thee fucktard, no one loves you.

dear fucktard, no one loves you. i know. even your mother loathes your whiny ass, she told me one night over tea biscuits, whiskey and waters and her yapping. she waxed poetic about the Patti Smith Group, and said that she knew why i'd never be famous. i mostly ignored her, and tried to sneak glances at her legs. when she would get up i'd watch her walk, and wonder why your father was such an idiot. HOW COULD HE LEAVE SUCH A FINE LADY!

anyway this was about five years ago. i was different then, an animal, stark raving mad, but in control. i tried to not come off as a creep. this was when anyone old enough to have seen blade runner in the theatre was considered a creep. you would hear the vixens at the rock show say things like - "he's so creepy." and then they would pine over you fucktard, about how you can't commit and how you do ten strokes, bust and say a bunch of "i'm sorry(S)".


this was years ago, when i was still mourning my failed marriage. i think a few good women may have loved me then, but it never took. they would light candles for me, bring incense in and chat things. we would listen to Sleater Kinney, or Le Tigre and i would hear the wonderful impromptu treatises of the FOURTH WAVE Feminists. i grew up, it was Wasco's Growing 33 summer so i had just turned 30. and it scared me, i hadn't done much, it was possible that i would do nothing. yet, with those few i grew a bit. started to see the other side, felt my patriarchy start to decay, felt my armour chip.

but you fucktard, you always made it easy. with your fixed gear bikes, and Animal Collective pretense. hey! not all fix gear bikers are fucktards, but as with anything, especially with the poets some get mixed in. they hide amongst us, waiting for mom to drop off the laundry. you and your dude snark at the bands, and pass te same six ladies amongst each other. they think you are sweet, but its only that you are a coward. but hey, no worries. we all are cowards!

the conversations go like this:

FUCKTARD: so dude, you hear the new Battles?

ME: no why?

TARD: so dude i just put together a new fixie. shit is tits.

ME: right on.

TARD: this band sucks that's about to play. i saw them at Pat's, they can't touch some of the better bands.

ME: oh. i'm in that band. what bands you talking about?

TARD: awww man, your cool though. shit you know?

ME: i'm walking away now.

TARD: word dude. hey have you seen my girl _________?

ME: you mean ___________? she standing right next to you.

TARD: hey __________ i didn't know you were there!


the poets. the painters. something about them. they always seem to have a leg up, its too difficult to trust them. i don't know what they are talking about. of course there are exceptions, but they don't read the blog. i get to talk to them, and its always enlightening - their trips, and awards. that fucktard's mother was right, i will never make it! i should of asked her - make it where? 


this was years ago though. i grew. cuz no one loves you when your a fucktard.

TREMONSTER ART WALKERS WITH TEETH AND GUM

(in pome form, without illustrations)

damn, the love lost. she held a pencil

drew his face along remnants of Daddy

placed mouse tongue inside her friends

mouth made Lesbians, toasted

a sack of well intentioned Balls

along side a list of unrequite

danced the liberal city at happy hours

where they nodded theys, she cackled

swollen ankles for youthful vengeance 

was serving drinks, tattooed, and pierced along

riding the rider of the Fixed Gear,

she brings her tips home.

(and You thought the pomes should be In the Tradition)

glory blister and whitey nigger testament.

he swagger, and she poet thinks alongside the reading,

"i've forgotten more lines than you will ever -"

and he in Gingsberg Tie Die- the audience says, "DIE"

(YES, THEY DID.)

but he thinks they will only mourn me

will only mimic me, the graybeard

theWhitePhallus gleaming righteous Lincoln,

"I always wanted the Blacks free."