Horrid Poetry

[Butterfly Man]

I once saw a guy juggling chain saws,
He was on a cobblestone bridge
Over an artificial lagoon at Disney World,
And he was dressed like a court jester
With pointy shoes and a silly hat with bells
A crowd of tourists encircling him and clapping lustily
And yeah, I egg shelled this grinning bloody image
Where he misjudges a toss
And in the rain of cheers and flash photography
A chain saw falls through his happy hat,
slides right through him like he's a cartoon,
Splitting him in half
In a dam-bursting tide of blood and mechanical roar
Like animation,
Single tone blood slipping, pooling among the cobblestones,
Mingling like streams of rain
And the chain saws lying unthought of on the ground,
Flopping like breathless fish in a roar of futility
And the crowd gasps in drooling horror
And slams their fat flabby hands against their cheeks
In perfect elastic choreography,
I glance sidelong to see a fat woman
With green painted face like a cartoon clown
Agape in mock-horror
Not allowing a single moment of terror entertainment
To escape her underfed brain,
She pushes forward with everyone else
To get a better look at the tragic jester
Still bleeding in monochrome
So she could gasp even louder in unblinking voyeurism,
Her crayon makeup cutting waxy rivers down her cheeks,
It was a downright appalling scene,
Blood speckled with the well aimed tears of the choked
And hysteria screaming small children
Holding shaken parent hands
Little overflowing eyes
But the truly amazing thing was that
Nobody left.

But the vision only lasted for a second,
And the crowd applauded enthusiastically
As the jester graciously bowed.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

My cat owns my house now
I titter at his kitten whim daily
his chore boy, his food source

[ 02-19-2002: Message edited by: Mr.Taxi Trix ]</p>

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

This woman went to court today
for drowning her five kids in her tub
as pedophile priests march by, single file,
closer one behind the other than you might deem appropriate,
and Enron execs ball John Q.P. one time again,
oilfields appear where once were state parks.

and oilfields appear where once were state parks.
and oilfields appear where once were state parks.

and I tell myself
I'm making a
difference
when I use my travel cup
instead of styrofoam.


*

[ 08-27-2002: Message edited by: Mr.Taxi Trix ]</p>

[Orange]

my friend mike wrote this masturbation haiku with friedge magnets:


sex alone brings him
ooh-ing and ah-ing nightly
as day dies hard death

it's so moving.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

The father and his boy released the red balloon,
It went up into the sky.
They were being too gentle for me to speak.
As they went to leave I stayed to watch.
The dad said "He lost his best friend. Once a year, we do this for him."
I was stunned with how little I know.

When my daughter Samantha was a baby she did lots of things deliberately and with intent.
Like banging on an upturned bowl with a wooden kitchen spoon while saying a certain word.
We came to call them baby rituals, beyond our ability to comprehend.

Sometimes I think that's always going on.

[jonnyflash]

There once was elected a cat,
voted in by mice now picture that!
So the truth is (no dice)
that what's good for the cats
will always be bad for the mice.

Let's Eat Rice!!

[jonnyflash]

Upon meeting Mike the Balloon Man,
On Robson one clear chilly eve,
struck by his demeanor
could not be less meaner
Say I: "What a good egg is he!"

[Butterfly Man]

The Day Diana Died
By: Robert Nelson
Written in Sheffield, England
September 5th, 1997


To be the best was all he said
I'd ever have to do
When you grow up to be a man
That's all I'll ask of you

Not all the reasons are clear to me
'bout the choices that I've made
But I chose to be a busker
And from my hat get paid

I made a lot of people laugh
And smile along the way
If I'm the best at what I do?
Well, that's not for me to say

I somehow made a go of it
For nigh on twenty years
But this morning when I woke up
My eyes were filled with tears

There's one thing I'd not thought of
"A choice I've missed", I sighed
To be a florist 'round Kensington
The day Diana died.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

I am grateful.
Stunned into smiling.
Poleaxed by shimmering blue,
sunrise waterfalling into my thirsty mouth.
Gratitude overwhelms me.
I am on my knees.
I drink life.
Life of life.

I am grateful.

