Long, slick, brief, limber. timber, tummy, lime http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/mp3/4444/4444_rss.xml Livin' it Up Everybody was making jokes in the pub the other day then they asked me if I had one, 8 people looking at me for a joke. It was terrible, I turned a bin upside down, stood up to the beer taps,pushed my cock over thefattest one andpulled myself inside out into this slimygleamingpinkmess, clean as a newcondom, with an itchypersian rug stapled to me, I rolled on itand meditated for 17 hours. There's a fuckin' yarn for ya. http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Mennoway Loave Drunk Level Three (inoperable) Drama drama drame driddlesticks Fiddlesticks The Irish influence Great in percentage against much else Many pure “That’s life, Sammy boy” “We’ve got your money now fuck off” “Can’t remember the best one” I can’t remember the best one FOR I AM DRUNK! BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBRAVOOO!!!!!! Queen is surprised Shaking with glee Rubbing off me Slipping off my naked knee It’s not an ice rink you cunt Get a hold of yourself I remember it now My wife works in Boots “I used to work in slippers…. hmm… It did get a bit dangerous Around the construction site” http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Drunk Lesson’s of the day: pulled out of the otherwise uninterrupted well of bollocks with a set of golden bollocks which flash with different colours and images, the interpreter is an artist, of the con variety, and will give us a true picture of the significance of the telltale tellings of an important set of dipping bollocks. So the gonads are cast into the well with an archetypal plop. Many of the town’s foolish peasants have gathered around to observe the taking of the readings, though the readings themselves are incomprehensible to their demented, woefully insufficient brains (I am now contented to leave this crowd of homo-sapiens clambering into their tombs to be forgotten for all time). Anyway, a sweating fool winds up the delicate apparatus with gusto, his every move disgusting the gathered superiors immensely (once the bollocks are up he is chopped in half and thrown into the well). The dripping bollocks glint with eternity in the inert afternoon sunshine, stunning the peasants and bringing impatient warmth to the grey hearts of the superiors. All silent, the bollocks tingle, working their magic, a tinge of red and a subliminal flash of a wooden rocking horse indecently assaulting a male child with a large splintery phallus in the night time shadows of his bedroom, the male onlookers all suddenly cum with huge hard cocks, shaking their legs, making sticky little tents of their trousers, and they are all now avidly denying the vision. The duel orbs are warming up. The interpreter was about ready to commence, he cleared his throat, and this is what followed: Reading one: Tony is a winner; he hangs from the crutch of his prospects like a soldier’s scrotum on the march. Reading two: Get the fuck away from my fucking table or I’ll beat you until your shit comes out. Reading three: Master Molbin will see you now sir. The man enters the room expectantly only to find he has passed through time into the times of yore and chokes instantly in an airless, inescapable void of horror as he watches himself from a distance passing away at a family dinner, his parents hysterical, what’s left of himself now filling up with all their horror to be experienced completely from thereon in. Reading four: Young man glaring up at clean and old hotel room ceiling, lying on the bed. Now he’s staring out the dusty window between crusty old yellow curtains. A train rounds a bend and thunders through the sunlit scene, everything falls silent as peace and he smiles lightly. A hard bed and a traveller’s fatigue in the middle of some town he’s never heard of, unopened suitcase, he falls into an extremely deep sleep to the docile music of laconic voices and other unfamiliar ululations of the town with a clear conscience and a clean mind. Reading five: The man has become a loser. He is Irish, lives in England, keeps his accent and his taste for Guiness! That's all! None else no siree Bob! No more wife, dead brothers and sisters, no more hope, only a tad of cancer and alife! He fiddlefucks with the joysticks of Space Invaders like he fiddlefucks aroundwith his miserable existance, shifting between the old person's home and the pub. He played darts alone, and he couldn't aim anymore. It's pouring with rain outside and he has a long way to go. He turns around and looks at a customer, he sings: "One more pint of Guiness for a go To the valley below" He is completely ignored and his existance is laughed off like a dog shit on a shoeis wiped off on the grass. Ohhhhhhh miserable Michael, is there no happy ending in sight? I Sphinx (with no secret) not! http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Dipping Bollocks Lets watch from behing his tombstone middle fingerto the void: Under thebegrudging boon Of a Swedishmoon Barn Owl Barnabus Pummledbarns with his tits Twisted his wits over his fists And punched himself in the shoe horn Ofsturdy Norwegian make Howling with the boon Of a morose Swedish moon Oooooohhhh Barnabus I would pitty thee And they tender cave man's eye Rotating with inoperablystupid glee But you're drunk as a skunk! Bravo! Bravo. http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Only Old Pappa Sticks! Ssskittle daddy afternoon good hunt. Return to Hometown Somehow I was sitting down Somewhere else underneath a blistering heat I could hear footsteps across the road A muffled, uneven crunch of gravel From feet with European strains Two figures were stooping through the glare They were projecting ahead Remotely hyper So following them with my eyes And then dropping the significance I lost them to the corner of my fever Suddenly they sunk into the Calais Road I switched back to where they were, But could only hear a swirling noise That rising wind... http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Australian Dream America- By Allen Gisberg America, I've given you all and now I'm nothing. America, two dollars and twenty-seven cents, January 17, 1956. I can't stand my own mind. America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb I don't feel good don't bother me. I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind. America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes? When will you look at yourself through the grave? When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I'm sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world. Your machinery is too much for me. You made me want to be a saint. There must be some other way to settle this argument. Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back, it's sinister. Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke? I'm trying to come to the point. I refuse to give up my obsession. America stop pushing I know what I'm doing. America the plum blossoms are falling. I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry. I smoke marijuana every chance I get. I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet. When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid. My mind is made up, there's going to be trouble. You should have seen me reading Marx. My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right. I won't say the Lord's Prayer. I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations. America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia. I'm addressing you. Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine? I'm obsessed by Time Magazine. I read it every week. Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore. I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library. It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me. It occurs to me that I am America. I am talking to myself again. Asia is rising against me. I haven't got a chinaman's chance. I'd better consider my national resources. My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions. I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns. I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go. My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic. America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? I will continue like Henry Ford, my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they're all different sexes America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe America free Tom Mooney America save the Spanish Loyalists America Sacco Vanzetti must not die America I am the Scottsboro boys. America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy. America you don't really want to go to war. America it's them bad Russians. Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians. The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages. Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations. That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help. America this is quite serious. America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set. America is this correct? I'd better get right down to the job. It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway. America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel. http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/London, August fourteenth, two-thousand and seven, Allen Ginsberg! Alen Ginsberg! Once upon a cunt. I went round to my friends house to see if he was home with my dog. His dog was there, he started fucking my dog, who was on heat, and she was bleeding. I stopped them scratching around the hot afternoon gravel. I knocked, impotent and shy, not much hope of his being there, finally his mother came to the door. I could see her tits, her nipples through her top. I was hard as a rock and she took me inside after quickly understanding. I didn't really know what was happening, but I knew what I wanted. We went into the room, she got undressed and I grabbed her tannedarse. Then I was fucking my friend's mother and it was the best feeling I ever had. Better than saving somebodies life, better than getting high, better than fucking my girlfriend by far. She sucked my pleasure through her cuntandback through her tongue, we writhed like the dogs, but fully conscious, high on weed, which trippled everything. I pounder her big (inthe good way) arse with all my power. She screamed violently, I moaned and dribbled all ober her big jumpingtits. When I came it all millionfolded into a big bang, the end of one universe, the beginning of the next. I couldn't believe my luck. Panting in a mother's bedroom, inside her cunt, it don't get any better. Iate her tits for a while, fucked her again more violently and seriosly, she was bruised and flat out, stewing in the juices, and I could hardly move, so I got dressed, put my clothes on and took the dog home. I don't think we said two words to each other, only one, 'seeya'. http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Once Upon a Cunt I woke up this morning... something new, no, the wheels are in motion. Scene set. After degradation I headed into town, impulses off the line, but anyway, they would be in town soon, as they would go accross the hotasphult, upside down, under the sun, there's only so hard you can hang on, just letfistingflowers burst through your skin, open eye, open head, becauseyou're already complete. Three pints, overrun by one, two andttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrough the crowds, this way and that, for too long, stepping out wide, and backup intothebus again, much more than a gaol, becauseyou have the key, you have all intentions to use it,but you don't use it, because to them 'you' is someone else, the fuses blown out, time to get knocked out again, wake up clean someanother morning in mind, how can I ever not break her heart? And that can't be questioned either. http://www.fullmoonemptysportsbag.com/blogs/cassepipe/Obeying the Law