I can Rhyme and I don't have to have a Reason. I made e.e. cummings

write in caps. I drove Dylan Thomas to drink. I am the rough beast

which slouches toward Bethlehem. I'm the reason Sylvia Plath put her

head in the oven. She just wasn't good ENOUGH. I taught Anne Sexton

what Sex was all about. I rang her bell; e flat. I invented iambic

SEXtameter. I know the word that rhymes with orange but I'll be damned

if I'll tell the likes of YOU! I made Joyce Kilmer cut down an entire

forest. I made Emily Dickinson come out of the house and PARTY! I gave

peaches to T.S. Eliot and forced him to eat them. I melted Robert

Frost. I fired up Robert Burns and smoked him. I got Richard Wilbur so

excited he lost his meter and found it in China, China, China. I

taught Ted Hughes who was stronger than death. I am the Belle Dame

sans Merci. Who do you think inspired Sappho? I wove the web around

Whitman's soul. I killed Christopher Smart's cat, Jeoffrey, and he

loved me for it. I put the Ram in Rimbaud. I ate William Carlos

Williams plums...and they were delicious. I know what an iam is, and I

know what I am. I'm a fucking poet...stand back and let me write!



The Industrial Church of Love and Money


My ticket to salvation

is a three by two inch square

of printed white pasteboard

stamped with the name

J. R. "Bob" Dobbs.


So that when the time

of rending and pain

are upon us;

I will be lifted up

into the safe, soft arms

of otherworldly goddesses,


And served forth

the pleasures of all flesh



And the squid will anoint me

with their perfect and maleable bodies

'til I am rendered quivvering and senseless;

a shell of skin housing purest Slack.


From below will waft the faint cries

of humans as they ignite and implode.

The pleas for mercy, the promises

never before made in sincerity,

will be transformed into

a harmonic chorale of my vengence

(and all the while the squid will anoint me).


The years of swallowing my own bile

along with the machinations of THEM:

The Hustlers

and Entertainers

The Preachers, Teachers, and

Government Whores,

The Arbitors of Taste

Encouragers of Waste,

The Sanctimonious Chaste,

The Barbies and Kens,

The Little Red Hens who cry,

"Will you help me..."

When what they really mean is,

"I have no brain, please tell me what to think."

You know, THEM.


Those years will be washed away

in wave after endless wave of

a joy beyond ten thousand simultaneous

earth-moving orgasms (as the squid anoint me)


When I leave this place

(so unappreciative of my true genius)

on a sunny July morning

some years hence;

Do not fear for me.

For, that perfect body

I've been slaving so hard

to achieve and maintain

will be mine in the flash

of time it takes me to decide

just how big I want to make

my eternally perky breasts.


Yes, I am going to a place

beyond my most monstrous fantasies

into the realms of Elder Gods,

or at least that's what they tell me.

I couldn't read the fine print.

Now pass that pipe and pray.




Reverend Mutha Tarla Star of the Little Sisters of the Perpetually

Juicy; a Proud jism schism of the Church of the SubGenius.

Worshipping Juicy Retardo and "Connie" Dobbs since 1986.