Bryan Coffelt

Imams, Mom, Or Rosy

Yummy yummy, whippets in Ikea
listenin’ to Foreigner with Mormons!
I come through doing ski jumps off an ogre.

Mom evicted me, that uppity Trekkie.
Don’t she know l’m a cutter?
That I’ma kill her with a soggy Nutter Butter?
I look cool. I drink Miller Chill.
I rock a fleece when I’m cold, bitch.

“Blam blam blam blam,”
goes the Palm Treo,
“sorry for the Gorgon orgy.”
‘seems sweet’ says Tao Lin
as he becomes Afghani through osmosis.

I’m Bob Villa, do you like hardwoods?
Do you like listening to Pascal sucking Borges?
Can I install Ubuntu in your butt?
Our Xbox tryst feels so good in my pocket —
you like how I set that ass on fire
like Branch Davidians?

I play Bocce ball on an Imam’s face
in accordance with Islamic law.
And oh, how summer shrugs on in a monotone,
spouting Sharia and handing out info about cirrhosis.

Pol Pot ephemera dots our teeth where Moors fucked catbirds
and where you first touched me. Ohio’s Facebook status says
“listening to Taylor Swift and fucking cake, shit!”
(When I die, bury my Facebook;
I don’t want my Notifications to accumulate forever.)

Our kink smocks and our primitive rhythm
shoot out catamaran windows —
shout out to these stormy forts. Wow. Sorry. Typos!
Mom porn! Syrup! You can’t ice the Iceman! Oh, eek! Beck!
O, cryptic October, I am a Xerox lollipop fucker!
Calmly, I face a taco. A voice says, “Be horrified.”

Bivalve relic mommy, I rage against the dying of the
horniest nondemocratic milf. Oops, I meant
elf. Hey, it’s an accident. I’m only humanzee.
Let the limp, acetic girl die from an old quaalude;
let her face delete time like hot lead denying breath.

Glenn Beck drinks Yemen’s moldy ovum as
treelike sluts fly hegemonies into towers, yo!
Hmm. Rookie move. Sacred crotch monsters in the sky
fall as spent cash. A loss of megabits sends Snoopy
whirling through existential crises.

Cyborgs seldom goof Crips at the Penis Rodeo.
(With young Ativan hoes screaming “Sucks to your
ass-mar?” — hell no.) Piggies everywhere feel
ashamed of their togetherness and their Tekken prowess.

Emaciated Hittites vomit kittens as mommy
iChats with abalone (intra-uterinely).
“Me? Mandarin smoked doe, please. Or the refried police.
And a side of mammy bicep. Thanks.”

Today, roadies herd Smurfs to
Gargamel’s house so he can eat them
then poop them out. So blue! So sweet the
Smurf meat! I’d like to eat Papa Smurf.

I’m hosting a webinar in my womb on
Steve Perry’s hymen and, um, America.
Oh, aha! And, you know, sexual helicopters.
I refuel my head with heroin, Hulu, the
Rutger Hauer Vietnam Vet gag reflex, and Him.
Yeah, uh, Him. That reminds me…
My pinkeye… Your banana… Sorry!

[Anagram of the second song “Momma I’m So Sorry” on Clipse’s album Hell Hath No Fury]

“Orca Fight Porno,” I Tweet
Our hero, Miley Cyrus, televises her Hep B as
Slipknot serenades us. The Hep B telethon involves
an HIV-positive rhino named Anderson Cooper.

Lawrence Welk is there. Chubbier and milkier, I guess,
but still genteel. He has a Pekinese and they merge.
A riot breaks out. Poet Tom Orange thwacks Miley’s junk: zing!

Chad from Nickelback is jerking off
tall preteen mermen in the corner
and Miley says “Haha stop it.”
MC Escher humps Octomom a little. Hella dope, yo!

Our live-in herpetologist Dave
spots Ayn Rand tonguin’ a puppy
and starts fappin’ immediately
so we kill him, but he comes back
from the dead as a guy named Lord Vomit.

As firemen fight Lord Vomit (Dave) with colt sperm,
a cafeteria’s littlest Hello Kitty porn toy
deescalates Tiny Hitler, fiery erectile cicadae
shiv a divorcee, and a hyphy owl hunts Miley Cyrus.

The owl wants to sell Hannah Montana’s cleavage on eBay,
But Harry Potter appears and fucks the owl with Tofurky.
“need a shamwow pronto, this owl hella gooey lol,” Harry twitters.

Miley’s shareware hymen is on TV, oops. The Jonas Brothers recite Lacan,
discuss jouissance, and compare purity rings.

Lil Wayne does an adult education version of “A Milli.”
It’s a decree revoking our Summer’s Eve douche/dildo.
It’s perplexing and kinda shitty.

Some hippies are playing “Two Girls One Butt Teepee”
and Ayn Rand’s rotten frog butt is on fire. I navigate to but I receive an error.
Elliot Spitzer’s Howitzer is doing wheelies on holy
bucktoothed Jesus’ overbite, tee hee!

Billy Ray Cyrus says, “Shh, shit, I’m trying to fuck Sarah Palin’s
eyes to the Nth degree! Hut-hut hike!” And he returns to his trailer,
but I can see his thong. Eleven velvet meat hooks line the brown trailer.

A horny teen kitten is emoting Nixonian evil; I am thrilled!
“Needed: Effete Pet Kit.”
Grandma twat go “Oink! Hee hee! Huh? Tighter!”
I’ma hit that, no doubt! I’m in debt, or maybe not, now.

The Hulk eats tofu; he leaveth Reno to the Renoans.
Re-elect Jenny Vet (Per Furor), uh, he hot!
I botched milking a love puppet for venom but look, I deleted it.
Perverted tweet: “Hump woven cock twixt gentlewomen putt-putting, UH!” Perfect.

[Anagram of the first song on Clipse’s album Hell Hath No Fury, “We Got It For Cheap (Intro)”]

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