The Writing of Thane Zander
Avante Garde Poetry Page Two
The Hawg Series
General Poetry Six
General Poetry Seven
General Poetry Eight
General Poetry Nine
General Poetry Ten
General Poetry Eleven
General Poetry Twelve
General Poetry Thirteen
General Poetry Fourteen
General Poetry Fifteen
General Poetry Sixteen
General Poetry Seventeen
General Poetry Eighteen
General Poetry Nineteen
General Poetry Twenty
General Poetry Twenty One
General Poetry Twenty Two
General Poetry Twenty Three

Some of this poetry deals with adult content, please be aware.

Oh Bloody Hell!!!


Elephant testicles
huge bloody things
hang from my rear vision mirror
like grotesque fluffy dice:
ever seen any?

Rhino Horns protrude
dinosaur like from a rusty boot,
catching unsuspecting pedestrians
as I bowl them over:
yeah - narcissist.

Someone once commented
(with screwed up disbelief on face)
on the Leopard-skin soft top:
I just brandished my 12 inch hunting blade.

Kick my mag wheels if you dare,
Turtle shell is flippin' hard.

Yeah, ok
so the Polar Bearskin seat covers
still coated in blood
are a bit over the top:
feels good though.

How dare you call me a rapist?
Nature is there to be ruthlessly corrupted,
just be thankful I seem to be
the only over-the-top officianado.


God in a mirror 


Countermand your own preposition,
with a diatribal infliction
of universal acceptance.

Drink coffee upside down, tastes sanguine.

Jersey City glows in evening appeal,
sunrise washes tangerine sauces
on grey drab-washed monstrosities,
a dog eats a purple Chico wrapper
because the sea is close by.

Audrey Hepburn, who was she really?

Gain's Library on the corner of 1st and Main
shares billing rights with Frank's Fuckorama,
some turn pages
others turn tricks,
both fulfill a transient need.

I saw God in the mirror and I smiled back.



The Creation of Glass and Hot Blue Jeans in a Freezer


Several times she whispered.....

"Take me down the highway
on your revved up chopper dude,
let me grab your balls and hold on
for dear life as tarmac flashes by."

I looked through dusty glass,
saw the sun refract in prism light,
a rainbow of possibilities gleam,

She moaned with pure animal grunt,
as I pounded the meat on the board
fresh hamburger for dinner cooked
delicately on overheated exhaust pipes.

Charlie rummaged in the refridgerator,
found a pair of Levi's cooling off
in the remains of the butter conditioner,

"You a scientist dude,
keep ya genes in the fridge?"

She smiled at that, donned the cold denim,
mounted my blow up Harold Man,
Heard a release of air, and she gasped,
soon the butter melted and I spread her.

The Glass echoes sundown,
bright yellows and browns
eroding to oranges and purples,

We cruise Los Hacienda Grove,
looking for smoke joints
and joints of beef to blow,
nothing seems on offer tonight.

Then the demons in her denims
roar into life, sucks the world in,

I see it pass by through a midnight vista,
looking out through broken glass
and the darkness of creativity.

My name is earnest,
hers chance
we float in Nirvana
with dead singers for friends.



The Death of Danny Cosgrove - Millionaire


Poor bastard he was,
filthy fucken rich
and not a penny to his name.

Young Danny minded his P's and Q's,
sold real estate and made a killing,
rode around in a flash Ferrari
for flippin' years, until

she was a blonde, they all are,
opened her legs and swallowed
the life he once lead,
spat him out after ten years

nary a drop left, but he'd gained

still drove that Red Horse
and plied his trade,
got older on Greenbacks and White Wine
never again a woman for his greed
to lose itself on, not even a quickie
Saturday night down Gropers Lane.

The papers said he jumped
though his ten story office window suggests "pushed",
his life ran like his money,
down the drain and under the metropolis,
to the waiting catacombs of die hard misers.

His former love barely raised an eyebrow.



