tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35689862011-07-30T16:34:20.548-07:00The world according to DavidLAnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2101100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-29167530900632161082010-01-10T01:20:00.000-08:002010-01-10T01:31:55.547-08:00

Why hasn’t that human feed me yet? Can’t he hear me meowing and caterwauling? I’ve just woken up from my twelve hour beauty sleep and I’m famished. I need to eat before I have another nap. If he doesn’t come down and feed me soon, I’m going to use his sofa and dining table legs as my scratching posts.It’s not as if I do nothing for him. Why just the other day, I presented him with a rat that I

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-87783297526383719422010-01-09T04:02:00.000-08:002010-01-09T04:16:20.896-08:00

Creativity PortalMy mother did the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me- she gave me life.My father had a hand in this as well. They gave me love, a home, food, and an education.‘Nice’ is probably not the right, not a strong enough word to describe what they gave me.And I say this despite the fact that there have been times when I wished I hadn’t been born.When I have agreed with the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-3309161777028912712009-03-14T11:40:00.000-07:002009-07-24T07:28:44.445-07:00

1. I Had a Little Robin When I was young, I had a little robin tattooed onto my left wrist. Now that I’m very old, the tattoo has become faded and wrinkly. But, not for a moment, do I regret getting it because, despite its present condition, its message - to me- is still clear: “hope is the thing with feathers’. This little bird that sits across my wrist has saved me from myself a whole heap of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-85319197987382074502007-06-15T22:59:00.000-07:002007-06-15T23:00:52.577-07:00

MY Live Journal

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-6693979118283061862007-04-30T07:56:00.000-07:002007-05-23T08:02:50.842-07:00

Gort, Klaatu Barata Nikto.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1170123100826105932007-01-29T18:08:00.000-08:002007-01-29T18:11:42.686-08:00

I spy with my little isomething beginning with 100green bottles sitting on a wall. Whenthe last bottle falls,the veggies shall lie with the lollies. Redwill feel as if it were brown. Blueshall wish it were purple.Knock, knock jokes will becomeknock, knock conundrums. Deathshall ride a pale pogo stick,as Space plays Frisbee with Time.And my little i will find a decoder ring in the Coco Pops of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1168830625177906912007-01-14T19:08:00.000-08:002007-01-14T19:11:54.396-08:00

Going against the lawsof God and man, Victor bringsa bubblewrap woman to life.Her lips pop as he kisses them,as does her transparent skin.After he has burstthe last bubble on her bodyStandard Horror Ending: he sets her ablazeand,as she screams and melts,he leaves to createa new bubblewrap lover.Feminist Revenge Ending: she smothers him to death with her plastic body.Sappy, Hackeyened Romance

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1168830460463110392007-01-14T19:04:00.000-08:002007-01-14T19:12:54.966-08:00

It’s 3 a.m.and, once again, I find myselfnaked in the local municipal park,talking with the daisies who proclaim:“Soon it will start to rain marmalade”.Sure enough, marmaladesweet, thick, sticky, and orangeoozes down my hair, face,back, chest, belly, butt, and legs.This heavenly sent and scented substance,this marmalade, mingles with my tearsas it brings back memories of domestic jubilance.And

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1156383985860790092006-08-23T18:43:00.000-07:002006-08-23T18:46:26.110-07:00

Cakes, bonnets, booties, roses, posies –Agnes, you’re going to be awakenedone night and toldyou’re a widowbecause of a random act of violetsbloom. Spring, summer,Fall.Push, Agnes, push.It’s a boy! He’s(decades pass)a memory.He’s not the firstand not the last.Winter,Snap snaps and kills Crackle and Pop.The Little Mermaid, now human,feels the cut of razors with each step she takes.Paint drips into

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1154204448126808062006-07-29T13:19:00.000-07:002006-07-29T13:20:48.126-07:00

I, the undersigned,no longer wish to be human.I hereby give my consent to Dr ( ) and his teamto transform me from man to octopus.I want my limbs amputated and replaced with tentacles.My head is to be made bulbous.I am to have a beak and ink sacAnd finally, gills will be where my lungs are now.I will swim with octopodes.The reasons for my decisionare my own.Signed….

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1154204101494385212006-07-29T13:13:00.000-07:002006-07-29T13:17:05.730-07:00

And thenthe Big Bad Wolf suddenly leapt out of the bedand Little Red Riding Hood -Hiiiii YAY! –gave him a ju-jitsu kick right in his groin.“Don’t mess wid me or me granny, bub,” she snarled,as he writhed and whimpered on the floor.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1147027064133498032006-05-07T11:23:00.000-07:002006-08-23T18:50:19.740-07:00

Napowrimo (National Poetry Writing Month) takes place in April. The challenge of napowrimo is to write 30 poems in 30 days.I wrote a series of poems. Each poem consisting of a recipe and a quote from a poem.The Poems(Click here for the poems with commentary)(Click here for links to recipes and poets.)Vegetable Soup skanky sparrow flies in through Veronica’s kitchen windowas she heats butter and

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1139399321720610362006-02-08T03:33:00.000-08:002006-02-08T03:48:41.753-08:00

Henry supports Lucyas she spews champagne and lobsterupon his living room rug.Outside, the stars shine,a dog barks,kids set a mailbox ablaze,a tawny frogmouth blinks.Lucy finishes, slurs out an apology,staggers out the front door,and collapses on the lawn.The stars, the dog, the kids, the owl, and Henrygaze at her knickers.She seemed so nice on the 'net.PFFA Crits of DateBlind Date I hold Lucy

