Phone
I don't like writing poems on my fucking phone.
I mean, it's a perfectly fine fucking phone,
But I like to write with a physical fucking keyboard.
Sometimes, I like to really pound those fucking keys.
And tapping on a fucking phone can be really fucking unsatisfying.
But I deliberately didn't fucking bring my laptop with me today
Because I didn't think I'd have any fucking time.
But fuck me, I do have time.
So here I am, fucking tapping.
It's so fucking weak.
The medium is the fucking message
And this medium is fucking weak
So this fucking poem will probably be fucking weak,
If Macluan is to fucking be believed.
And I don't know if I do fucking believe him.
I didn't even fucking understand Understanding Media.
Fucking Macluan.
Fucking phone.
Fucking fuck.
9/9/2014
Fruit
Where I work
They leave free fucking fruit out
At 6:00 pm
For all the poor motherfuckers
Who have to work late.
And then they take it away again in the morning.
But sometimes, if I get in early enough the next day
There is still some motherfucking fruit leftover
From the previous fucking night.
Now, I've never been told
I can take some of that fruit if it's there.
But I've never been told
That I can't, either.
So today
I saw there were three motherfucking apples
And a goddamn banana
On top of the fucking coffee packet dispenser.
But some motherfucker was filling up
His motherfucking water bottle,
Which takes fucking forever.
It was like he was cock blocking me,
Except for fruit.
But so then when he went over to the sink
I snagged an apple really fucking fast
And put it in the front right pocket
Of my motherfucking pants.
And then I start making my motherfucking coffee
All motherfucking non-fucking-chalant.
That's one point for me.
I decide to go for two.
I want that goddamn banana too.
But just then,
Fuck me,
Here comes the motherfucker
Who takes the fruit away.
Fuck me.
But then
He turns around
To put some new fucking milk
In the motherfucking refrigerator.
So, fuck yes,
That banana goes right the fuck
Into my left motherfucking pocket,
And that is fucking that.
And that shit was fucking delicious.
9/9/2014
Sleep
Saturday night and Sunday night
I woke up way too fucking early
And I couldn't get back to sleep.
And being tired really fucking sucks.
And I had a really fucking difficult thing to do
On Sunday
And I did a pretty shitty job of it.
Maybe because I was so fucking tired.
And yesterday,
The poems I wrote,
I kind of liked them,
But they felt kind of off.
Last night, I fell asleep at like fucking 8pm.
And I woke up twice in the motherfucking night
And I got back to sleep both times.
And I can tell
That I'm better today.
The poems are better
(Well, maybe not this one, but the other two)
And I had a good conversation with
Warner Tamerlane about
How the motherfucking Foo Fighters
Ripped Detachable off
And why there's not really a cause of action
Because the main part of the theft was rhythm
(And the racist history
Of motherfucking western music
Which informs copyright law
Has traditionally discounted rhythm
As and element of fucking music composition
Because that shit came from Africa).
And I had a good conversation
With the motherfucking vet
About the cat
And how she is probably constipated
And will have to go in for a fucking enema.
And I wrote three motherfucking poems
On my fucking phone
And I worked my job
And I very fucking nimbly
Stole some fruit.
And I think I was able to do all that shit
Because I got enough fucking sleep.
So, yeah, motherfuckers:
Samuel L. Jackson
In the audio book
Said it to the children,
But I will say it to you:
Go the fuck to sleep.
Not now,
But whenever the fuck bedtime is.
9/9/2014
I don't like writing poems on my fucking phone.
I mean, it's a perfectly fine fucking phone,
But I like to write with a physical fucking keyboard.
Sometimes, I like to really pound those fucking keys.
And tapping on a fucking phone can be really fucking unsatisfying.
But I deliberately didn't fucking bring my laptop with me today
Because I didn't think I'd have any fucking time.
But fuck me, I do have time.
So here I am, fucking tapping.
It's so fucking weak.
The medium is the fucking message
And this medium is fucking weak
So this fucking poem will probably be fucking weak,
If Macluan is to fucking be believed.
And I don't know if I do fucking believe him.
I didn't even fucking understand Understanding Media.
Fucking Macluan.
Fucking phone.
Fucking fuck.
9/9/2014
Fruit
Where I work
They leave free fucking fruit out
At 6:00 pm
For all the poor motherfuckers
Who have to work late.
And then they take it away again in the morning.
But sometimes, if I get in early enough the next day
There is still some motherfucking fruit leftover
From the previous fucking night.
Now, I've never been told
I can take some of that fruit if it's there.
But I've never been told
That I can't, either.
So today
I saw there were three motherfucking apples
And a goddamn banana
On top of the fucking coffee packet dispenser.
But some motherfucker was filling up
His motherfucking water bottle,
Which takes fucking forever.
It was like he was cock blocking me,
Except for fruit.
But so then when he went over to the sink
I snagged an apple really fucking fast
And put it in the front right pocket
Of my motherfucking pants.
And then I start making my motherfucking coffee
All motherfucking non-fucking-chalant.
That's one point for me.
I decide to go for two.
I want that goddamn banana too.
But just then,
Fuck me,
Here comes the motherfucker
Who takes the fruit away.
Fuck me.
But then
He turns around
To put some new fucking milk
In the motherfucking refrigerator.
So, fuck yes,
That banana goes right the fuck
Into my left motherfucking pocket,
And that is fucking that.
And that shit was fucking delicious.
9/9/2014
Sleep
Saturday night and Sunday night
I woke up way too fucking early
And I couldn't get back to sleep.
And being tired really fucking sucks.
And I had a really fucking difficult thing to do
On Sunday
And I did a pretty shitty job of it.
Maybe because I was so fucking tired.
And yesterday,
The poems I wrote,
I kind of liked them,
But they felt kind of off.
Last night, I fell asleep at like fucking 8pm.
And I woke up twice in the motherfucking night
And I got back to sleep both times.
And I can tell
That I'm better today.
The poems are better
(Well, maybe not this one, but the other two)
And I had a good conversation with
Warner Tamerlane about
How the motherfucking Foo Fighters
Ripped Detachable off
And why there's not really a cause of action
Because the main part of the theft was rhythm
(And the racist history
Of motherfucking western music
Which informs copyright law
Has traditionally discounted rhythm
As and element of fucking music composition
Because that shit came from Africa).
And I had a good conversation
With the motherfucking vet
About the cat
And how she is probably constipated
And will have to go in for a fucking enema.
And I wrote three motherfucking poems
On my fucking phone
And I worked my job
And I very fucking nimbly
Stole some fruit.
And I think I was able to do all that shit
Because I got enough fucking sleep.
So, yeah, motherfuckers:
Samuel L. Jackson
In the audio book
Said it to the children,
But I will say it to you:
Go the fuck to sleep.
Not now,
But whenever the fuck bedtime is.
9/9/2014
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