[Juggling@large]

this is in response to
butterfly mans chainsaw eroticism and massacre in two parts (hehe).

I'm on the pavement
balancing "hey look" juggling
with comedic outbursts
tossing five
coaxing volunteers
spinning hatchets
rambling into joys and dares.
in the undercurrent
the public has been watching tv filmed chaos
so intense and extravagant that
its like a five coarse meal
with finest bone crushing crystal.

Lit up, and no longer with fine-tuning
nobs in their conscious,
my calls out of fire juggling (fun to me),
are met by the children of T.V. land with
"set your hair on fire"
"burn yourself" and
"do chainsaws"
I hear this and continue readying the torches.
I juggling the torches,
they applaud.

given lobster they beg for 3 servings.

o.k. so maybe i suck.

signed,
a little tired of chainsaws
johnv

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

Pulled over to take a piss
in the grass inside an off-ramp circle.
Surrounded by trees, I listened
and remembered. Part of me purred.

Times on the road, 19, hitching, backpack, tent.
sometimes I camped in spots like this,
tired from my day thumbing.

Now I have a mortgage, a truck
motorcycle, computer, shower, dental floss.
Palm Pilot.
I've come such a long way.

But I smell the breeze, and suddenly,
I lack a backpack.
I am broadly empty, and parched.

thirsting from lacking no drinking can cure.

*

[ 10-20-2002: Message edited by: Mr.Taxi Trix ]</p>

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

hush little baby, don't you cry
or papa's gonna poke you in the eye
and if that poke don't quiet you down,
papa's gonna drop you on the ground.
And if your crying doesn't stop,
papa's gonna whack you with the mop
and if that whack don't matter much
papa's duck tape will make you hush.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

The rain fell down in sheets of grey on Flying Bob's first show.
We huddled into grabba java, wishing it would go,
and rain on some southoffish city far from our festive pitch
where poleaxed buskers just fresh landed briskly began to bitch,
and watch and wonder what the wind would welcome to our street,
as punters pushed, umbrellas propped, and shuffling on their feet.

A brazen lass then got one off in mistriddled twilight grey:
we smelled the cash, it wasn't bad, it might just do to play.
The coin and paper tumbling in whitewashed our dreary mood,
Bob climbed back up and sang a wiry solo for his food.

The Silly's jumped, the crowd was pumped, and laughter sprang to fix,
to echo through the alleyways, the businesses, the bricks,
Oh Danny boy slipped up his ladder, filled his hat to rim
and I was next to get one off, my crowd supplied by him,
and handed off in turn to fiery Human Butterfly,
they danced it damn near wordless to a skillgifted lullabye.

As crickets chirped, a croaking toad moaned, an owl heard the sound,
of rain, incessant raining spilling certain to the ground,
away from yellow lights in Waterloo, far from our spellbinding trance,
fifteen companion clouds completed steps in communal dance
which was observed by satellites, which were observed by stars,
which dance uninterrupted in patterns not quite unlike ours,

With swirling motion, silent singing lifesong straight to space
which whirling pulling planets round them, spins them, face to face,
to circle, dancing silently like raindrops in a glass,
propelled by sunlight gravity which they cannot surpass
they do not stop to wonder from their lofty fiery lives,
if I could have got two less toonies and a few more fives.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

Sometimes I want to be a quiet stonemason and, rocking,
dim the loud incessant chatter of my mind.
I just listen, it keeps talking, as it clamours for attention,
it is copious verbosity defined.

Yesterday it got so loud I thought I'd start my quiet journey
and I reached toward the desk to get the phone.
Then my voices on transition: judgements, noises, indecision,
made the thing look twice as heavy as a stone.

[Mr.Taxi Trix]

There's a sadness I get when I'm watching my pet
on antique persian rug puking plainly ,
or a sad misty feeling on seeing my ceiling's
not quite waterproof and its rainy.

I am sad when huge moneyboss men rod old widows
and pensions all pointedly vanish
or when albatross bills wing it in from the mail and
I'm tensioned and oinking unmannish

but the toughest befrowner of recent my friend
came on driving slowsouth Monday evening,
and while switching Canadian bucks for US
I was silently sobbing and grieving.