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1138624217114742032006-01-30T04:03:00.000-08:002006-02-02T15:15:12.843-08:00

Yew tree dead in forest.There's a groan moon in blah sky.To city, people go.Alone, him, at home.He, the widower, mulls over metaphysical concepts,ponders over questions of fatalism,thinks about the ramifications of dualism,considers epistemological conundrums and quandaries.His home he leaves.In sky, sun shinesPeople come back home.In forest, yew trees grow.PFFA comments and crits.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1137335836530404772006-01-15T06:35:00.000-08:002006-02-02T15:40:36.340-08:00

In the backyard,under the shade of a jacaranda tree,baby Jerry sits on a blanket.His tail thick, long, and pinkpokes out from the back of his diapers.Jenny, four, buck-toothed and hyperactive,tugs on Jerry's tail.A tail that is attached to a spinal nervewhich is why the surgeons couldn't remove it.He yelps then bawls.“Leave him be,”says their mum, one-armed Martha,who then points to a cloud that

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1135788570766071782005-12-28T08:43:00.000-08:002006-02-02T15:47:12.633-08:00

Row, row, row your boat,Gently down the stream.Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,Life is but a dream.“Y’know" said Joe, after he tooka swig of his alfalfa and mung bean wine,"it’s right wing propaganda.The message is clear:get into your boat,row down the stream;don’t worry about the blue-green algae,the sacks of puppies and kittens,nor the guys with cement shoesjust row, conform, and be merry”.“

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1134628703518604992005-12-14T22:31:00.000-08:002005-12-14T22:41:24.510-08:00

Summer of the Cicada is Will Napier's first novel. It is a well-written dark,gritty Southern Gothic tale narrated by 13 year old, Joseph Pullman,an only child who lives with his dysfunctional parents. His dad is a brutish thug who beats him up, savagely, on a regular basis and his mum is a schizophrenic.Joseph and his parents have moved to Maritime,Massachusetts during the summer of 1987, a time

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1134594865702589202005-12-14T13:12:00.000-08:002006-02-02T15:53:45.270-08:00

Apple pie, artichoke hearts, amaretto cookies,bread, bicarbonate of soda, bullets, bananas,cauliflower, chocolate, cat food, curse of boils,doughnuts, dishwashing liquid,echincia, eye of newt, eggs,fishfingers, floor cleaner,glitter, glue, gun, Grand Manier, Le Grand Grimoire, grapeshummus, hammer, her heart cut out and placed on a platterice cream, iron pillsjelly, jam, jarknife, kitty litter,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1127548788615714172005-09-24T00:36:00.000-07:002005-09-24T00:59:48.663-07:00

The Boy in the Green Suit by Robert Hillman tells a tale that reads like a work of fiction, a great and enjoyable work of fiction. So, I kept thinking of it as the novelI was reading rather than the memoir. A memoir that won the 2005 National Biography Award.It is a true Australian story with universal appeal that iswell worth a read. I hope that there are plans to make it into a movie.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1127383528742329092005-09-22T02:59:00.000-07:002005-09-22T03:07:37.536-07:00

A wasp zigs zigs around a living room.Look at how it darts about.Like it knew it were doomed-such is the fate of the wasp.RewriteIt zig zags about the living room.Look how it darts around,as if it knew it were doomed.Such be the fate of the wasp.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1126429583216180892005-09-11T02:05:00.000-07:002005-09-22T02:57:50.586-07:00

Somewhere along the Adriatic Sea,Sam drifts upon a raft.And the sun seems to himto be judge, jury, and executioneras it scowls downon his red, blistered skin.Hours pass,a fish begins to talk to him.He asks the fish if it might grant him a wish."Don't be silly,Sammy," says the fish."Fishes don't grant wishes"why we can't even speak.""I'm just part of of your sun-induced delirium".The sun sets; the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1123738103559839282005-08-10T22:27:00.000-07:002005-08-25T19:27:15.333-07:00

At first, it had been just Boris and Johntheir bags of marbles, and the circle that someone had chalkedupon the playground floor. They, the boys talkedof nothing but the game-for now it was truly on.Soon, under a scorching midmorning sun, a crowd gathered aroundas the marbles were knuckled, flicked and flung acrossthat chalked arena. One boy's win would be the other boy's loss.The game neared its

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114886145646045422005-04-30T11:30:00.000-07:002005-05-03T04:38:31.380-07:00

“Oh Farmer Brown!exclaimed the milkmaids,your cock really does arouse us”.“His cock,said Mrs. Brown, with a frown,will be on the chopping blockif he doesn’t put it back in his trousers”.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114814069514509712005-04-29T15:31:00.000-07:002005-04-29T15:34:29.513-07:00

Don't forgetto bringthe chicken.Rememberwhat happenedthe last timeyou forgot.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114813826816980562005-04-28T15:16:00.000-07:002005-04-29T15:30:26.816-07:00

There once was-like- this realgone crazy cool dharma chicken from out of- like-town who gobbled down goofygrain balls filled with -like-goofy grain ball goodnessand- like–this groovy chicken-like-never wore a frown,on his dial,you dig?Until the day he learnedchickens can't play bongos nor bass real hot or cool -like-cause they lack- like- an opposable thumb, and lips so they can- like- groove and

