poised on the desk
in 70F heat
banks on winter
Sunday, November 6, 2011
"Carlos' Second Head"
He had never seemed to use it, but now that his second head was missing, Carlos really felt the lack. Maybe it was silly, but he had really enjoyed putting his sunglasses on it when he came inside. It unnerved people, and Carlos especially enjoyed unnerving people. Also, it had kept his left ear warm. You wouldn't think it would make that much difference, but it really did.
Most importantly, losing the head made his nickname really stupid. Carlos did not like feeling stupid.
"Yo, Shotgun. Wazzup?" They rapped knuckles.
"Two-head. Not much, my man. Whoa! What happened to your other head?!" It went downhill from there.
By noon he'd heard way too many jokes like "You ought to have your head handed to you" Or "You know what you need to get ahead?" He just had to find out who had taken his head!
Naturally, in a case like this, he went to Madame de Risier. She was the best fortune-teller in town. Carlos hated going to her creepy little store in the old part of town, because she was scary. She knew things she couldn't know. Like that time Vinnie the Trunk sent Old Man Randall to sleep with the fishes. She knew where Randall was like she could see him! And he was in 60 feet of water under the bridge!
So Carlos drove r-e-a-l s-l-o-w-l-y all the way over to Frontiere Street. He parked two blocks away from Madame de Risier's shop, and after he got out of the car he walked as slowly as he could. Still, eventually, he got there. He pushed open the door and went in. The bells shaped like tiny human skulls tinkled as the door swung closed behind him. "I know why you have come," intoned a voice from the darkened back of the store. The words hung in the air like a shovel full of dirt about to be tossed into Carlos's grave. The voice sounded like it came from something that spent a lot of time in a tomb. The whole place even smelled a little bit like a graveyard.
"You know what?" Carlos asked conversationally, "I'm leaving. You can do your thing in here with the voice and stuff and I'll just go back home." Then he added, "and you know what else? I didn't come because of the missing head. No, a lot of people would have come because of that, but not me. No, I came because it's not right when people steal from other people. The person who took my head needs to understand that crime does not pay. That's why I'm here. So, I guess I'm kind of here because of the head, but it's more than that." Carlos decided it was time to stop talking.
"Your head" came the eerie voice, "has been a passenger long enough. It yearns to be free. Please release it from the sweet bonds of parental servitude with which you have held it for so long."
"What are you talking about?" Carlos shouted at the crazy woman. "It is a head! Not a human being! It can't ever go out on its own," he said, shaking his remaining head in disgust. Carlos turned around and left.
He didn't really know where he wanted to go, so he just strolled aimlessly around through the touristy old part of town, fuming about the crazy fortuneteller.
He kept feeling like he was being followed, but whenever he turned around suddenly, no one was there. It was spooky. One time he turned around when he didn't have that feeling, and he came face to face with his head. His missing head! It was perched on the neck of a mannequin, the kind that has wheels. Apparently, when it wanted to go somewhere, the wheels rolled. It waved the mannequin's arm and said "hi."
Carlos was delighted to see his head, but he was afraid it was for the last time. "You, you have a new body. Is this goodbye?"
The mannequin shook its head. "Never that! We will see each other around. But I need to be my own head. You will need a new nickname. Something pithy and meaningful. I'll be thinking about it."
Carlos' neck had been itching all day where his second head used to be. He scratched his neck absently, and he seemed to feel a little bump there. It had not been there in the morning.
He smiled. "I'm feeling lucky. I think I'll keep my old nickname a little longer."
The end
From The Simian Transcript http://www.cyberwizardproductions.com/Banana_Oil_Books/The_Simian_Transcript_by_David_C_Kopaska-Merkel.html
Most importantly, losing the head made his nickname really stupid. Carlos did not like feeling stupid.
"Yo, Shotgun. Wazzup?" They rapped knuckles.
"Two-head. Not much, my man. Whoa! What happened to your other head?!" It went downhill from there.
By noon he'd heard way too many jokes like "You ought to have your head handed to you" Or "You know what you need to get ahead?" He just had to find out who had taken his head!
