I Put My Mind On Shuffle and Press Play

Page three and I want to write the shit
out of it, get that excrement right on
out of this blank computer document.

It’s too late to take a shower now,
not with the roommate’s fat friend
and his ugly voice and they’re in
the kitchen eating again – how appropriate.

I’ve got electropop in my head.
I’m singing Goldfrapp like the words
are dancefloor anthems and my mind
is Madonna again; I forgot what it was
I had intended on writing about.

Just want words to expel from my fingers
through the keyboard, misspelled or otherwise,
just words, showing me who’s boss (Danny Pintauro -
what the fuck ever happened to that guy, anyway?).
Now I’m thinking about Tony Danza. Thanks a lot,
mind, you cheating whore – I never wanted to be
reminded of aging Italian gigolos, just the ones
who remind me of men on my favorite nighttime drama.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell Scott Weiland
is talking about. This song makes me want to kneel
on a chair and pretend I’m the last stripper
in the world, the girl who’ll take off her clothes
to only grunge and only the voices of sexy men
like Chris Cornell and Eddie Vedder
(oh, Ed Ved, you sexy beast);
is this why girls like grunge?

Feel the pulsing in my thigh
musculature, slice a piece off
the flannel combat boot pie.

Sometimes I wonder what people
are thinking with their tags.

How’d I go from Tony Danza
to grunge music, anyway?

I wish I knew my roommate was sleeping.
I just wish I didn’t have to hear the mouth
that ruins my inspiration, my motivation
for being a person, the reason I pound
cake (Van Halen, anyone?). Oh man,
I am name-dropping like dropping
plates on your ass, bitch. Another
awful song, but I can’t resist
the perfect beats of Disturbed, either.

Eddie makes me remember why it is
that I like Pearl Jam in the first place.

I just looked at Tony Danza and
thought it said Trent Reznor.
My mind subconsciously wants
some Nails to go with the 90s
and today (not that I blame it;
Trent also resembles someone I would do).

I promise I listen to music for more
reasons than turning me on, but sometimes
all I do is turn it on and it turns me on
and who can say it’s a bad thing
for music to return favors?

I wonder how different this poem
would be had I listened to something
female, something ovarian in nature,
full of feminist woes? I’m sure I
wouldn’t be talking about whoring
myself out to the front men
of phenomenal rock bands, but
then again, I might just want to
suck that bitch’s cock if she had one
(oh, you KNOW Tori rocks it to the extreme).

Dance dance revolution, and I listen
to music I can’t understand.
Electronica does that to me.

They’re washing dishes in the kitchen,
rinsing and slapping and pretending
everything’s all normal when I can
smell the awkward conversations
from here, wanting to be together
but someone is not quite so sure.
(Get a clue, dudes; sometimes
the girl just isn’t interested.)

I feel like I’m on a French Ferris
wheel carnival ride in hell – pop
music blowing out my eardrums
and making me feel like dancing
despite my resolved nature to stay
away from the stupid tunes of the world.

I swear to God the repeated word in this
is Zimbabwe, but it’s French, so who knows
when the fuck they’re going to actually
try to win a war. Oh, I should be in a club
or something if I’m going to bounce
around like this song is forcing me to
put a licorice stick to my head and I don’t
even know if licorice sticks exist, or strips,
or what the hell they’re called
(whips? chains, BDSM much?).

Get out of my house, you nasty rat,
you plague man, you untrustworthy
payday loan scheme. Stop breaking
my dishes in the bathroom drain,
you silly rabbits – Trix aren’t even real.
And it’s a stupid phonetic spelling to boot.
Way to teach illiteracy, jackasses.

I think this song was mistagged,
but I’m enjoying the thought
of a Standard Bitter Love Sone #8.

I want to write and fill up this page
and I’m pretty close to doing so,
and I don’t want to sleep tonight,
not until my nostrils have exploded
and my brain has told me it’s okay
to pretend sleeping is something
everyone does at some point in their lives.

I wish I knew the words to this song,
so at least I’d be preoccupied.
But I’m still spelling words wrong
when I type them and sometimes
Johnny Cash songs are nice to hear
and sometimes country music
is completely underrated and I really
need to find a Charlotte Martin album
at some point in my life and I still have
Goldfrapp running through my mind.
Portishead and I know it. At least it’s not
Sour Times. I would be completely undone.

The Beths of my music library know
my heart and how to hurt it –
you Gibbons, you Orton, you Hart,
all the ones I can’t let go.

I like to sometimes make the noises
that go along with songs, the harpsichord
or turntable or electric stapler paper
remover in the background.

Can I do this every night? I don’t ever
want to work again, just write this constant
poem, if that’s even what this is. Words.
Thoughts. Sexual meaning and connotations
and now my girl’s on and sometimes I wonder
how I ever lived without Imogen in my life.

My sneeze has moved to the right nostril,
of course still unmoving, still still. Oh Lord,
I am so happy this week is almost complete.

I wish I could write something completely
relevant and on topic, but my mind works
at 5 thousand miles per hour, the thoughts
escaping the convent, shedding the sins
repented to the nuns. We all know
my head has never been one for purity.
Could I pare this down sometime?
Should I edit and remove the parts
I’ve never wanted to create in
the first place? Like that sentence;
how very bland and dreadful.
Perhaps dreadfully eternal –
“It’s so deeply true, you know.
Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal.”
Best short story ever. Not this one,
unfortunately. Because this isn’t
a story and it’s turning out to not
be very short, either. Katherine Mansfield.
Bliss. Only compared to perhaps
The Yellow Wallpaper or some
modern day John Updike. But we
all know Stephen King knows
his way around a short story, too.

This is the worst remix of Hot Chocolate
I think I’ve ever heard. Way to make
a cheesy song sound ever more cheddary.

That was bad, even for me.

Listen to the song,
turn off the computer,
go to bed.

That’s an order, chief.

And I’ll be damned
if I’m going to get
reprimanded
my first day on duty.

A/N: If you made it all the way through, good for you. Seriously. I just wrote this over about an hour's expanse of time last week. Completely unedited.