3 More Poems

By Theodore Wallbanger

grind

hourly workers paid for sweat time
greasing ball bearings
for more glide in pneumatic wheels
which support cranky suit warriors of
entitlement brandishing weapons from mouth

honey drip lipsticks ease
tensions with vector control dynamics
rerouting tense boiler room gridlock
into nuanced back alleys of profound thought
 
without grind box workers our land would implode
these finesse pirates polish their secret sauce
to cinch up our world expelling madness as
bodies spin, laugh, and vomit
through a starry black hole of sadness

golden showers

weekday battles found my ass on shag carpet
inside my sliced-in-half children’s nook
which was once utilized to store endless cans of garbanzo beans
 
mother sensed the devil’s blood agitating across
flesh she pushed right out of private leg gates
pleading to fathers in velvety gowns
her demon son was born mad right down to the bone
 
there would be cuddle baby powder time
when my angel voice was muted tight
before chords opted to vibrate sound
serenading portals granting passage
for snot drop loads of demonic opinion
 
those diaper days sopped along with
hours of circumstance
shunning pomp
who was left outdoors weeping
at my first failed exorcism
 
there were no returns in 69’ so I
force wet beds until
seventeen to keep the notion alive
that I was bizarro and
craved the free stream of yellow cosmic light
that flowed from me all day and night

urine was my secret sauce I
trickled inside my slumber sack
with fidget pissing, I was insured
pajama wardrobe theatrics involving clean sheets
entered scenes before release of morning joy
 
buckets of patience were removed when
mother passed out from detachment
the other kids along our block were
athletes, farts, or dancers
 
I glazed myself with songs of light while
mastering vibrant showers of sprayed enchantment
 
I improvised my blaster wand
developing star smash flow direction
through sequined nozzle filter tips
forging yellow magic turbulence
 
Today, I smile wave upon life’s pee stage
reminiscing on all my silly madness
 
I am so thankful I opted out of
hand paint lanes with fecal sludge enhancement
like they did at Willy Brown’s not-so-cheery encampment

honey blood

Co-workers were impressed
with Haiku’s subdued jasmine sizzle aroma
which seemed to slip from each sandal imprint he
left in the memory foam carpet installed at
Sandunkskis Sporting Big Box Super Duper Dome
found in Fargo adjacent to the abandoned
A&W car hop burger pop rip-off joint.
 
Sandunkskis Sporting Big Box Super Duper Dome  
was experiencing internal pissing warfare
with sales teams, conducive to a frat house
so, Mr. Sandunkski knocked out 187k
for three hours of Haiku rental and
its questionable promises of world peace.
 
Haiku was a mystical combobulation spliced together
with over 2.49 million sperm variations from
a reckless cereal dump pour of
donor joysticks eager ejaculate resulting in
a glorious bouillabaisse of technicolor flavor
which gracefully produced one Haiku.
 
Cross-contamination never entered contrived scientific mindsets.
The development of honey blood was Voight’s brainchild spirit baby.
Voight painted himself into this sticker name
due to his obsession with Jon Voight and nobody thought to challenge this.

Voight’s actual name was Bartles which made sense
if you saw episode #3,892 of Hoarders: The Shitty Cocktail Bottle Edition.
Voight’s parental units were the stars of this episode.
 
Rebuilding development labs for the manufacture of 
Haiku honey blood in Iceland proved beneficial
in the termination of lookie-loo social media smoke shadows.
Voight patted himself on the back hourly for his positive attitude.
 
Insertion of miraculous honey blood drops in any open sputter wound
was believed to instantly reduce core rampage temperatures
in human piss pants or so it seemed.
 
Those were the results on the common peafowl, donkey,
Rodentia, snails, and the Red-eyed tree frog operations.
These creatures were presumed to be
the typical animals manipulated for any off-grid experiment.
 
Human volunteers were once scarce, pre-1980, before
ingenious marketing campaigns
dispersed free buffet coupons for Chow Town USA.
These were exchanged like syrup for vague semi-professional testing
which essentially flooded markets with flesh freaks.
 
Haiku was berthed from just a tick under 937,302 explosive attempts
in blender-building a human comfort module with assuaging properties.
A mixture of jellybeans, Thai food, and magic.

Haiku runs on benevolence which is often restored to full
functional capacity, but mostly Haiku sits in shadow cemeteries until
GPS beacons alert EMPATHY (tracker drones) to Haiku’s whereabouts.
 
Pre-production has suspended sketches for an imaginary fur friend for Haiku
with organic false hope for release in the Winter of 20-something.

Theodore Wallbanger is a rampage outlier who blends beard hair with magic to create syrupy prose trots in the forest which always smell like technicolor wonderment, still on rare occasions, whimsical ensembles of butternut pancaked aromatic melodies will float into frame.