Naturally, in a case like this, he went to Madame de Risier. She was the best fortune-teller in town. Carlos hated going to her creepy little store in the old part of town, because she was scary. She knew things she couldn't know. Like that time Vinnie the Trunk sent Old Man Randall to sleep with the fishes. She knew where Randall was like she could see him! And he was in 60 feet of water under the bridge!
So Carlos drove r-e-a-l s-l-o-w-l-y all the way over to Frontiere Street. He parked two blocks away from Madame de Risier's shop, and after he got out of the car he walked as slowly as he could. Still, eventually, he got there. He pushed open the door and went in. The bells shaped like tiny human skulls tinkled as the door swung closed behind him. "I know why you have come," intoned a voice from the darkened back of the store. The words hung in the air like a shovel full of dirt about to be tossed into Carlos's grave. The voice sounded like it came from something that spent a lot of time in a tomb. The whole place even smelled a little bit like a graveyard.
"You know what?" Carlos asked conversationally, "I'm leaving. You can do your thing in here with the voice and stuff and I'll just go back home." Then he added, "and you know what else? I didn't come because of the missing head. No, a lot of people would have come because of that, but not me. No, I came because it's not right when people steal from other people. The person who took my head needs to understand that crime does not pay. That's why I'm here. So, I guess I'm kind of here because of the head, but it's more than that." Carlos decided it was time to stop talking.
"Your head" came the eerie voice, "has been a passenger long enough. It yearns to be free. Please release it from the sweet bonds of parental servitude with which you have held it for so long."
"What are you talking about?" Carlos shouted at the crazy woman. "It is a head! Not a human being! It can't ever go out on its own," he said, shaking his remaining head in disgust. Carlos turned around and left.
He didn't really know where he wanted to go, so he just strolled aimlessly around through the touristy old part of town, fuming about the crazy fortuneteller.
He kept feeling like he was being followed, but whenever he turned around suddenly, no one was there. It was spooky. One time he turned around when he didn't have that feeling, and he came face to face with his head. His missing head! It was perched on the neck of a mannequin, the kind that has wheels. Apparently, when it wanted to go somewhere, the wheels rolled. It waved the mannequin's arm and said "hi."
Carlos was delighted to see his head, but he was afraid it was for the last time. "You, you have a new body. Is this goodbye?"
The mannequin shook its head. "Never that! We will see each other around. But I need to be my own head. You will need a new nickname. Something pithy and meaningful. I'll be thinking about it."
Carlos' neck had been itching all day where his second head used to be. He scratched his neck absently, and he seemed to feel a little bump there. It had not been there in the morning.
He smiled. "I'm feeling lucky. I think I'll keep my old nickname a little longer."
The end
From The Simian Transcript http://www.cyberwizardproductions.com/Banana_Oil_Books/The_Simian_Transcript_by_David_C_Kopaska-Merkel.html
Saturday, November 5, 2011
holiday donation poll
I always have some sort of holiday fundraiser in which I donate income from sale of my stuff to my local soup kitchen, the East Tuscaloosa Community Soup Bowl. Question: what's best?
Donate all or part?
Dreams & Nightmares or chapbooks?
Fiction or poetry books?
Long time for fundraiser or short?
sell custom-written poem or flash story?
Other comments?
Donate all or part?
Dreams & Nightmares or chapbooks?
Fiction or poetry books?
Long time for fundraiser or short?
sell custom-written poem or flash story?
Other comments?
flash fiction
First published in The Memory of Persistence, 2007
Love Triangle
"Hey, Mary," he shouted, but she walked on by. John shouted again, but to no avail. She went out to the garden, picked some green beans and a few early ears of corn, and walked back in the house. She came out again and hung up the laundry to dry, seemingly ignoring his now incoherent screams with unbelievable determination.
"Mary!" he shouted again, when he calmed down. "That's my shirt! You're supposed to dry MY stuff in the machine. I don't care about the cost." He might as well have been a worm for all the heed she paid him.
John realized that he was in trouble. Here he was, stuck in his own back yard up to his chin like a dang fence post, completely unable to move anything but his head, and his wife acted like he wasn't even there.