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114812852366554742005-04-27T15:12:00.000-07:002005-04-29T15:14:57.386-07:00

Cacophonous squawks arise again from my farmyard premisesas the chickens sense the presence of their skulking enemy,none other than the fox, their wily old nemesis.He’s come to pilfer some more of my plump poultryDamn you varmint! One day I’ll wear you as a garment!You’ll learn, vulpine thief, which of us is truly crafty.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114812551237428782005-04-26T15:05:00.000-07:002005-04-29T15:09:11.236-07:00

This is just to say,that as you were working last nightI got bored and called up the guysand we all went to the pub.Afterwards, we were a bit peckishbut the kebab shop on the corner was closedSo, I invited the guys back hereand we ate the chicken in the fridgewhich you were probablysaving for that dinneryou’re having for your parents, tonight.Oh, and if you were wonderingwhy the red wheelbarrow

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114812300207686662005-04-25T14:59:00.000-07:002005-04-29T15:05:00.206-07:00

I say, look over yonder at that thar roosterHe’s dancin’ and prancin’and romancin’ the lady chickens--hens that is.He’s flippin’ and a floppin’ and jim jam jopplin';he’s crowin’, he’s schmoozin’ and a groovin’.He’s struttin’, butt feather waggin’, shaggin’,braggin’, beboppin’ ,name droppin’, hippin'and hoppin’, film-flamin’, slammin’,wailin’ and wham-bam-thank-you-mamin’.He’s one happenin'

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114811853433419822005-04-24T14:53:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:57:33.433-07:00

When Lola was a childall the other kids had teddy bears,while Lola owned a teddy chicken.When Lola was a college seniorher friends and she got tattoosThey chose hearts, nymphs, and tribal Celtic designs.She selected a Long Island Red for her right shoulder.When Lola was a middle-aged mumall the other mum's wore fluffy bunny slippers.Not Lola, her feet were adorned with feathery chicken

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114811290849087802005-04-23T14:38:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:49:28.520-07:00

Ernie’s existence began in a laboratory, not a farm.He was not borne in an egg until he was born,but in a test tube that once contained the sperm of his father chickenand the ovum of his mother duck.Part chicken, part duckErnie was a chuck,the only chuck on earth.The scientists who created Ernie,also genetically modified and enhanced him.They prodded and poked him,shoved chemicals and other

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114810663225016272005-04-22T14:32:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:37:43.226-07:00

World, cruel, worldWhy do you torment me?Why create a beautiful hen like Helenwho wants to be naught but my friend.i love her, world,but she loves another, not me.World, i am at my wit’s end.World i am lonesome and lonelyand though i live amongst a sea of chickens,who surround me as far as my eyes can see.There’s no one special here for me.At nights, I peck out my poems before icry myself to

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114810255758620912005-04-21T14:27:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:30:55.760-07:00

The Harvest moon seemedenormous. Now a rooster crows.Claire drops the knife.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114809761044200072005-04-20T14:19:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:22:41.046-07:00

There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.There’s a white chicken in with the black chickens.MOTHERFUCKER!There’s a black chicken in

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1114809420101640822005-04-19T14:13:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:17:00.103-07:00

Bashed, bloodied, and broken,Big Red, “The Champ, fumbles around the ringin what will be his last fight.The human crowd cheers and waves wads of dollarsas the newcomer, the challenger, Goliath the Roosterswipes his razor sharp spurs across Big Red’s eyes.A scream, almost too human, hurls out from the champ’s throat:It sounds akin to a mutilated soldier crying out for his mother.Goliath knows no,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113981469354471902005-04-18T00:16:00.000-07:002005-04-29T14:11:30.280-07:00

In the sometimes sad, bad, mad, not so glad, ‘how’s your dad?’time of the late night/early morningwhen the bones of your sorrow collide with the walls of your discontentand your mourning and your grief have a ménage a trioswith the seeds of your thoughts of suicide,a chicken and a cat may well one day come,and their crazy, groovy, goofball antics will bringjoy to your heart and make you feel

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113981152477578282005-04-17T00:09:00.000-07:002005-04-20T00:12:32.476-07:00

Way up high,on a branch of the old eucalyptus tree,Tom stands akimbo in his new Superman suit.His cape flaps in the summer holiday breeze."Watch me FLY!" he shouts to the chickens below,as he launches himself skywards.The chickens cover their eyes with their wings.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113980745163342692005-04-16T00:01:00.000-07:002005-04-20T00:05:45.163-07:00

When I first read your poem, what I notedwas that it was a cluckket, written in iambwuck hentameter.And it’s clear, my dear that you’reinfluenced by Rooster Maria Rilke.However, you use iambwuck hentameterexclusively-to the detriment of the poem.It becomes monotonous.Why not add some flavour to your verses,some kapowie to your poetry by using some ducktyls or chickees,or maybe some henapestsYou

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113980300572660242005-04-15T23:54:00.000-07:002005-04-20T00:01:25.836-07:00

[I]I should have hurled you down the stairs, slut.Or punched you in your pregnant gut,then neither your daughter nor our burdens would have ever been born.[/I]Kate-Not-Katestands fragmented in her bathroomlike a sentence without a verb.A girl who's lost her metaphors.Sh-sh- she looks in her mirrors: the splintered one, the cracked one, the whacked one.Blood covers her face.Blood drips from her