Adolf Hitler wore Silk Boxers


Gratuitous babblings
oft lead to mind slips

daisies fuck dandelions
lavender breath dips

marionettes spark sexual death
venus de milo favours chips

see seven skeletons dancing tango
rattling like ghost ships

and in the dark, a penis enters a vagina
and another heart skips


Leaves a sour taste in ones mouth


Commonly picked from the political tree,
a President who fucken lies
and cheats his way
into a position of power,
fucks the whole world over.


Who's worse,
the pricks that chop heads
off American prisoners,
or the demented fuckers
who download the video
to see what it's really like out there?

Unripe Gooseberry

Muslim Fundamentalist
Christian Fundamentalist
both fucking mental
who needs a list?


Old Arab Tale
better the dog pisses in your mouth
than the cat shits in your ear-
applies equally to all races.
See how Bush licks his lips
and Hussein picks his ear.




Bites passing postmen,

Takes a hunk of meat in practice,

Eats cats for fun,

Neighbourhood nuisance,

Hate the fucker.

Dogskin rug on the wall now.


The untold story of Samson's left testicle.

Rumour has it,
in the dark halls of ancient grecian philosophers,
there was always more
to the Samson and Delilah fable,
that not only did his curly locks
get vandalised by that wicked woman.

(Some say they've been wicked since)

Seems Samson was carrying out
one of his famed feats of faith,
lifting humungous boulders above his shoulders,
firing them at mythic gorgons and asps,


Toga slippage.....

and a ginormous purple stone pops out,
nearly flays the emporer off his throne.

Heinous act, death by scrotal sacrifice,
an endeavour nary once recorded,
yet here be Samson laying a loose stone
into the panicking crowd

(though some saw Delilahs reason d'etre for joy).

The poor chap, nonplussed,
tucks it back into the loose fitting toga,
takes up another stone, and drops it on his foot,
sending a mad panic up his leg,
past the recent embarrassment,
to a brain spazzing out with it all.

He clapped his head in excruciating pain,
threw a loud yelp into the ampitheatre
realising his hair had also been dealt with.

Seems it wasn't his day after all.

Anyway, now if someone tells you about
Samson and Delilah,
ask them about his left testicle,
and if they know the story.

You do now.


Le Cracking Cranium of Cranston

Poor bugger,
got whacked with tubular steel,
across the frontal lobes
adjacent an honorary temple or two.

"Best case of splitting headache this week"
said the surgeon.

The surgeon was on ecstacy,
or was that meant to be ecstatic
about doing such a fine and needy job.

Cranston tossed up about the hospital,
or his brothers metal extraction plant
down Paraparaumu way, next to Georgie Pie.

Could do with a Steak, Pepper and Mushroom pie right now.

Cranston's mum showed up.

That was about it for her, she does that you see,
makes an appearance for appearances sake,
wearing that funny hat, the furry runaway from Chuckwagon,

Cranston admired that hat now,
could make a good cover for a soon to be very big bandage,
Russians wear them too, could be they hide swathes of cotton.

Too much damn vodka. Not Cranston though,
wrong place at the right time, wrong guy, too.

Cranston's like that, be standing in a loo flushing,
and he'd be the only one for fifty years
to get hit with blow-back from the shit farm.

Maybe we should pin a medal on Cranston?
Oh yeah, someone already did.


Tarantino meets Kubrick over Los Plata

Strange title for a soiree,
a little walk down memory lane,
two tuxedoed gentleman
waltz gaily by, a glass of chateau 69
spills liquid vapour to a blank canvas.

Lick the ice cream stick,
chocolate melts and runs languidly
across your fingertip to a gaping maw,
seeds of half grown grapes languish
in a spittoon at DryGulch.

The rust on the Chevy's window
signals moonlight on a wayside in New Mexico,
the rains have been absent for months now,
scorpions run for shelter, the onset of
another F14, on another bombing mission.

Drags you back to lifes passion play,
the thoughts of bombs going off,
a scorpian stinging your vagina, hot lust,
runny chocolate and spilt wine erotica,
yet the thought of that moonlight lingers.

