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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Monday, July 25, 2016

One Chef's Special - ISIS Smothered in Bacon Grease

ISIS smelt of the oldest of mummified feet
Freshly unwrapped after a thousand years bound
A fetid stench that spread for miles around
Turning even the most stolid of citizen
Until they crouched like a dog vomiting on the ground

ISIS rolls from town to town
Billowing dust and sand
Till all their asscracks were well packed
Not to be emptied
Till their black coward's headcloth is unwound

ISIS has a goal, they must, don't you?
A goal that an Armageddon can be bought for cheap
With the whipping of the weak
Boxes of surplus military rounds
And an endless parade of white Toyota jeeps

ISIS will be the star of the next Home Alone
Bamboozled by a clever child's tricks
Cardboard cutouts of military assets
Placed carefully in full silhouette
Will have them moving along to an easier target

ISIS reads their Quran with eyes firmly crossed
Understanding every other word at best
Ignoring all the words of kindness
Embracing all the horrid rest
Embroidering their 'kerchiefs with a black and white crest

ISIS days are filled with religious hate fueled madness
ISIS nights are olfactory visions chock full of bacon products
And dreams of drowning in virgins
Revealing that ISIS isn't that much different
Than a cheap strip club bacon buffet on a slow Tuesday night

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Watching the World Burn

Watching the world burn
In twenty sixteen
A Turkish coup de grâce
A nondescript truck in a crowd
Just the latest and greatest
Whose life really matters anyways?

Burning marshmallows on whittled sticks
Just for the cancerous burnt sugary taste
That hangs in the mouth
An aftertaste of Trump
To accompany a sore throat
After far too much cheering for the wrong team

A bomb in a crowd
Is just my favorite thing
Popping popcorn in time with shattering bones
When it stops your snack is done
Remove and enjoy
Don't forget the salt

Looking out the window
From a privileged life
There are no fires burning in my night
Gas is cheap
No outward signs of strife

To enjoy such sights and sounds
Just tune in the local internet stations
To witness a villain being the other side's hero
If you have no skin the game
It's guilt-free entertainment
From the warm glow of all color high def LCD

And if suddenly feel myself succumbing to a sleepy kind of rage
I can text
"I fucking care"
To a toll free number
Auto-donating five dollars to repair my conscience in paper mâché
And fight the power with fists that hardly matter
Striking their chest in a barely audible
Pitter patter

Watching the world burn
In twenty sixteen
With hatelove the latest newspeak
You know what I mean

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Xanthotype Sospeta

When I take flight
There will be none to see
Quivering in anticipation
I wait until your back is to me

Resplendent in yellow feathered head
Wings spread
Taking in the sunlight
Feet hooked on tight

Posed for your pleasure
Upon this random surface
I can see your horrifying pair of eyes
Gazing upon me
Prepping me in your mind
To be murdered kindly in a jar
Pinned on a board inside a slick wooden case
A neatly printed label just below me

Xanthotype Sospeta

Row upon row of other carcasses would accompany me there
A macabre display indeed
If I were not so simple
And yourself considered oh so complex
With your self awareness and opposable thumbs
Lepidopterologist tendencies and metal tools

A fellow calls out to you from outside my range of vision
For even you are just a vague shadow to me
And with excitement you turn away
Gesturing towards where I once sat for your pleasure
Antennae quivering with your every breath

With the softest of flutters
I glide away
So when you look back
There's nothing to say

Sunday, June 26, 2016


Two steps forward
Towards the fire
Towards the light
Burnt rubber toe tips
Accompany a hasty retreat
Of a one step backwards beat

The smell hangs like a passing skunk
Up up nostrils and nose
Past the first knuckle's reach
No hopes of getting it out
Not even with bleach

Cheap gumsole sneakers
Leaving inexpensive footprints
In the mud all the way to the car
Altogether looking like a stock footage scene
From a far off undeclared war

Fumbling in dirty pockets
For keys that hung from the visor
Directly in front of far off eyes
A deep sigh as metal slides into place
Actions causing a hesitating mechanical mayhem

Random sparks

Would you know it was me
When I turned the corner onto our street?
Slipping the clutch
Matching broken synced straight cut gears
Clattering plates
Stressing springs
Flexing the driveshaft
Flying to you on rusty wings

Saturday, June 18, 2016

The Dog That Was Almost Something More

The dirty white dog
Falls twisting in the air
Feet searching for purchase
Eyes showing their whites in fear

Her life flashes before her
All a whirly-burley speed montage
Of food-sleep-outside-food and lazy
None of it mattering the least smattering
To anyone at all

A sudden surge of yearning
Fills the tiny weightless pup
A to make a difference feeling
A thirst for adventure
A want to leave a pawmark upon the world

Until she lands gently upon her favorite pillow
All new thoughts pushed away instantly
Replaced by a hunger for snacks
A thirst for a sip of dirty water
And a desire for a nap


Somber-faced DJ
Spin me a song
Scratch it out with your dirty beak
All the night long
Above the gunfire and the screams
Make the humid night air thrum
Till I can't tell the difference
Between a bass beat battering my body
And the Pulse of violence all around me

Oh Brother, Vend to Me a Memory

A dollar slipped right past me the other day
Right between the gender pay thigh gap
Unbeknownst to me
Straight into a vending machine
Freshly packed with butterflies
All delicate wings mangled by corkscrew dispensation
Hung up on that last little ledge
Just above where it says $1.00 - A3
Now to either fall victim to a two for one
For the next patron to come along
Or to a Hulk-worthy grasp and shake
Of this vending automaton bandit
Where I will walk away with half of the inventory

Crushed colored veneer thin wings
And mangled caterpillar body bits and things
All gotten for the low price of one dollar
Proving that money can buy happiness once again

I collected them all up in an impromptu pasted bouquet
To place upon your grave today
Held close beneath my painted face horrific
To frighten away that curse specific
Of time being the great forgettorator
Where you will become less and less with its passage
Crushing out all the specifics as it does
Leaving a furrow trail within my mind
A place for new memories to take root
No matter how frantically the little farmer in my brain
Comes and tries to smooth out the soil once again
The details are gone
As what grows anew will never be the same

The forgetting cannot be stopped
Even with a million broken butterflies
Until only generalities
And false memories