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Archive for the ‘Joe Cloyd’ Category

Ronald Reagan

By Joe Cloyd

Even in death
You are
Worse than a
Hollow suit
Worse than a
Hollow head
Worse than a
Hollow tip bullet
Ideology

You are dead now
Buried in the west
Where the grass
Is always green
And the dirt
Is gold

There are streets and
Freeways and malls and
Airports and
Who knows
What else named after you
Because you
Were good at
Selling GE
And laundry
Detergent

Most importantly
You could sell
Yourself:

A lifeguard
And varsity
Football player
Who went
To Hollywood
And made it
And then
Became president
Who won the
Cold war
By cutting taxes
For the rich
Got on
His horse and
Put on
His cowboy hat
Riding out into
The sunset

But
Your myth
Is at our
Expense

You are
A product

You are
The bleached
Phony smile
That promises
Prosperity but
Brings misery

You are
The picture
Of the pope
On a bag
Of potato
Chips

You are the
Squinting icon
Of the
Credit card

You are
Death on the
Installment
Plan

You are a war
I don’t want to fight

You are
Norman Rockwell
With Marcel
Du Champ’s
Head up
His ass

You are the
Mother of
The moneyed
Manson family

You are the
Soul of
Gasoline

You are
The spokesman
For fat
Retarded
Hamsters
Shitting social
Darwinism

You are
South American
Hit squads
Cutting off the
Genitals of
Labor organizers
And priests
And stuffing
Them in their
Mouths

You are W—
The letter that
Bankrupted
Alphabets
Everywhere

You are the
Walt Whitman
Of
Wall Street

You are a
Cardboard
John Wayne

You are a
5-year old
Setting
Spiders
On fire

And someday
Thanks to your
Acolytes
You might
Just become
Jesus Christ

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By Joe Cloyd

Reason is the pinky finger
Of the left hand
Of the soul

And consequently
In all practical purposes
Not that useful

But the good news
Is that there are no other fingers
On that hand

And on the other hand
Is only a pointer finger
And a thumb
And these guys
Comprise the passions
Not much to them
But they sure
Got reason beat

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Insect Freedom

By Joe Cloyd

When Joe Cloyd
Woke up
One morning

He found
Himself
Transformed

Into a
Cockroach

He didn’t panic
He didn’t despair

He looked
To his right
To his wife
Who was
Sleeping
And slowly
Scuttled
Out of bed

He then went
In his
Daughter’s room
To look in
On her
But the crib
Was too high

But he could
Smell her
And she was
Doing fine

So he headed
For the
Front door
And was never
Seen again

When it hit
The papers
He was
Talked about
By old women
Who never
Even knew
Him

The old women
Despised him
For turning
Into a
Cockroach
Because they had
Nothing better
To talk
About

That
Joe Cloyd is
Slime, I
Don’t care what
Anyone says,
Declared one of
The old women
At the bingo hall

Yah, turning into
A cockroach is
No excuse, another
Interjected,
My sweet Bill
Turned into a
Cockroach years
Ago and we’ve
Been happy ever
Since

But their
Cockroach husbands
Who were at home
Understood

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