You lie there, awake, aware, awry,
tears stream like the river Ganges
in a monsoon deluge, the dead for all to see,
carry out funeral rites near your pinz nez,
seems the right thing to do in relationships.


A Sunny Fun Day in the Morgue

Let me introduce myself,
Swashbuckler Jim,
I work the local morgue
doing all sorts of things,
and I suffer whims
of sanity slips
and take all my customers
on mindless trips.

Look at the wall,
crypts four by four,
four at the top, four down
and four on the floor, vrooom
Stainless steel abounds
gleams everywhere
polished by yours truly
with devil may care glee.

What games can be played
when there's jackshit to do,
open the doors and tickle
toes and feet a deep blue,
pull out the trays and play
spot the balls
watch out for the maimed ones
or you'll puke on the walls,

Do some statistics
young, old or ancient,
check out their gender
and their hairy status perchance,
Draw out the trays,
and check their pallour,
and marvel at how the dead
have differing pallid colours.

Close up the hatches
get out the chalk,
and play noughts and crosses
ere the dead walk,
and take satisfaction
they don't see your antics,
and the morbid things you do
that would turn the romantics.

You see them so different
than everyone else,
you see the chrome boxes
and not their old house.
You have no attachment to
those passing within,
you don't see your excursions
as a heavenly sin.

To work with the deceased
you have to be detached
you need to be distant
nothing is a match, perse
But they are your charges
whilst within the mortuary,
and they get treated the way
you want, keeping some sanity.

Bring in your dead,
they're mine to keep,
what harm is done
whilst they slumber in their sleep?
What harm is done,
if I prod and poke,
if I tell them the odd grim story
and perverse damned joke.


A Flame amongst the cold ashes of life

Imogene sweats profusely,
teetering on the parapet
of life and indecision,
to jump, cut, or down
the whole bottle of valium,
she no longer gave a damn,
her eighteenth would be her last,
'Thank God,' she thought.

She slipped then, back into memory land,
the hated obtrusive killing pain,
that started when she could remember
and never ceased, intensified
when her mum left them with him,
she, the only girl in a ramshackle family,
expected to be mother, sister, daughter
and sometimes maybe, wife too.

She found the accidental cut of the knife at ten
when cooking another sparse meal,
eased her pain, numbed the skeletons in her mind,
all her thoughts became nothing for a time,
and blood spilt nurtured her future,
oh, she was good, could hide the cuts,
upper arm, shoulder blades, buttocks, thighs,
all giving her release before she learnt
that she could die,
Heck, what a revelation!

And she stood there looking down at her decision,
people moving on the sidewalk, cars flying by,
droplets of blood seeping from fresh wounds on her
wrists and across her pale tearless cheeks,
the pills sat heavy in her stomach, dissolving
and unraveling her life strands,
head swam with nothing nice, it knew not, ever,
then in a blinding flash of reality, she went.

A light blazed suddenly through the darkness,
demanding her attention, calling out to her
and in her strange fixated awareness, she saw God,
Her subconscious fought against the reality
and the fight spread into her waking mind
She opened her eyes, trying to get rid of it,
but it was still there, bright halogen downlight
in a stark white and blue room, starched sheets.

She'd killed herself thrice, yet she still lived,
her hopelessness engulfed her like a rash,
Tears tried to escape where none were left,
dried pain dribbled down her cheek,
touched the scars of her existence, telling her
she was alive, and she groaned.
Until he came to her side, and smiled at her,
saying, "Imogene, I am going to make you happy."
She asked him, 'when, and how', never why,
so she did live, with a measure of hope.


Collective thoughts on Birth

Damn, it wasn't my fault!!
Was it? How could it be?
She caught MY eye.

If I'd kept the placenta,
would it have grown to be
a troublesome teenager?

She sheds 30 hours of sweat,
how come us males
come out smelling like roses?

As usual, she calls me names,
Bastard, arsehole, cretin,
yet in the sack, it's "oh Yes,
Baby, Sweetums!" Yeah, women.

