At Work in LA

Got bored at work, tried writing something... this is what happened. The following is all true.

PART I

THE DARK SIDE

Garage to Garage

I massage my ability

to live in this smog filled city.

Shitty applause for the man in the

Monkey suite standing on stage

Selling himself like a prostitute.

I envy him. I’m Green.

So green I’m sick, take a trip to the latrine,

and let the universe heave from my throat

toast my scrotes.

It’s seven in the morning,

no time for cereal,

or coffee.

let’s split.

Hurry up and sit,

In this crème colored room

Getting smaller

C3PO! C3PO! Shut down all trash compactors on the detention level.

Squeezed so tight I feel the devil

Seeping from my glassy eyes

Nothing interesting enough to create

Even boring lies.

Whatev’s it’s cool,

When you enjoy surrounding yourself

With tools A hammer, a nail,

They construct false worlds

Through email Touting their horns,

In a brass ensemble cast,

Not to be crass,

but suck my balls…................ ..

PART II

MONORAIL

Ah! Ha!

Feel that warm glowing light.

The sun drying skin

Squinting tight

Some future fellow,

Bathing, dead, in his

Backyard pool.

You see from a distance

In your personal magnetic monorail,

And turn your head.

Just a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Was Mr. Rogers shot/dead in Pittsburgh?

Yeah, I heard he was.

O’er the canyons and above the freeways

To my cousin’s house we go.

No nevermind,

Instead,

To thirty bars we jumped

On our only life mission:

To get crunked.

At the 41000.

They’ve added fifty more stories and a dungeon;

Snacks to munch on.

In-house street meat.

Bacon wrapped, super dogs,

Like fleshy jalapeno logs.

It’s good.

But better, when injected

Intravenously, into your system.

Pay dues to the one true religion,

Carnivore mysticism.

PART III

AIR MATTRESS

A fiery ball of gas

That’s what they call me

A star? No.

Just my irritable bowel syndrome

And my glowing personality.

Light me up and propel me out to space.

I’d be a rocketeering Ace.

It’s true.

No, really.

It explains why I’m flying

And your not

Past the moon,

which NASA forgot.

Thank GOD.

Its pimpled face

Was no place to be,

except for

ROOOOBBOOOOTS.

Mr. Sagan has invited me to stay with him on his comet,

Don’t be an alarmist;

His corpse is exquisite,

And never caused me to vomit.

The dude’s got it figured out, To be honest.

We chill on the Kuiper Belt the view has no contest.

Well, except maybe the Vegan sunset,

but still

Oh wait!

Don’t be confused!

VEGA

like SEGA

like VEGAN

not veeeegan.

Does that make sense? No.

Well come on, just use context.

This floating rock

It talks to me

And Carl.

We mine its minerals

And sell them to

Twartell, Our local drug cartel, Alien;

He Aims a blaster at our heads

And says we are failing him.

He’s ready to pull the trigger;

I flinch,

But Carl is already dead

So, he’s good

In a pinch.

He kicks Twartell

in his quadruple balls.

He falls

to his knees,

and begins to scream

to his cronies,

like some kind of queen

OFF WITH HIS HEAD,

But Carl says NO.

And Kicks him out the airlock.

Twartell yells in the darkness, OH FFUUUUUUUUCCCCKK.

Carl and I have some

100% Vaccuum Beers;

yeast grown in Andromeda

CLINK.

CHEERS!

It’s sour but interesting,

A cross between candy Warheads,

and Listerine.

mmmm.

By the end of the intergalactic super day,

I’ve run out of gas,

and gravity

Pulls me away .

Goodbye Carl,

Go see the universe.

I sink down to earth.

And think

Could things be worse?

There in my LA Air Mattress,

I toss about,

I’ve seen other worlds,

Even swam with space trout,

But something is missing,

Something I can’t quite live without.

It’s the East Coast, baby.

and that’s where I end this pout.

-for ben ...and carl