give me your face;
cut one side then pull.
hand it to me,
and you can’t have it back
until I look at you
even though you think
your insides will make me sick.
everyone thinks that their insides will make me sick.
compose yourself.
your face has been carefully made
layer by layer of bleach soaked newspaper,
phrases and snapshots;
what you think will agree
with everybody’s individual stomach.
stand up straight.
if you are ashamed of yourself,
then you make me sick.
Archive for April 15, 1991
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I flap my big leathery wings
slowly, far above the sprawling metropolis
and grin in rubbery latex.
my shadow eclipses city blocks;
down below, people run in fear.
the atmosphere is cold this high.
the sun is bright on my black skin,
so I will go eat a McDonald’s.
so.
I sit here on my lily pad.
fuck you.
I just sit here on my lily pad.
I sound my barbaric yawp.
ribbit.
it’s my poem.
I can say “ribbit”.
I can say “fuck you”.
I am green,
I am wet-skinned.
I sit here on my lily pad.
I am the Froggacuda.
ribbit.
fuck you.
Froggacuda's Weblog 