He started to wonder how he'd gotten in this predicament. He and Lucille had been working late, and he'd given her a ride home. Suddenly Lucille had screamed. Well, maybe he had let his eyes drift away from the road for a couple of seconds, but…. He frowned. Did he remember ANYTHING after that scream and his irritated thought? He broke out in a sweat.
He was straining to pull himself up out of the ground, and not making any progress, when he was distracted by an altercation in the house. A moment later the screen door flew open, and Lucille came running out, pursued by Mary, armed with a cleaver. Mary tripped going down the steps, hit the ground, and did not move. John just goggled at her. When he thought to look for Lucille, she was gone.
The police came, they looked around, and they removed Mary's body. All this time John screamed himself hoarse, but no one took any more notice of him than Mary had when she hung the laundry (still on the line, he noticed).
Then he must have been unconscious for a while, because he came around to the sound of Mary's voice. He opened his eyes. She was embedded up to her neck over by the hydrangea.
"You bastard!" she shouted, "screwing that slut Lucille. I'll kill her when I get out of here."
"I didn't screw her," John retorted, "we were just working late. Then I was taking her home, and I wound up here.…" his voice trailed off.
The end
Love Triangle
"Hey, Mary," he shouted, but she walked on by. John shouted again, but to no avail. She went out to the garden, picked some green beans and a few early ears of corn, and walked back in the house. She came out again and hung up the laundry to dry, seemingly ignoring his now incoherent screams with unbelievable determination.
"Mary!" he shouted again, when he calmed down. "That's my shirt! You're supposed to dry MY stuff in the machine. I don't care about the cost." He might as well have been a worm for all the heed she paid him.
John realized that he was in trouble. Here he was, stuck in his own back yard up to his chin like a dang fence post, completely unable to move anything but his head, and his wife acted like he wasn't even there.
He started to wonder how he'd gotten in this predicament. He and Lucille had been working late, and he'd given her a ride home. Suddenly Lucille had screamed. Well, maybe he had let his eyes drift away from the road for a couple of seconds, but…. He frowned. Did he remember ANYTHING after that scream and his irritated thought? He broke out in a sweat.
He was straining to pull himself up out of the ground, and not making any progress, when he was distracted by an altercation in the house. A moment later the screen door flew open, and Lucille came running out, pursued by Mary, armed with a cleaver. Mary tripped going down the steps, hit the ground, and did not move. John just goggled at her. When he thought to look for Lucille, she was gone.
The police came, they looked around, and they removed Mary's body. All this time John screamed himself hoarse, but no one took any more notice of him than Mary had when she hung the laundry (still on the line, he noticed).
Then he must have been unconscious for a while, because he came around to the sound of Mary's voice. He opened his eyes. She was embedded up to her neck over by the hydrangea.
"You bastard!" she shouted, "screwing that slut Lucille. I'll kill her when I get out of here."
"I didn't screw her," John retorted, "we were just working late. Then I was taking her home, and I wound up here.…" his voice trailed off.
The end
110511
or 1011 101 1011
In base 110511, it's 1.
We don't call that numerology, but we should. How 'bout numeralogy?
chocolate ball
why did you run
I would have loved you
spiders' dusty feast, you
should have gone to waist
In base 110511, it's 1.
We don't call that numerology, but we should. How 'bout numeralogy?
chocolate ball
why did you run
I would have loved you
spiders' dusty feast, you
should have gone to waist
Friday, November 4, 2011
111011
One day b4 palindrome day! Here's mine: yay!
time to kill grandpa
he finds many dead selves
karate kid
time to kill grandpa
he finds many dead selves
karate kid
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Gnu rough? Gnaw!
Mostly. Not finished b4 the rain. Argh! Only part over deck remains, but now it needs to dry out.
I still really like this one
Superheroes
Strange Horizons, 21 October 2002
You have to jump,
and it's a long one,
but you make the leap.
Far below, a few cars are moving,
their lights illuminating
the fog from within,
its swirls and eddies the internal organs of
Ghosts.
You stumble and catch yourself
on the next roof with the fingertips
of your right hand on the gelid
Tar. You wiggle your fingers to
obscure any possible prints and
stroll over to the skylight.
