This trashy beach novel, written sunbathing

about the future of our planet, which I found

on the shores of lake Minotanka, is pessimistic at best,

in its vision of the future, the pantsless emperor

is given a knife, and he’s running around the U.N.

stabbing at ghosts, because he was celebrating

the assassination of the previous emperor

and he did too much acid, it’s a hilarious romp

featuring a choreographed dance of death

with full penetration, it has everything.


Poem: Record Store Clerk

“Nothing short of epic” was the name of their first

concept album, copyright 1978 RoosterPrick records,

after reaching #364 on the Billboard charts, they retired

undefeated, having beaten their new rival,

#365 on the Billboard Chart, a pop-punk outfit

from Spain called Salida Del Sol, which translates

into Sunrise, but what was I talking about?


Oh yeah, pointlessness is not an enemy, it’s three

letters in spanish, GOL.  But anyway, this was the band

that truly had no name, but think about that, or not.


This is the history of a Band no one ever imagined, or maybe

they did, who knows or cares about something they never

even saw, so the doomed do exist, lucky bastards.


Are we though?  Really?  Will we see ourselves, soon

showing us that leaflet binders are ballast, cast asunder

with unremembered passions, they are also unforgotten

clay bound bricks, because no one remembers

the orchestral circus, but the love in sound waves

will be diminished, not even by RoosterPrick’s

other touring band, The Beetles, who dressed as bugs.

Poem: Record Store Clerk