Why is it the doctor is allowed
to smack your kids backside,
and doesn't get arrested for child abuse?


Manhunt Predation

I sat in my easy recliner,
overlooking the vast pool
of glistening blue water and heads
scanned for sign, for prey.

There he was, target one for the day
barrel chest, hairy, muscled
chiselled to a taut taper,
got my juices running, this one.

He walked heavily, pools edge
looking into vacant happy eyes
and settled on a bottle blonde
with tits the size of melons.

The juices retracted as my thoughts passed
onto new dimensions and men
fat and bald, skinny and runtish
nothing took my fancy.

But I desired man meat,
needed to consume hot sweat
and rippling muscles deep into
my starving conscience.

But prey was in short supply,
packed my things and went to the bar
and mind fucked the bartender
into submission for my failure.


Death in a Daiquiri Order

Hazel called for a Daiquiri,

cooling on a hot summers day,

waited with nonchalant aplomb

for the drinks waiter to arrive

and deal her her wish.


Which, by the way, didn't come

so she called him over again

a moment later and castigated

the poor oafish fool.


She was bent on a drink,

no idiot was going to stop her

desire to slake her thirst

so she let rip with both barrels.


Murder filled the air, she was unstable,

dogs barked, smoke cleared

and a drinks waiter bled

all over the pristine marble.


Hazel moved her seat, but she was

grabbed by strong hands and taken

to a police station and arrested,

for being not drunk in charge.


And the small matter of a waiters death,

his last breath "fuck you, bitch"

didn't matter to her rich lifestyle,

but this time she didn't get her way.


A rap sheet stated death by adventure

and a stretch on death row before

the pin was pulled and her life passed,

all for the sake of impatience.


A lifestyle wrought with "I Want"

leads to an ending of "You Get"

and she passed away into folklore

as the woman that couldn't wait too long for a drink.


Bar Room Salsa

I stood in the foyer,
furnace blast from the dancefloor
hits me in the face
cool blast of winter on my back
through the opening/closing portal.

Moved into the inferno
of sweating pumping bodies
limboing to the rhythm of a calypso band
sweat the order of the day,
and half naked bodies.

I was assailed by it,
but worse was the gyrating nymphettes
prancing around, tanned and soaked
raising my internal core temperature
to an unsafe level.

It was hot, they were hot, I was hot
to trot to a brand new sensation
so I joined the conga trail, hands
placed frimly on some shapely
swaying hips of passion.

And I boiled, popped my cork
as the heat rose above searing,
I danced and gyrated the night long,
and left with an ice cool, sweating machine
to dance the night away at home


Random Brushstrokes in Browns


Translucent water,
colour of dead fish swimming,
they know not a foreign environment
meant to kill.


Jenny rides her boyfriend hard,
sweat kills the scent of her cheap perfume,
her husband lies dead, miles away,
gunshot wound!


Philosophers heaven,
a bar full of drunk know-it-alls
fucking their brains with booze
and the bullshit they speak,
Aristotle laughs, downs another Bud.


Bush makes a speech,
shit; a talking tree should know what it's saying,
truth in all branches of government,
exists, just!


She looks at the plan, makes a U-turn
and stops, picks up the dead possum,
eats into it's entrails and bleeds,
casts a wary eye on the street,
a eunuch fucks a lamp post out of spite,
wishes he had the balls to kick her goddamn face in,
eating his friend, how dare she?


Oh yeah, I came baby, paid my dough,
made my day, why are you here still?
Take a hike, melodrama dances, my feet
played tango on the rhythm of your brain,
and you wait for me, damn you!


The toilet seat is wet like a bus ticket

Pontificate, you slimy slag,
Oscar Wilde-plagiarist on the sly,
your gay abandon will trouble you
as police arrest hags and fags, for their bags,
ladies and laddies run far and wide,
a wet toilet seat is not a bride.