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113979923677981972005-04-14T23:50:00.000-07:002005-04-19T23:52:03.676-07:00

High noon,buzzards circle and swoop.The sun calls out mad dogs.A harmonica weeps out a tune.Tears travel down reddened faces.Sweat gushes down brows.Forks pass between swollen lipsinto mouths that lookas if they were blistered in the depths of hell.No manwants to be the manwho's the first stop eatingat the annual chicken curry-eating competition.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113979721894215432005-04-13T23:46:00.000-07:002005-04-19T23:48:41.896-07:00

One eveningas Steve is feeding the chickensthere comes a sudden rapa-tap-tap on his bedroom door."What are you doing in there?""Err, um, nothing, mum."His mother goes downstairs.“He’s doing ‘nothing’, again.”“Don’t worry, darling” says Steve’s dad.as he turns on the living room lights“It’s just a stage,when I was his ageI was doing ‘nothing’morning, noon, and night.”

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113294771948205372005-04-12T01:27:00.000-07:002005-04-12T01:32:51.950-07:00

The purpose of my journey, was notas others have put it,merely “ to get to the other side”No. My aim was to smash the stereotypeof chicken as symbol of cowardice.For what else could subvert such a notionbut for a chicken, such as I,to cross from one side of the road to the other.From a place of familiar safety to a place of the “Other”.I did want to cut asunder the stereotype,but also I wished to

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113294408960762802005-04-11T13:02:00.000-07:002005-04-12T01:26:48.960-07:00

Fabulous Chicken Wash And Multipurpose Remedy is a mighty fine elixir.If your chicken’s feathers are dull and lifelessthen this stuff sure will fix her.Her feathers will sparkle and shine with a gleam you just can’t beat.And Freddy’s Fabulous Chicken Wash And Multipurpose Remedy also works a treat when it comes to the relief of:swollen glands,sweaty hands,writer’s block,acne,rheumatism,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113105532686198872005-04-10T20:56:00.000-07:002005-04-09T21:00:40.840-07:00

IThere sure is a lot of them.IISome of them are white.IIISome are black.IVOthers are brown.VSome are coloursother than white, black, or brown.VIISome are multicoloured.VIIIThey are really dumb.IXSo dumb that they wouldn’t get the ambiguity of pointVIIInor be able tospeak up about it if they did get it.XTheir dumbness probably plays a partin the fact that a lot of them live in battery cages,poor

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1113105266043162512005-04-09T20:51:00.000-07:002005-04-09T20:54:26.043-07:00

Chicken.Chicken?Chicken!chic….chic…ken…Chic…chic….chic…ken…Chic…chic….chic…ken…Ch…icken….chhhhh…iiiiick…..en..chicken….chic…ken…chhhh…ickenChic…chic….chic…ken Chic…chic….chic…ken Chic…chic….chic…kenCh…icken….chhhhh…iiiiick…..en..chicken….chic…ken…chhhh…ickenChic……ken…….Ch….ic….ken…..chicken….Ch…..ick!......en. cHIckEn?…..CHICKEN!!!.....Chick..chick…cHicken….CHiiiiiiiiiic…..ken….chickenchiiicken….

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112937787537318252005-04-08T22:22:00.000-07:002005-04-09T20:08:57.843-07:00

Artie put the barrel of the guninto his mouth and pulled the trigger.He believed this to bethe best solution to his problems:Lonely,luckless in love,deadend job,gambling debtetcetcetc.So many etceteras, too many etceterasas if they grew abundantly wild and madon some etcetera bush.Each etcetera another problem on Artie’s list of laments.Another reasonanother excusefor Artie’s decision to die.And

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112888901233964272005-04-07T08:46:00.000-07:002005-04-07T08:48:21.233-07:00

One nightone roadno copsone crowdtwo driversone smashone crashtwo corpsesttwo funeralsChicken.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112771210660567102005-04-06T00:05:00.000-07:002005-04-06T00:06:50.660-07:00

Sir-you are no chicken-why you are little more-than a frog-in a bog-surrounded by bees, harebells -and me- I sip-tea -from the finest Sevres.You and me? – that would be- farm life.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112687129561765592005-04-05T00:34:00.000-07:002005-04-05T00:47:15.656-07:00

There once was an old ladywho owned a white roosterwhich she took for long walks in a black pram.One windy evening,as she sat on her verandah,cradling the rooster in her arms,a neighbourhood crowd began to gather around.She bore them no mindand spoke to the rooster in such a soft voicethat nobody could hear what she said“She’s crazy!” yelled some yellow-toothed kidand the neighbors all laughedand

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112603099602812902005-04-04T01:24:00.000-07:002005-04-04T01:24:59.603-07:00

Bwuck! Bwuck! Bwuck!On this cold green ground, oh woe!Poor me- a fowl who is not foulbut fine of feather and temperament.Could this be the winter of my discontent?But, No! Death be not proudyou shall have no dominion over this little chickadee.For whom does the axe fall?Not for me, Bub, no sireee! I will gather six hundred of the best chickens: hens and roosters,the finest that you ever did see

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112515785640268942005-04-03T00:07:00.000-08:002005-04-30T05:48:24.510-07:00

Charles Chickowski: Drunken Rooster In Love. (Rewrite)I woke up with this fuzzy caterpillar-like taste in my beakand Penny the wild hen by my side.Man, if Helen of Troy had a been a henshe would have this hen.If Shakespeare wrote sonnets for poultry,Penny would have been his finger-lickin’ muse.I thought it might be love.But,for a hen,she was far too much of a hell catfor this little red

