Sunday, April 24, 2005

Heeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrre's Pachinko!

Welcome to the gang Joe!

Joe Pachinko gives us raw poetic styleee, just the way we like it. Perhaps this is why he is the newest ULA member. Grab some chopsticks and dig into Pachinko's poems. You're invited to check out his website Superstition Street Press


Just because nobody understands you
it doesn’t mean you’re an artist.
Being able to write words down on paper
doesn’t make you a poet.
Knowing two and 1/2 chords on the guitar
doesn’t make you a musician. Open mike reading,
they’ll sit through 17 other poets to get up and read their own stuff,
having listened to none of the others, wanting only to hear their own
voice through the mike, not realizing how similiar their shit is
to everybody else’s. Always reading in this special voice,
as if explaining to a somewhat dull child something which the child couldn’t possibly know
anything about.
They have nothing to say,
& they say it badly.
In one of two moods,
serious, self-righteous,
& really serious.
I know people think
“If I can’t understand it, it must really mean
But it’s unintelligible crap,
that’s all.
It doesn’t move me.
It makes me want to leave,
or sleep.
or slap them until they find something worth saying.
Poetry is touching the sun with your brain,
or shooting sparks out of your ears,
or having Balinesian Dancing girls
twirling off the end of your tongue,
an orgasm of words...
but it sure as shit ain’t this.


The day that began so bright & full of promise
but which ended
with a used tampon on the beach
near the corpse of a dead sea lion...
Now most people who read/hear that,
instead of thinking;
“What the hell is a used tampon doing on the beach?
Did it wash up there?
Did somebody throw it off a ship?
Why is it near a dead sea lion?
Does it have something to do with why the sea lion
died? Does it mean something?”
Instead of thinking that, or anything,
all they read/hear is
“Blah blah blah blah blah & blah blah blah, blah blah
blah blah used tampon,
blah blah blah blah blah.”
The same thing happens every time I use the word
“cunt.” I suppose if I used the French word for cunt
that would be O.K., more refined,
but I don’t know the French word for cunt.
So I use the word cunt,
and people take it out of context.
They don’t hear the hallelujah of cunt,
the blessings of cunt, the worship of cunt,
the beauty & the wonder of cunt.
the power & the glory &
the endless cloud kissing hosanna of cunt...
They hear “Blah blah blah cunt,
blah blah & blah blah blah cunt.”
& miss the god damn point.
I don’t think cunt is a bad word.
It’s all the way in which it’s used.
& while we’re at it
why is the word ‘fuck’ used as an insult?
Empress Aleshia gets drunk, asks me,
“Why do you hate women so much?”
“I don’t hate women,” I reply, “I love women.”
“I heard you using that “C” word. Why would you use
that word if you didn’t hate women?” she asks.
“Did you hear any of the other words connected with
it?” I ask.
“No, no, listen baby, I went through so much trouble
to get one I don’t want to hear anybody talkin’ trash
about it.” “I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to get one too.” I
say. “That’s not what I mean,” she says.

“So,” she drawls, “why do you hate women so much?”
“I don’t hate women,” I answer, “I hate everybody.”
“Well, that’s alright then baby.”
Inga Muscio thinks that cunt is a beautiful word,
& I agree.
Now she wouldn’t like my agreeing
with her because I’m a man.
Still, I think cunt is a poem unto itself.
& all I have to say to people
who don’t understand that is
“Blah blah blah blah blah blah used tampon blah blah
blah cunt blah blah blah blah blah ba blah blah blah
fuck you.”


Herve Villachaise's wife once said, "You haven’t lived
until you’ve taken a shower with a chocolate covered dwarf."
& I’ve fucked dead bunnies
in fields of burning butt plugs
mechanical deer cunt,
aardvark ass up against a cliff
kinkajou titty leg humpings,
I’ve suffered the attack of the inflatable fun dolls,
and attacked them back.
Fucked an inflatable wildebeeste dolli
n the style of a backwards octopus donkey fuck,
I couldn’t afford a gerbil
to do it for me.
The doll told me it loved it,
when I know damn well that a gerbil
would’ve done a better job.
That doll really wanted a gerbil.
You can’t ever know really with a doll.
& the doll couldn’t know anything
about the time I stuck myself up a gerbil’s ass.
Everybody wondered “How did he do THAT?”
I’m not really sure how I did it,
But naturally,
I couldn’t get out once I was in,
& the gerbil had to go to the emergency room to have
me removed.
& the gerbil had to spend a lot of time
denying it...But people talk you know,
and it was “Did you hear about that gerbil that showed
up in the emergency room with Joe Pachinko stuck up
its ass?”
& the gerbils shunned me after that.
& the hamsters, & the guinea pigs too.
The anteaters who are still willing to give me head,
do it begrudgingly,
and are hardly a substitute.
I mean, I’ve got this inflatable Japanese Spider Crab
that I give wolfbagging, tea-bagging, Cleveland
Steamer, hot carl, rodeo fucks to...
but nobody understands
the dirty sanchez on the face of the death fuck sea manatee.
I have to work pretty hard
to get the goddamn inflatable toad
sex doll filled up with air,
& it pretends that it hates me,
& I pretend that I don’t care,
Within this sweaty jock strap of a Universe,
little girls wear ruffled panties
while the grownups
are always dressed for a funeral.


Joe Pachinko is a poet, and the author of The Urinals of Hell, and Swamp.

Pachinko's press, Superstition Street publishes books for the fearless, including scandalous and banned literary works.


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