Listen to Jon Ray perform this poem:
Your afflicted demeanor is like a nostril full of stoned boogers.
Everyone’s rolling their eyes, hoping you’ll realize how much it blows.
You keep looking for the dispirit squad to throw a pity parade in your honor,
But the Mayor of Pensive Plaza just changed the stops on his vascular organ.
The jig is up.
Don’t you know there’s a Hispanic man who walks on water?
With a guacamole thumb up your ass shouting, “Rise up!”
Stop being scared. Jump overboard, find your footing, and cast a fucking net.
Only the chickens of the sea have their guts removed with a can opener.
Arriba!
For too long your sex drive has idled behind station wagons with their blinker on
Tell the next girl with a prurient look in her eyes
To hop up, strap in, and hang on,
Then rev your engine in the carpool lane of wantonness.
Vroom!
Stop feeling guilty for wanting to unlock new doors.
Just because you slide your key in something,
Doesn’t mean you have to call it home.
There’s a reason that hotel rooms don’t have knockers.
Unless you paid extra.
Don’t slump, waiting for concussed passersby to beg for resuscitation.
Stand tall like buildings in Dubai, spitting loose change from your mouth.
Bend down and blow blazing persistence into the lungs of a woman in black undergarments.
If she remains cold, drop her on a microwave turntable, & return when she’s ready to be cooked.
Not everything raw is a delicacy.
Do not travel with women from the lost and found who have never flown coach.
They carry too much baggage and usually belong to someone else.
Do not dress artificial trees up in tinsel, while flushed with eggnog, and call it love.
Just because something is shiny, doesn’t mean it’s real.
And you’re drunk.
The love you seek is wrapped up like birthday intestines
Already tucked inside you, absorbing salutary wishes and getting rid of all the crap.
So, stop worrying about making every meal one of substance.
Just know that too much eye candy and not enough nutrition will make your soul vomit.
Burp, when necessary.
People who rely on alien constituents for happiness are like over-hard eggs.
They’re spending their short lives screaming under the weight of a greasy spatula.
Go out and sing Sleepy Brown into the privates of the city.
And if you end up naked with a stranger, tell them they put the Oreo in your twisted Frosty.
Then cook ‘em breakfast.
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