Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
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Post by Calavera Diablos on Oct 16, 2003 0:33:28 GMT -5
I. Joaquin_Cortez Bio
Yesterday, while working at the TRP,
sippin’ a Mimosa and listening to some Easy Jazz,
I stabbed myself in the eye
with one of those little paper umbrellas
and I thought
“ This would never happen to Bob Dylan..."
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Oct 16, 2003 0:34:14 GMT -5
Jack-Daw Macedonian Ideaology
Today at the TRP, I saw Traushe’s Trash Talk radio
while crows jumped salty
in the red ribbon Ambassador’s club and the open
stall door reeking panty-line pervasive nature
of Cat Stevens tire slapping two stick touch.
period comma comatose on easy-squirt
painful purple from Aisle 9 at Vons.
Abuelita sexy smile crush. i’m not a player, i just *censored* alot.
Stare at honey heat from aisle 7’s
aubrey tea priest minister.
honey honey honey honey burning honey
carmel dipped tea ambassador died in smother-me
cacao cacao cacao because Alliteration is like, my style,
you dirty old egg sucking dog.
End scene.
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
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Post by Calavera Diablos on Oct 16, 2003 0:35:07 GMT -5
Recycled
One day at the TRP, while sipping a Mimosa and listening to some easy jazz, I stabbed myself in the eye with one of those little paper umbrellas and thought “This would never happen to Bob Dylan.” My eyes have been repeatedly sodomized. You, vain, chattering person. You, Jack-Daw macedonian ideology. Me, punching prose passages with cranberries, candies, puppies, and love. Meet me in the potting shed, won’t you? Die in smother-me cacao cacao cacao because “alliteration is like, my style.” Easy squirt painful purple from my abuelita’s sexy smile crush. In Dahmer’s misirilou disco loveburger, I deliberately stepped into a parachute quick lube from Battlement Mesa, but I’m asking for chunky beet stew and Jitterbug 8-balls. You, creaming vapor fiction royale in a plastic cup arboretum. Ama me fideliter! I love organic apple granola and feeding babies salsa, afterall. Can you lick up my brain matter after dashing my head against an androgynous rock? I often times like it rough. You, dancing gasoline smoke sylph of time as my brain went fizzy pop into whitewashed rhythms. Just as everything stopped and started to fade into a religious oblivion, sex puppets cried and we made our lives meaningful, in a godless abhorrent, dope-sucking way, but you don’t understand. In Coppola romanticism, we’ll sip white russian faeries in a tintinabar Chicago wet dream. Hear me, queer switchfoot mint, my soul of the hair splitting piano drag back beat at Buzzcock’s newton press.
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Oct 16, 2003 10:17:39 GMT -5
Tango Fishnet Coxcomb Fop
david bowie’s super 8 do-able
and damn candes, puppies, love.
I’m stardust lynard skynard hipster
with chouette and whoa *censored*ing
in rhythm and sorrow.
euler smokes king calculus joint anthem
tied with salbino chop me paper
in a nancy say no absentee ballot
from spoken word biafra flat-tax
and live-to-ride singles clubs on
hollywood and highland driving
hipster’s fancy i’m not 18 lowrise
80s baseline flashback contra-coasting
hip swingin’, pill poppin’, iggy pop poppin’
jaan pehechaan ho
parachute qualuude sauce cat- Meow!
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Oct 16, 2003 10:19:14 GMT -5
Uncut Mercy on Ireland Granada
tarantula queer soul switchfoot mint
with piano drag claim jumper in my modulated
adaptor strapped, audio english DTS
system down at coyote football spoinge spange spunge
cerebral palsy admission slip
sixteen days until completion
kilt citrus headgear oh joyful gaelic velour
crying nuke machine vertigo in the Bijou seizure
spelling you’re all that I wanted
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
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Post by Calavera Diablos on Nov 7, 2003 23:29:27 GMT -5
Weight
The weight of wooden shoes
too much noise
You can always hear me coming
"I am a normal guy."