She is waiting, alone in her bed.
There are so many ways to get through a skylight,
here are just a few:
* plunge feet first (closing eyes)
* rip it right out of its frame and toss it aside
* melt it with infrared eyebeams
* teleportation
* Slip through the crack where the water gets in.
But this skylight is open, and so you
simply jump down to the floor.
The girl smiles sleepily and opens herself.
You cover Brenda,
or whatever her name is,
while the CD changer shuffles through
some psychedelic rock.
It's good, very good, and lasts a long time,
superhuman stamina being what it is.
Afterwards, you trace the line of her jaw with a finger
that can poke through solid concrete.
She catches your finger and bites it playfully.
You slap her, not hard, and suddenly you are
wrestling.
No, you are fighting,
and it's taking all your strength
and art to keep your head from smashing
big holes in the floor and walls.
"Why Brenda," you say, "I had no idea."
She sinks her fangs into your neck.
You moan in terrible ecstasy,
your powerful limbs suddenly flaccid.
"Brenda, you suck," you whisper from
withered superhuman lips.
She picks you up and throws you into the
laundry chute. You slide down headfirst and land on
A pile of bodies. Somebody's thumb is in your eye.
"Fuck me, she caught another one," groans a faint voice.
It's Spiderman.
"Superman?" asks a thread-like whisper.
"He's not coming, Batman," Spidey retorts,
"he ain't that stupid."
"Anyway," replies Green Lantern,
"he's got Lois to wax his board."
"Well I only came because you did," Batman retorts angrily.
You won't die here, evidently,
But if these assholes don't shut up,
You may wish you did.
Strange Horizons, 21 October 2002
You have to jump,
and it's a long one,
but you make the leap.
Far below, a few cars are moving,
their lights illuminating
the fog from within,
its swirls and eddies the internal organs of
Ghosts.
You stumble and catch yourself
on the next roof with the fingertips
of your right hand on the gelid
Tar. You wiggle your fingers to
obscure any possible prints and
stroll over to the skylight.
She is waiting, alone in her bed.
There are so many ways to get through a skylight,
here are just a few:
* plunge feet first (closing eyes)
* rip it right out of its frame and toss it aside
* melt it with infrared eyebeams
* teleportation
* Slip through the crack where the water gets in.
But this skylight is open, and so you
simply jump down to the floor.
The girl smiles sleepily and opens herself.
You cover Brenda,
or whatever her name is,
while the CD changer shuffles through
some psychedelic rock.
It's good, very good, and lasts a long time,
superhuman stamina being what it is.
Afterwards, you trace the line of her jaw with a finger
that can poke through solid concrete.
She catches your finger and bites it playfully.
You slap her, not hard, and suddenly you are
wrestling.
No, you are fighting,
and it's taking all your strength
and art to keep your head from smashing
big holes in the floor and walls.
"Why Brenda," you say, "I had no idea."
She sinks her fangs into your neck.
You moan in terrible ecstasy,
your powerful limbs suddenly flaccid.
"Brenda, you suck," you whisper from
withered superhuman lips.
She picks you up and throws you into the
laundry chute. You slide down headfirst and land on
A pile of bodies. Somebody's thumb is in your eye.
"Fuck me, she caught another one," groans a faint voice.
It's Spiderman.
"Superman?" asks a thread-like whisper.
"He's not coming, Batman," Spidey retorts,
"he ain't that stupid."
"Anyway," replies Green Lantern,
"he's got Lois to wax his board."
"Well I only came because you did," Batman retorts angrily.
You won't die here, evidently,
But if these assholes don't shut up,
You may wish you did.
110311
Next palindrome day in 1000 years. Forgot to celebrate yesterday. I'll catch it next time.
I suppose you think
this poem's about you
it's not
I suppose you think
this poem's about you
it's not
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
110211
Maybe it's base 3. 1, 3, 18, 81, 243=346?
numeralogy
led her to construct
ever-larger numbers
until a gargantuan
4 fell & crushed her house
it was a zero-sum game
numeralogy
led her to construct
ever-larger numbers
until a gargantuan
4 fell & crushed her house
it was a zero-sum game
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
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