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112412306070842162005-04-02T19:15:00.000-08:002005-04-30T05:44:56.053-07:00

Hi! I'm @ my uncle's farmIt's lush here really greenystrdy unc showd mum & mehow 2 milk a cow -oh wow& ewwww the milk's warm & got bits in itDid u know a chook can run w/out a head?Freaky!Gotta go now.Miss you lots Mwah! XXOO

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1112362647822424192005-04-01T05:15:00.000-08:002005-04-30T05:25:11.026-07:00

I am taking part in the NaPoWriMo at the PFFAHere is my effort for April 1st 2005:Chicken A headless chicken runsaround Uncle Bob's farmyard.It bolts aboutthen it stopsdrops to the groundlike a toy with batteries that are dead.At dinner, Tommy devours a drumstick and asks:"Uncle Bob, how can a chicken run without a head?"Uncle Bob scoops potatoes onto his chipped blue china plate,and says:"Well ,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1101082193054704032004-11-21T16:06:00.000-08:002004-11-21T16:09:53.053-08:00

The clock goes double slow. Burger flip sweat tired, me, in skin greasy mind limbo, double shift blisters on my feet. I don’t want to be here with these families feeding on sugar and fat and peroxide perm blue mascara bimbos in leopard print pants and this ex- con manager who yells at me. Oh poor feet. I want to be a cat who's snoozing in front of a fireplace, burning log snug. Flippo burgeros

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1095099018978133952004-09-13T11:03:00.000-07:002004-09-13T18:39:11.960-07:00

Original Prologue: Steven is born in a hospital at a beachside suburb. “What does that mean?” “ I’m sorry to say that it means that Steven will have a shortened life span.” “Shortened? How shortened?” “ He probably won’t live past twenty one.” Joe, Steven’s father, sits down and weeps. The doctor puts his hand on Joe’s right shoulder. “ Wh wh what causes it?” “ Nobody knows.” “ Is there a cure

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1090030659340274792004-07-16T19:16:00.000-07:002004-07-16T19:27:38.100-07:00

A time machine carries cargo that consists of chickens, wheelbarrows and plums. It travels from the Land Beyond Beyond back to the day before the Earth stood still at a rate of X miles per hour. (X being the sum of extrapolated hyper reality squared.) During its journey,it gets sucked into a black hole,then spat back out, replicated a multitude of timesand thrust into a corresponding number

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1089849054268430382004-07-14T16:50:00.000-07:002004-07-14T17:20:26.826-07:00

A grey owl sleeps in a blue room where a white witch uses a red broom to sweep tan mice onto a green lawn. On the green lawn, lies a pair of black velvet gloves which are covered in dried criminson blood. The blood belongs to a brown man who wore an orange dress and owned a pink pig. The pink pig cries clear tears of colourless griesf for his dead brown master. Back in the blue

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1089391732475185872004-07-09T09:46:00.000-07:002004-07-09T09:55:51.030-07:00

of what do you dream, baby in blue, as you sleep snuggly in your stroller? Do you dream of the oral, gustatory delight of the milk that flows warmly from your mother’s breasts? Have you passed the Mirror Stage? Are you even aware that there is a difference between dreaming and not dreaming? Are you even aware that you are a “you”, that you and your mother are separate entities? Perhaps, baby in

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1086586192078897902004-06-06T22:26:00.000-07:002004-07-15T01:21:10.120-07:00

The Secret World of Annette Robinson byPaulette Gittins is a novel set in 1950s Kings Cross (Sydney, Australia) and it is narrated by its main character, Annette Robinson, who relates her life from five to ten years of age. It is a story about childhoodconcerns and adult secrets which is written in a poetic style and is filled with engaging characters. I enjoyed reading it. Next: Review 9-

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1083026502158629622004-04-26T17:41:00.000-07:002004-07-15T01:31:38.150-07:00

For reasons that I won't get into here,I would have to say that my favourite adolescent literary protagonists have been (and are) Holden Caufield , PonyboyCurtis, and Adrian Mole. -and, now, I have a new character to add to this list: Louise "Lou" Connor. She is the main character in M.J.Hyland's engaging debut novel, How the Light Gets. A title that was apparaently (and aptly) taken from

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1081145217919622082004-04-04T23:06:00.000-07:002005-05-03T05:33:36.826-07:00

I enjoyed reading Misconceptions by Terry McGee . It is a dramatic novel that tells the story of Julia Kent.Julia is an Australian obstetrician who, after a year of torment-including a public court case involving herhusband and the end of their marriage- is enjoying her busy life which includes a hectic work schedulethat affords her much satisfaction and a (time-limited) personal relationships

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1080365497466495412004-03-26T21:31:00.000-08:002004-04-04T23:21:52.250-07:00

Retribution, Jilliane. P. Hoffman’s debut novel is not great literature –or literature at all- but it is a very satisfying read, and it should make for a good movie. It is a suspenseful, well-paced, dark chiller-thriller that tells the story of a young law student, Chloe Larson who lives in New York City and has three problems: she is stressed out about passing the bar examination, her boyfriend

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1079065395764787302004-03-11T20:23:00.000-08:002004-04-04T23:19:20.013-07:00