manifesting anger last shit brown house
knocked slammed car door
oleander bushes in dead white skins
sucking white radish foot I had never let go
It's hot but ten inches from the curb
it's just cold inside my soul
Caffeine pills and ethyl ether sweat
Pour out petrol tears and methanthol blood
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
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Post by Calavera Diablos on Nov 7, 2003 23:31:52 GMT -5
Mark Loves Orrville
csssa children of the revolution
they’re crazy, they’re funky, they’re groovy
with champagne and strawberries in
ama me fideliter
mr rogers sweater blow-pops
cock fumbling super dad zoetropes
in pablo neruda twilights
rum raisin paddle pop palmistry
to Wal-russ’ pimpin’ it totalitarian elevator dance
because we can can-can
suck on red raspberry ring pop of life
love so hard i can’t even control
your butt sliding teun voeten and bug/art/bug
thanks for the faux realism hella deluxe
because honestly
i’m in love with zay amsbury and your carcinogen circuitry
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
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Post by Calavera Diablos on Nov 7, 2003 23:33:42 GMT -5
Let Your Ghosts out
I’ve turned my back on hazy red clouds of Leb and
Piss- Boring.
thousands of plastic pin-cushion arms tearing cellophane faces
and swollen mauve pricks spewing bangs and Kill Rock Stars,
just one tiny jab won’t turn me into a nobody
Skylarking XTC and weekend world titting
Cummings annual church hall disco, smoke up nice one
after grandaddy cornflakes magic mullet
99% organic cottongin shit brown shit blue
pubic hair bog brushes wax up the jimmy stick
and shoot some cathartic tube
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Nov 7, 2003 23:38:26 GMT -5
One Cent Story
7-19-02 7:33pm
One sentence story
I find myself walking downtown in the artsy fartsy beach side community that holds hemp and sawdust festivals every month in the alleyways next to the Mud Beach store where you can paint your own ceramic pots and such that are made by real artists who spend all of their time moping down on the polluted beach where the pot smokers and homeless bums go after hitting the head shop that’s conveniently located next to the over priced liquor store run by the old paranoid mexican immigrant whose wife left him for a strapping young 21 year old con artist who broke out of the crumbling police station jail near the Chevy car rental that recently received bomb threats from bored Juniors at a city high school that was almost shut down for having cockroaches the size of my brother’s black pick up truck that he stole during a birthday prank on his best friend Larry who has dreams about being stalked by that old, mealy colored man with a glass eye that seems glued to the bus stop in front of the Monster Cellar comic shop that charges extra for Foil or limited edition covers of Joe Madeira’s “Battle Chasers” which you easily find for a lower price at Josh’s comic blanket that he sets up outside the apartment complex where a drug dealer committed suicide before he’d get killed by a local Latino gangbanger who bought some bad coke from him in a Rivet club where I got my teeth kicked in for hitting on an androgynous Chinese dominatrix who belongs to an Asian biker gang and sleeps with the Japanese leader who has ties to the Okinawa based Yakuza syndicate who controls all of the gambling in the Shinjuku area but recently tried their hand in the American drug market by selling Ecstasy to Raver kids in an abandoned airfield hanger where the skaters set up ramps and emulate moves from Tony Hawk pro skater which is my best friend Cook’s most prized possession that he bought from Best Buy where I lost my virginity in the parking lot to a purple haired Existentialist Bohemian Queen who now works at the New Age/ Wicca shop I’m standing in front of right now waiting for her Bindi encrusted, Henna embroidered, finger cymbal tapping, hand to slither out of the window, beckoning me upstairs.
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Nov 7, 2003 23:46:01 GMT -5
Mr. Grey/ Beast
Mr. Grey is the heat that causes your white oxford shirt to stick to your back. He is the sparkle in your eye, the extra white on your teeth; he is the mousse holding every stray hair in it's place. Immaculate, flawless, smooth...
Those supplements just haven't been working the way they should lately. Perhaps it's the difference of hours. Or maybe the doseage is too small, I don't really care either way, I simply want to know the problem so I may fix it.
