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ah, warm afernoons.

Its yet another bank holiday over here in England. Because of that, there's no work today. I was gonna go in and do a little hijinks on the work network, but for some reason the people who run the building keep locking the bottom deadbolt on the door (which is the THIRD lock on that door) and I cannot find a guy that can make a working copy of that key.

I know.

That being said, I made the decision to spend the afternoon with il Monsegnior at his local Starbucks adn getting amped up on coffee until we switch over to drinking pints. Maybe some food will be involved.

undecided at this time.

Why decided on the sarbucks? It's in Belsize Park.

So? You say.

While at the Starbucks, i composed a little poem:

oh, Starrbucks.

You are so corporate and evil,
and your coffee is middle of the road

but why, why, why are you still
my favorite sitting place on a warm afternoon.

oh, now I realize...


theyre everywhere.

oh, they torment me so.

being a smartass, Il Momnsignior felt the need to do literary criticism.

today we are exploring the nature of Slappy's haiku's of sexual desperation

the example above is one of the earlier versions of the "I ain't got no chicks" trope,
with a dose of "death to corporations" at the top to place it within the frame narrative

Ladies and genglemen, my friends. I have no idea what "trope" means, and "frame narrative"? Dude, you're just making shit up to sound smart, but I know better.

You want some haiku? Chew on this:

slowly healing heart
love is but a fallacy
won't you touch my joint?

you goddamn pigeons
stop trying to screw so near
my fucking table

wearing boxing shoes
stupid if you dont box, girl
yet so compelling

of course i'm staring
tiny skirt slit up the side
what d'you expect?

waiting for the loo
pretty girl just left from there
what a fucking stink!

man in sporty car
trying to cut off the bus
your penis is small

sun on my bald head
warming like a gentle tou...

all fabulous poetry on this page © 2005; SlappyJack of
go write your own fuckin' poetry, bitches.

Yeah, I'm a sensitive poet type. Its a rough life, but I manage.

After readng these, Il Monsignior just said:
"Generatoins of Japanese poets are currently turning in their graves."

Slap out.

30 May 05

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