A Map Of The Gardens isGillian Mears' second collection of short stories. There are 11 stories in it, which are all, save two, set in Australia. It is a good read, A very good read but a challenging and demanding one as well both intellectually and emotionally. It is a beautifully written, finely crafted collection of stories that deals with the difficulties of everyday life and the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1077724361507249622004-02-25T07:52:00.000-08:002004-02-29T20:24:00.623-08:00

Man, oh man, did I ever enjoy reading Richard Ford’s collection of ten excellent short stories, Rock Springs. (Vintage; Reprint edition, August 12,1988) If you haven’t already done so, I highly recommend that you read this book. But I make this recommendation with a warning. The stories in Rock Springs are stark, unsentimental, and sad. They are set in the American Mid West and deal with the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1076997563603228522004-02-16T21:59:00.000-08:002004-02-17T04:41:43.856-08:00

The Porno Girl And Other Stories by Merin Wexler (St. Martin's Press) was one of the books that I won in short story competition that I entered. There are 11 stories in collection and I decided to make it made my “train” reading (i.e. the reading I do traveling to and from work on the train.) I found it to be a good read. I say this because whilst reading the stories I often became so engulfed

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1076309167528090092004-02-08T22:46:00.000-08:002004-06-16T03:38:45.540-07:00

I found Wild Meat And The Bully Burgers,during a lunch break, in a second-hand book shops in Sydney (city) where the books are crammed and piled three or four books deep, some on their sides, others lying flat and stacked one on top of the other- into the bookshelves. There are also books on top of the shelves and in stacks on the floor. There is no alphabetical order and signs that say simply

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075969330594038592004-02-05T00:22:00.000-08:002004-02-05T01:26:47.233-08:00

I love sunshine and I love rain. But grey overcast days make me feel a heavy sadness. Heavier than a heavy lead yoke that burdens a depressed and forlorn mule as he plods along doing his dreary chores. It's not a visual thing. It's not as though I step outside, or look out a window and see that it is overcast day and then become sad. It is more that I KNOW that if I step outside or look

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075813812596210912004-02-03T05:10:00.000-08:002004-02-03T07:40:33.623-08:00

Hmmmm, it would come in three parts, 1) A stately manor in Sydney, near the water, 2) A stately manor in Florence, Italy, 3) A stately manor in Upstate New York. Some people might say that this would be three presents rather than one- but I like to see as three parts of the one present. Anyways, anything you get me will be appreciated. After all, I'm not materialistic. The Red

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075720345026732282004-02-02T03:12:00.000-08:002004-02-02T03:14:03.826-08:00

Call it diplomacy, cowardice, or a breaking of the code that says that writers should speak the truth. But I have to say that it is difficult for me to pick out a favourite birthday present, seeing as they were (except for a few exceptions) given to me by family and friends- and one doesn't want to hurt or upset the feelings of such people. But, having said that, I would have to say

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075610056622623282004-01-31T20:34:00.000-08:002004-01-31T20:38:25.403-08:00

I don't have a a favourite song. I couldn't even list my top 100 favourite songs. I mean if I did so today, the list would propably be different tommorow, and would certainly be so the day after- different days, different times of day (and night), different circumstance, situations, and moods call for different songs. Sometimes one is sad and wants to remain sad, to become sadder, to

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075457995927642542004-01-30T02:19:00.000-08:002004-01-30T21:15:51.983-08:00

"He Laughs Best Who Laughs Last" refers to the great satisfaction that you feel after finally prevailing over a person who, heretofore, has been ridiculing you. Or, conversely, the embarrassment you feel when it is you who has been the ridiculer. It is the moral of Aesop's fable, The Heifer and the Ox I suppose that I should relate this proverb to my own life and then, by extension,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075327233173440672004-01-28T14:00:00.000-08:002004-01-30T21:09:20.046-08:00

I'm going to take this to mean: what is something that I most can't dispense with, get rid of, do without. I can't think of a single 'most dispensable' thing. The only things that I can think of, off the top of my head, are my townhouse (which is half my sisters and is actually still, technically, owned by the lending /mortgage company ) and my record collection. But even these two

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075238878798258692004-01-27T13:27:00.000-08:002004-01-30T21:11:18.936-08:00

To tell you the truth, there's nothing that I am pessimistic about at the moment. Well, actually, there is something but I can't, for legal reasons, talk about it, which is all I can say. But, apart from that, I can say that I have passed beyond the putrid pools of pessimism and now I swim in the opulent oceans of optimism. It feels strange to feel optimistic after all these

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075147984651069092004-01-26T12:13:00.000-08:002004-01-26T12:16:06.483-08:00

I feel optimistic about my writing and I’m especially optimistic about my novel. But overall, in general, I am optimistic that 2004 will be a good year for me. I just have this good feeling in my bones about it. I feel that in terms of work, rest, and play things will become more balanced for me. I say this, not just because of some vague afore-mentioned good feeling, but because I have been

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1075042072680620062004-01-25T06:47:00.000-08:002004-01-25T06:53:08.576-08:00

Kill them. No, that's a little too harsh. And it would worsen your problems. Sure, you'd be rid of the people who were originally meddling in your life. But then all other sorts of meddlers would come to take their place: police officers, lawyers, pyschiatricts, other mental health care workers, social workers, a judge, and, finally, three guys called Papa Bubba, Mamma Bubba , and Bubba

