Week One

Feed the Hungry

Sentenced,

the bubble gum-kisser inclined.

She'd bitten garish cinammon,

smitten and under-scented, but musky.

Trust, the girl sees, as a solemn phrase,

swollen tastes from Seldom Ways,

when one will emit and un-waste a somber space.

Sniffing glue seldom receives such high praise.

Actually, smolten cocaine leaves a girl quite hungry,

but actually, she needs apples in peace,

surrounded by the Vietnames, capisce?

The prisoner, poison-pissed, sits atop a pretty girl's lisp, reads:

"Thee, I got the candieth."

The girl has spent her senses and gotten her intestines twisted

over cinammon fishes (childish, but sinful).

They, the gummy, got crushed an' assaulted,

crass an' bloated. He whom has created the Golden Bridge,

but forgotten the kindness of candy, shall have their flesh

washed away for eternity: the next century.

And the children fight, unpolite. Filled with the sight, I rightly plead:

"It's my turn, you see."

"If you exist a human

Then you can

Understate the importance of a craving."

     - Me, a guy drafted by the grocery store aisle Navy!

Baklava

Breakfast as King!

Living advantageously,

violent asthma

I'll Know When I'm Ten Feet Tall

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms

(A Children's Guide to the Five Senses:

Smack-smack, you can hear.

Ooh, earth tones, you can see.

Mmm, fried mushrooms! you can smell.

Squishy, squishy, you can feel.)

Fuck, what's the other sense?

Regardless, what I was saying:

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms,

I was listening to

Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd.

I wanted to see if

the auditory hallucinatoory sounds

would synchronize with the eating of

my mushrooms.

The results were sad,

as sad as the

feeble mushroom's body between my thumb and index finger, or as sad

as the saxophone in "Us and

Them," or as pathetic as the archaic

dirt covering its outsides, extinct races,

dried-blood light brown.

I'm as homebound as the smell of those fried mushrooms.

I wish I could remember the other sense.

Fuck. Sorry if I offended you, that was stupid.

I should watch my tongue.

Week One Notes:

Pink Floyd - Us and Them (video by rrempel)

These do not include the poems above. These are just the more literary notes for the assignment.

Grandma says, “Girl that sits alone is girl alone forever.” I didn’t buy this. I would never. Besides, Grandma is full of shit. She think’s she’s clever, but she really isn’t—she lacks wit. Of course, she’s definitely better than old Elanna DeWitt. “Have you heard about her and her letters! The girl rote all that was writ! But in front of her brain of a lever, there’re eyes that’re deep as a pit.” Grandma says this while a sweater she knits.

Cheesecake is where we slept. It is the softest most sickening fabric I’ve had to digest. Eh, I digress. I would compare it to a Brazilan face that’s about to molest.

Fried mushrooms are made up of the inside of an atomic bomb, and also the outside. The insides are nuclear. The outsides are a shell that’s about to unravel, exploding with the atomic euphoria of the mushroom itself, its juices, its destruction. I.Moist under stuff. II. Holy rapture. III. Ovular or mount. Mostly us sleep hushed right over our mother’s stuff.

Baklava is a mountain full of godsaliva, a promised land, the meal of the few and of those about to inherit wisdom and beauty. Breakfast as King! Living advantageously, voraciously asthmatic.

Cheesecake: Cheap harlot eater / easier sex, 'cept cheaper, / always kills enough.

Mushrooms: Moist underneath stuff. / Holy Rapture: ovular, / ornate, mountainous stalk.