Such a detailed mask, painted and carved with immaculate care. Opaque, for who would want to see the raw element lying underneath? No, it satisfies them. Such pretty lines spoken from a putrid mouth. To imagine the seething ugliness within!
Lurking tires me, even the Hermit desires company. To bask in the light of others, such radiance! This purity, it attracts me, tantalizes me with chaste nibbles and evasive licks. I clamp my teeth down upon your tongue, to keep your sacchrine lips burning against mine. Blood washes into my mouth in a miniscule flood and I withdraw, muttering apolegetically. Might as well drive you to my outback, "Mare Nostrum". They've just finished installing everything in the bathroom, leaf-themed, quite rustic isn't it? Mind the edge of the tub, dearest, my last guest had a bit of an accident. Oh, nothing serious, but she did take a rather nasty fall after slipping on the wet tiles. I had neglected to lay down a bathmat, you see.
The decision is made to cut right to the chase as you push me down into my black leather office chair. Us, a sweaty mix of flesh and murmurs in the darkness, hungrily tearing and ripping at one another's hair and clothing. I tenderly kiss your forehead, moistened lips touching the base of your scalp where your silky mane parts violently to one side. You giggle inanely and finger the cold metal hoop peircing the dark, sensitive stud of my chest. You lower those knowing eyes and take the ring into your sweltering grip, pulling at it gently, just enough to deepen the curve of my spine to feather-light pin pricks of pain. My hands freely roam the planes of your body, weathered palms and finger tips drinking, memorizing your every curve. Your undergarments slip off with ease and you tremble in anticipation as I dip an index finger within your heated cleft.The lines of your collarbone and neck are so enticing, I can't help but taste them, greedily exploring the texture of the flexing muscles beneath that thin layer of palid skin. You emit a soft, pleasured gasp, sinewy tissue tightening and tensing under my ministrations. Without thinking, my canines break through and assault that tightly woven band of nerves and tendons. That bridge of ivory and marrow snaps easily under the pressure of my jaw and it splinters with such force that I surprise even myself. I begin to choke as a fresh rivulet of blood warms my palatte and small shards of bone knock against my esophagus. You are panicked now, half way between a moan of ecstasy and a shrill cry of pain, nails dragging trenches into my back and shoulders. What with your erratic heartbeat against my breast your breath coming in ragged gasps, it all overwhelms me and I am taken. The office chair falls to one side, forgotten and we land in a pile on the floor. I force myself into you, with no reguard to what pleasures you may be experiencing, but selfishly arrive at my own frantic pace, your knees bucking against the sides of my ribcage. I ignore your face, but focus on my hand, balled into a tightly clamped fist, a lake a crimson blossoms around it. My other claws at your exposed and vunerable underbelly, deep slashes spew forth showers of dark red stipple my front. I watch in morbid fascination as your organs float to the surface of these canyons, pressing outwards towards the cold air of freedom, straining against the little strips of flesh that keep them caged.
By then you've stopped moving and you lay against the hardwood floors of my room, no longer completely yourself. I cradle your head in my bare arms and burrow into the cavity I've just dug into your torso, my makeshift hara. It is within your cosmic womb that I truly find myself, in this place I can home.
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Calavera Diablos
Ravenclaw Alumni
Draws grown men wearing underpants outside their trousers
Posts: 1,547
|
Post by Calavera Diablos on Feb 16, 2004 17:01:43 GMT -5
She just wants me to write poetry and hate it with such a low budget in the way writers are the ones who don't parade down the streets with journal Sales without worrying about disturbing someone else I keep drifting Highschool *censored* it no It's upper middle class was like the heavy medals of intellectual go fight club velvet making love on the card and thanks to taxes I didn't think he'd mind he has a poem to recite a song to sing and writing trigger joyous memories of coyote football and spoinge blowpops whipped where are my strengths at the moment no i'm howling in my own cave where my fingers stereo blaring and signaling at the top of my kung fu places on earth in my car christine driving with the acrid stench of you this morning and I dragged it back out into the silent wilderness
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