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1074888431370410052004-01-23T12:07:00.000-08:002004-01-23T12:08:40.670-08:00

Hmmm, as a writer who works fulltime as an IT shift-worker, I don’t have time for dull evenings. Really. Not so long ago, I was reading an article that said that studies showed that shift-workers either get enough sleep and lack a social life or have a life social life and lack sleep, and some lack both. And anybody who writes and works full time knows that you have to find, make,

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1074848936649832972004-01-23T01:08:00.000-08:002004-01-23T01:19:46.716-08:00

In the wee small hours of the morning While the whole wide world is fast asleep You lie awake and think about the girl And never ever think of counting sheep When your lonely heart has learned it’s lesson You’d be hers if only she would call In the wee small hours of the morning That’s the time you miss her most of all. Yep, yessiiree, ma'am, my fav-our-ite time of the day are the wee small

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1074799053697402142004-01-22T11:17:00.000-08:002004-01-22T11:21:28.483-08:00

When I first read this prompt, the first things that came into my mind were molestation and any form of psychical and psychological torture and torment, Such as those parents who keep a child in some small, filthy enclosed space And treat him or her like an animal. But I have no experience in these matters. Not as victim, survivor, perpetrator, or expert. So, I can’t speak on these issues with

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1074728619111468962004-01-21T15:43:00.000-08:002004-01-22T10:21:40.013-08:00

What is a good neighbour? Someone who is is considerate, decent, and who has the ability to know when to get involved and when not to interfere. Simply put, the good neighbour is the opposite of the bad neighbour. The good neighbour gives you no grief, respects the fact that your home is your castle and refuge. A good neighbour is not petty. He or she can be a friend, but is usually

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1073528352059180142004-01-07T18:19:00.000-08:002004-01-23T01:26:37.826-08:00

I don’t have a favourite room. I used to, when I was a kid- my bedroom, but not so much anymore. However, there are various things that I like about various rooms in my house. So, alphabetically, Bathroom I like the bathroom to relax in. I like to relax in the bath after a good shower. I’d really like a really big bath and a spa. Bedroom I still like my bedroom to read and relax in

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1073049713736751522004-01-02T05:21:00.000-08:002004-01-02T05:25:14.936-08:00

Something I do well be writing. Me, I be real good at writing. I be good at writing because I has this natural talent for it. (All my life, I’ve been frightened at the moment I sit down to write.-Gabriel Garcia Marquez.) I be real good at writing because I have natural talent and I work at writing. I been work hard at writing for many much years-ever since be a little boy and still be

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1072656574467098882003-12-28T16:09:00.000-08:002003-12-29T03:57:34.576-08:00

In order to overcome a case of writer’s block, and to silence my internal critic, and just for the fun of it, I decided to do a ‘Google’ search on ‘Writing Prompts’ and do the first prompt on the list-which happened to be: What is something you dislike about yourself? It was not all that long ago (a few years of so) that the above writing prompt would have had me writing a long list of

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1071325930126765392003-12-13T06:32:00.000-08:002003-12-13T06:33:22.483-08:00

When Crazy Yolanda decided she was a dog she woke me up with a lick to my face. When she considered herself to be a cat she showed her annoyance with a scratch to my balls. She ate the roses I gave her for her birthday when she gathered that she was a goat. The time that she believed she was a bird she perched on a tree and shat on my car. Then Yolanda thought she was a fish and stayed submerged

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1070627494655683712003-12-05T04:31:00.000-08:002003-12-05T04:33:11.966-08:00

Joe's red apples sing that old Moody Blues song, Nights in White Satin. They sit and sing it in the light green ceramic fruitbowl that Joe made when he took an arts and crafts workshop, last winter, where he met Trudi. But he failed to grasp the moon when she needed it most, hence the singing apples.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1069172071022367212003-11-18T08:14:00.000-08:002003-11-18T08:14:54.810-08:00

Ok, I'll admit That, in hindsight, It probably wasn't such a great idea To put the baby, cradle and all, on top of a tree on a weak bough on a windy night.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1067702025406832602003-11-01T07:53:00.000-08:002003-11-01T08:19:42.800-08:00

She came to me with her problems, tears falling down her moon face. I looked at her red shoes, her legs, her boobs as I stroked an imaginary beard and pretended to listen while words like "pregnant" and "abortion" floated past my perverse thoughts. She wasn't my lover; I hadn't impregnated her. She had been my friend Joe's mistress but then he left her hence her tears and her question,why? I

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1066185954037023812003-10-14T19:45:00.000-07:002003-10-14T19:45:53.546-07:00

Original Mingmei And The Dragon In a place where wild flowers grow, Mingmei lies, sans clothes, belly down, eyes closed, her head resting on her folded arms, while John strokes the dragon tattoo that covers her from left shoulder to right butt cheek. It’s a serious looking red dragon with grand wings. (Well, as grand as Mingmei’s frame allows them to be.) As John massages the tip of the

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1062637117988815102003-09-03T17:58:00.000-07:002003-09-03T17:58:38.060-07:00

Order! Order! Will you please come to order! Stop giggling you humorous poems, this is serious. Oh, stop your whining you sonnets. You’ll get a chance to have your say. Settle down, you unruly free verse poems. Very well, I have gathered you here today to tell you that I am not pleased. Firstly, it has come to my attention that some you sensaryus have been trying to pass yourselves off as

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1062278259761379422003-08-30T14:17:00.000-07:002003-08-30T14:19:56.896-07:00

