Babylon Ron
Update: If you haven't done so already, you really need to check out Bill Blood's "comment" in the thread for this post. Seriously, you won't want to miss this one...
Ron Ikan is sad sad sad... and so are we! Ron is our second-to-last Where Are They Now? Lost Poets of the 70s feature here at the Snark. I've been saving a good one for last, and then we will announce the anthology from which I stole these and propose a contest to see who will win it! Meanwhile, here's poor Ron Ikan, who has endured those sideburns since the age of 4, when his big sister, Lon Ikan, glued them there as a joke. The torture that ensued from the hazing he received from his preschool playmates turned Ron into a poet -- in time, a working man's poet -- full of mind-numbingly unmusical declarative sentences and ire toward the film industry. Well, you know what to do... I expect some good snark on this one, as there is only one left to go: what's the big R thinking in this photo?
posted by Snark @ 11:19 PM
14 Comments:
These unemotive "political" sentences sound familiar. Wait! Could it be?! Is this the missing link--Early Language Poet Man?
Congratulations on the excavation.
I must have a copy of this book.
It's words are like supple sunshine, beating down upon my soul.
:-)
I'm hoping that you have been picking randomly bad ones and that there are still plenty of "treasures" to be found in the collection.
"Maybe if I stare at him hard enough, I can change my face to an exact replica of Droopy Dog." -- R.I.
O dreadful me, how I miss the left side of my mustache. Before the accident at the hot dog factory, my beauty was so fearful, so symmetrical. Well, fuck it, anyway, at least I can masturbate to Burt Reynolds movies.
"Gee, life was more interesting when I was living in New Orleans...being a hot dog vendor sure was fun. Damn this republic of bozos. Fools! I besiege you! Soon my Journal of the Working Boy will be complete and the world shall tear off its hideous face in praise."
This is the acid-tinged "Howl" of Captain Kangaroo let loose on a planet that only the seers such as Ron Ikan saw dying even back in the day. But, what happened to the Indian crying as he paddled his canoe through the New Jersey Meadowlands?
Where is Monmouth College?
Why Crazy Horse?
Those capitalists I'll surely kill with sharp-edged knife and fiery will. I'll kill them with a sickle red, I'll slice them while they lay in bed, I'll cut them once and thrice and more, I'll slash them like a well-fed boar. I'll stun them in their piggy pen, and twist their throats and make them squeel, and happy happy happy when I roast them on my charcoal grill.
Apparently not a fan of Glen Campbell.
fuuuuuck, man, I thought it was just a fart.
I can write a poem using only my left testicle.
I can understand the internet.
I can shovel a mound of West Virginia pussy into my pick up.
I can love enema bags.
I can unlock the crabs from my pubes.
I can pretend to understand the life of a machine operator.
I can reinvent oral sex with my paisley Oriental friend.
I can put Kleenex on my ulcerous fudge machine.
I can swirl poopy onto a spoon and smile when I eat it slowly.
I can Chinaman.
I can moo-goo-gai-pan Mel Gibson's nuts with my sweaty neck collops.
I can imagine a world where every little boy and girl love each other with giant fists and tell Mr.Moon, seller of cholera shoes, go eat a peach because I'm drifting down a blonde Allman highway motherfucking retarded.
I, Blood, really wish we could snark more about that shitty last lady's shitty shit of a poetry shit and all the other motherfucking retarded shitty shit that is erupting from mountain hillman's left anal fissure tissue.
I am in love with you.
Heaven re-tooled?
A "chick" with a strap-on?
A "chick" with twelve strap-ons?
Does anyone have some old phonebooks I can soak in my bathtub and then shoot with my rifle?
MGM you vegan cowards!
I will build a castle with my dick inside of your poopy mouths!
LIONS
LIONS
LIONS
LIONS
thus the language of account zanily breaks down
beeeeeyaaaaaaaaaaattttttcccccchhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzz
stop all your stupid lives and shitty shit eating poetrees you make me so BLOODY.
motherfucking retarded motherfucking retarded motherfucking retarded
Oh and ron was thinking:
"Go fuck yourselves"
Bill Blood,
I'm your puppy.
That was SICK, dog.
BLOOD, you've really done it this time. That was some top grade Colombian snark. I would say: lay off that pilfered rum. It is bad for your teeth. And then I would ponder in my lonesome...Why not anyhow? The world's sloshbucket of melted snark just got into my eyes and it's corroding my Poetry Centre. I can sleep with lions, BLOOD. I can and I can and I can like it and I will do it though their jaws are obvious tragic mandibles. I'm skipping prom. I'm going on safari to feed flamingos with my single purple nipple hair.
writers of inferior poetry beware: the blood has left bill's head. poop, vd, body cavities, asian friends, more poop. he is doing the windmill with all six tentacles and he is coming for you, yowling like chubaka
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