jonberger

The buxom blonde I’ve been creeping on has disappeared from sight I’ve seen not hide nor hair of her, however hard I try-it.
It’s like she’s disappeared from Earth.
I cannot find that girl.
I suppose it’s time to start the search upon all other worlds.

Hey, Ace Munroe, Space Detective:
discover the love of my life.
An interplanetary man can get me a space wife.

I’ll give you all the background, all the data, pics and such of the sort of lady I would love to love too much.
Then you can use your space detective skills to seek her out. I know you will uncover her; you’ve got tons of space clout.

You’ll find a chick for me to have
to love, to laugh, to live.
You can do it, Ace Munroe
ace space detective.

For my perfect mate, Munroe, I have some requisites.
She must be under four meters and over eighty tits.
If she can speak my language, that would be super neat
but if by chance she loves to dance
she can’t have two left feet.

Ace Munroe, space-girl hunter,
claim bounties of beautiful mares
then deliver them to me direct
for my internal affairs.
If you present an alien girl
I’ll gladly pay your rent
and if she can support the strain
you can have ten percent.

That thing you forgot
is the most valuable thing in the world
– in the universe, maybe.
It is the Grail,
the Philosopher’s Stone,
the Ark of the Covenant
and whatever else comes to mind.
It can be all things
to all people
since it is forgotten.
It is the empty space.
It is missing.

The thing you forgot
is dangerous
is valuable
is important
but you can’t be sure how important
since you can’t put your finger on it.
The thing you forgot
is the only thing you can think about
itching at you in absentia.

The thing you forgot is
not what we were talking about before
was it?
God,
where were we?

You lack courage
or a belief in yourself
or something that resembles those two
which is a shame
since it leaves you
less than you deserve.
You could be so much more.

There are better things you could do
than what you have been doing.
You could find higher paths
on which to walk.
You could transform
into the epitome of you.
You could talk the talk.

You settle for boys who are beneath you
which is unfair
to your higher purpose
but always gives me hope
that you might continue to lower your standards
and eventually settle for less
enough so
that you might eventually take me.

Your is a fate
that might have no limit.
You could be a thing unparalleled.
Someday you might arrive at your highest
and all of your fears will be quelled.

Dead dogs
totally freak my shit the fuck out.
Your closest companion
just going to die on you?
That is hard.
That is some fucked up shit.
That is depressing as all the hells
on this earth.

If we are building
boon companions
out of the stuff of nature
– if we are devolving
and rebirthing these beasts
to best suit us –
why are their life spans so short?
I don’t want to go to my friend’s funeral
or be the one
to force it into existence.
My pets should outlive me.

The evil geneticists
need to work on this
and improve animal longevity
so they can be the ones
to bury us.

I swear,
if I have to go
to one more pet cemetery
to cast off cremains
of one more pal
I am going to go
fucking dogshit crazy.

Picture it:
a silver castle
high as a falcon’s eye
and within,
shelf upon shelf of books
filled with poems
essays and stories
all about, dedicated
or inspired by you.
Words meant to woo,
expressions of appreciation
each and every sheet
in honor of you.

That’s what I want to create.
That’s what I wish to build
a monument to you
made of the only materials I have available
composed from my care.
But even words
the only cool tool in my big ass box of tricks
fail to create the dynasty of devotion
I hope for you to see.

So
if you would just imagine
what I want you to experience
if only in my imagination
I would hope you believe
that I would do this
if I could find the ability
to best capture you.

Beautiful little girl
full of vim and piss,
conviction and coercion.
You have your own diabolical ways
and manipulative manner.

I can see behind your deceitful eyes
the devious workings
of a damaged mind.
I can see the dark gears going,
growing in power
and facility.
I can tell
what a horror you’ll be
soon enough
when you grow into your powers.

Looking at you now
you are a wonder,
a dark glory,
and I cannot wait
to see
what you eventually come to be.

I shot the sheriff before it was cool.
I was masturbating before it was cool.
I danced the Electric Nadelstern before it was cool.
I had gay panic before it was cool.
I was white privilege
liberal guilt
equal opportunity
and artisanal shaving products
– all before they were cool.

I was at the start of the movement.
I invented The Hop.
I endorsed premarital sex
and teenagerism
and socialist doctrine
before anybody else.
Consider me the origin.

I was Patient Zero
of popularly appropriate behavior
in the scene.
I got there first.
I defined the everything
before it sold out
and got compromised
by the man.

It’s not as cool now
as it was back then
when it was fresh and new
and I was alone
in a blank room
doing the Electric Nadelstern
with Eve and the apple.

The last idea I had for a poem was really bad
so I trashed it.
I just up and deleted the concept
because it wasn’t going anywhere good.
I decided to abort.
I killed my baby
and I did it for you
since you wouldn’t appreciate it.

My poem is dead
by my hands
with you as my able accomplice.
You’re welcome;
I hope you’re happy.

I know that all art
is a conversation
between creator and adoring audience
and if I’m not successfully communicating something
that you’re willing to take in,
I will have failed.
I understand the contract between us
and I respect it
but my child is still born
and it is your fault
with your limitations
and fucking imbecility
and – just…
fuck you all.
Fuck everything.

It was an accident
I swear.
I didn’t see it
didn’t notice
had no intention
of desecrating slash demolishing your home
in such a way.

It was early
and I wasn’t paying attention
and I meant you no harm
I swear.
I didn’t want to do anything
to impact on your way of life.

I was just going about my business.
I am normally very careful
about these sort of things.
I don’t want you to be offended
by my wiping away
your place of business
your way of life
your reason for being.

I’m sure you can start again
and build something better, stronger
more efficient.
If you work hard enough
with enough foresight
you might be able to improve your structure
into a global identity.
I can just imagine it:
your worldwide web.

I’m sorry.
I’m making light of what is no doubt
your very serious concern.
I didn’t mean to fuck with your whole existence
spider.
I’m so sorry
but please
if you would
consider beginning again
and eat all of the roaches
that won’t leave me alone.

Every dog has her day.
Every square peg
has its round hole
and every monster
has a town full of victims
to call its very own.

My thing,
the thing I love most
is the eight track tape.
The size
the format
the entire experience of the cassette
is for me.
It is all so very excellent.
I have an eight track player
and I have a tape:
Lou Reed’s first album.

This is the way
I will take in music:
on my select device
with all the albums I can find
which is so far
just the one.

I am sure
that we two will be so very happy together.