Sometimes I Write Weird Shit on Cocktail Napkins...

...and it becomes something else. Sometimes it stays just as it is, word-wise. Here is something I wrote on the back of a drink ticket at work, for instance:

*A Fine How-Do-You-Do

Why don’t you pull

A sumac branch out of

Your innuendo;

Sit on your own face;

And I’ll fuck your god in

The heart

With a pear and pepper

Chutney gun.

Brett Lars Underwood, 2007

The funny part was when I handed it to a customer!

Or this piece of something that I wrote at the final bar of the night one night

*Balled Numb

You know what’s it like

At 3 a.m.

My bones numb from your

Fire

The candle has set the town

Ablaze

And

The bartenders are tired

And you are scared out

Of your mind

Can’t comprehend the

Outcome

Or even what just happened

Then

So you cry yourself

To sleep

Meanwhile, I laugh in

My dreams

But why can’t you get it?

Brett Lars Underwood, 2008

But while I'm at it, I'll post one that I wrote straight into this machine:

Why I Can’t Run a Thousand Miles per Hour

Funny how I dreamt of tearing

my face from Pompei stone

last year as the gout

continued its assault on my

agility

a letter opener removed a kidney

from Z

or was it S?

Maybe Q?

In my sleep.

Who can tell when there is this volcano

From your mouth

As my father lost the ability to speak

Sincerely knowing the abacus was losing track

and fields of daffodils were silk rapture

up a crazed cunt at the Dollar Store,

and aliens administered your first pap smear

in years

or some shit.

I’m reaching for a cork

For you to put in it.

No worries, though.

I’m not going to act on my thoughts.

I'll have to retrace my Pepto dismal diary

Lick the mud off your corns and hope

for better Casey Stengelese

burps from your Mom's

backside.

Does that fit in here?

If it does, I don’t know why.

The rookie can't bunt

to save his life

and they call

football

what's done in

domes.

We aimless gophers

crippled by

the time and magazine news

that thought we knew better.

So,

Shave with no mirrors

I'll open the shades

and drink what's in the fridge.

The rest of you can do without me

today.

Tomorrow, you'd better

have your boots on.

I’m gonna run circles around

Your skinny little asses and

Inebriate the meek

And stack cheese like mice architects.

...and tell me this:

who fucked Mussolini's mom when she

was pregnant with 'im?

Poking him in his fontanel and

then the trains ran on time

with fascism.

Those were the days, huh Bub?

Who shot the shot?

I did!

winning the Harly Race wars

scars on all my victims to be.

I was lauded afterwards for

Awarding slaves to all the

Paupers

And advancing Prince to his

Upper POP status

…and Glockenspiels were invented

amidst the ensuing orgy!!!

But "Who'll" is fun to say too, Seuss.

Like "Who'll we knuckle up tomorrow, Cassius?"

And I free them all with an afternoon

Siesta.

Oh never mind!!!

Just lather up your limp dicksky

With leather gloves covered in whiskey

and pour another for dear ol' Studs.

If you're working,

dream of suicide.

Me?

I'm about to pop open another.

and sing a song about sandwiches.

...or something about dropping bowling balls

from copters on cloverleafs at

rush hour.

That's a clit-tickler in me funny bone.

Jesus, get your shit together, Kids!

It’s the rapture that’sa comin’.

And if you know what that is

You’re an imbecile.

Still, all is forgiven.

Its that kind of day

Though I limp this way.

Brett Lars Underwood, 2007