Original He holds her up as she spews beer and pizza onto his brand new rug. Her vomit flows out like a thick, chunky vegetable porridge. He gently rubs her back but really he wants to slam her head against a wall. Outside, his dogs bark and children set mailboxes on fire. Spewing Girl's boyfriend is dead drunk asleep on the lounge. She, SG, is not a pretty girl. She stops spewing and

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1061748983328816902003-08-24T11:16:00.000-07:002003-08-24T11:23:43.220-07:00

Original Prologue: Steven is born in a hospital at a beachside suburb. “What does that mean?” “ I’m sorry to say that it means that Steven will have a shortened life span.” “Shortened? How shortened?” “ He probably won’t live past twenty one.” Joe, Steven’s father, sits down and weeps. The doctor puts his hand on Joe’s right shoulder. “ Wh wh what causes it?” “ Nobody knows.” “ Is there a

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1060940851621127912003-08-15T02:47:00.000-07:002003-08-15T02:51:55.300-07:00

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1060914877104676312003-08-14T19:34:00.000-07:002003-08-14T19:44:37.613-07:00

For a moment, a second, a breath in and out, She stands alive in a lake Where pink flamingos feed. There are Celtic tattoos on her arms, a bullet in her head. The birds fly away as she falls

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059745548857566242003-08-01T06:45:00.000-07:002003-08-01T06:45:48.763-07:00

Original Ginger’s gaze rocks Mary Ann’s world Like rough weather tosses a tiny ship, Touch me, Gingerly, Ginger, she thinks. Our love is such a faithful trip. Make wild jungle cat love to me, Ginger. Be as primitive as you can be, Ginger I’ll be the Gilligan to your Skipper. Caress my coconuts and spank my bottom with your skipper’s cap. Work me over with your fruity island tongue. Let me be your

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059659178195961252003-07-31T06:46:00.000-07:002003-07-31T06:46:18.176-07:00

Original Bring out your dead! I'm not listening. Sharon hangs out her washing, notes to herself that the new powder removed all the vomit and blood. Bring out your dead! I can't hear you. When Sharon was a child her parents enrolled her in tap dancing classes. On the 9th of July, 1974, 10:35 p.m. they burned to death at home. Zoloft, and Lithium, and Prozac- - oh, my! Bring out your dead!

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059569660652432312003-07-30T05:54:00.000-07:002003-07-31T06:50:34.466-07:00

It's sleaze o'clock in the moaning and the moon scowls down on a citythat is as lackluster as the charm that hangs off a gimp hooker's bracelet. While in the fortress of filth and debauchery that he calls his apartment, in a bedroom filled with deer and moose head trophies, and a bear skin rug, and on a bed as big and as long as a kerouacian sentence, Big Louie is being entertained by a dame

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059409959814625942003-07-28T09:32:00.000-07:002003-07-28T09:32:39.776-07:00

One bed, two lovers two lovers, one cuckold one cuckold, one gun one gun, two bullets two bullets, two bodies two bodies, one vacancy.

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059288395552250362003-07-26T23:46:00.000-07:002003-08-15T02:49:01.270-07:00

Mary is purple. Claire is not purple. Sharon is, except for a pair of pink fluffy bunny slippers that adorn her feet, naked and is barking like a dog. Sharon is purple and half not purple. They are friends. They are in Mary’s house, in her kitchen. “Woof! woof!, woof!” barks Sharon. Claire pats Sharon’s head and gives her a cookie, which Sharon gobbles down. “Who’s a good girl then, says

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1059195951057011362003-07-25T22:05:00.000-07:002003-07-25T22:07:31.616-07:00

The aroma of olives, cheese, cold meats, and coffee beans reminds Joe of his father who didn’t make it to Australia. Tortured and shot dead like a dog and tossed into the streets like a pig. Joe, with the taste of rage, revenge, and grief- rancid and bitter in his throat, had wanted to run to him. But his mother and an aunt stopped him. That’s what the government death squad had wanted. Back

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1058319632762738872003-07-15T18:40:00.000-07:002003-07-15T18:40:32.756-07:00

I met a woman Who wanted to fellate me. But she was drunk and seemed crazy. And she had sad and murderous eyes; And the thought of my dick in her mouth Made feel ill at ease. Because she looked psycho enough To have bitten it off, And chewed it up, And spat it out onto two peices of toast. AAnd that's the way things are. Because it is always the crazy ones And never the normal. Because they know

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1058237673606908552003-07-14T19:54:00.000-07:002003-07-14T19:54:33.646-07:00

The Nights Come Down Like Ravens I was deep in thought last Friday, Facts, figures, and personal woe. And 90% of it was selfish, self-centered, And venomous Bullshit. I realized that when you came over, And told me about your disappointment Because of what I had said, Or rather, had not said to you. Forgive me. The only excuse that I have to offer- is that I am human And I get depressed

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3568986.post-1056186873829994972003-06-21T02:14:00.000-07:002003-07-12T16:12:30.570-07:00

Croak! On the morning after the night that Darlene's father died, the frogs could be heard to be a croaking across the working class suburbs of South-Western Sydney. Darlene's dad had been a slimy frog of a man, and his wake was to be one of unspoken celebration rather than of sorrow, grief or commiseration, a party to mark the end of many years of no parties. "Some of the parties that we threw

Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13031125960264695335noreply@blogger.com0