A poet times his words and prints off
screes of latent literature,
months of work, a knock at the door,
a laddie with a bus ticket roars inside
and hides, "they're after me, for sucking"
the printer clankers away and scores
every page with a number, as the boy whored.

"Cell numbers three, nine and ten,
the husky desk sargeant processes
the bitches and the queers, the dross
makes for his coffee, stamps another bus ticket,
another climbs aboard for the ride,
gay abandon put aside in fear,
and the rest of them shut up and disappear.

Poet in a corner, reads Eliot and wonders
if a boy is afraid, and calls him out,
"stop sucking mens diddles, it'll get you
in the end, and behind and wherever, so stop it",
and be of the pen, and the sword and write
your passion to the paper of your desire.

He looks at the many pictures of his wives
and husbands; wonders to himself,
why poet, why writer of feelings, emotions?
the pictures spoke back for him, relationships
born of love and lost from fear, that's where
it all went, and he bent on his task, and printed.

Printed wet bus tickets on a toilet seat in the park.


Grand Anywhere Station

Main Entrance

Dog urinates against a plinth column,

people pass, papers up to their face,

moving forward with the grace of everyday life,

lady applies make up, wedding ring off,

looking for that strangers car.


At the Ticket Booth

I apply my hand to the change slot,

a few bucks for the ticket,

shithead dope peers back, yawns

reaches for my stash, passes a ticket,

spits on the floor to his left,

I resist the urge to commit murder.


In the Waiting Room

Homeless one stretches lengthwise

on spare bench, only fully seatable one,

security pokes him, tells him to move on,

"FUCK OFF" echoes around the room,

a club swings up and an arm protects face,



dodgy old bloke wanders off to be replaced

by street-smart urchin in rags.

Never a homeless place, huh!


Fuss and bother on the Platform

"Step back from the edge madame!"

She in fear, looks at the track, the train coming,

sneaks a view at the cop with his gun drawn,

'If I jump, I die' she thinks,

bastard jacks the hammer

"Miss, don't make me shoot you!"

and she laughed at the irony,

I saw her smile, a sad sight

then she disappeared in the roar of the train.


What the Train Driver saw......

Nothing, he was eating his fucking sandwich,

he should have been watching the next station.

The cop beat his brains out for not stopping,

yes, a little later.



Red Wine upon a White Table Cloth


War on,
always a rattle of death
Whore on, rape and pillage
the minds of the few.


A cop holsters his smoking piece,
one round in a local schoolboys' heart,
his coke stash scattered on the sidewalk,
four thousand dollars blowing
in the wind of deceit.
Who is stealing the minds of the young?

Pinot Noir

It's dark in here, night;
who stole my innocence?
took my pride and joy, my mind,
gave it to the enemy, I wonder?
Spill the mass upon broken glass.

Cabernet Sauvignon

She gave up her right to be human
when she acquiesced to his morals,
gave birth to an unwanted mignon.
They lived happily ever after, for a
few months, 'til he found another.


Prescribing Panadol

On the need to be patient

a metamorphosis in time,
to an ache,
what happened? and how--
cue Twilight Zone music.

On being injected.

"Doctor, look at me, what have I done?"
Nothing son, bury your fear,
a small tear in your cruciate ligament;
just a little pin prick,
It will heal mighty quick, be still.

On recovery from a broken heart

Been in the job for years,
sometimes stirrer, sometimes worker,
union man to the core--
kicked out, too old,
split the core of my existence,
no longer capable,
striking on my own, the pain
just won't go away.

On feeling anothers pain.

There he is, the Bundy kid,
Ted, his name, flick knife in hand,
I weaved away from him, I had the prize
he so much hated, popularity!
Saw the headlines years later and knew,
I was lucky,
but a little prick in the back of my neck
made me realise.



Can't be bothered doing anything,


Take a twist of lemon, add gin,


Thunder down the road in auto, no cares,

Blacktop animal,

Run a country badly, get away with it,

slack bitch.


There is an anger in everything,

and lack is in all too!


A Wet Highway, a Madman, and Headlights on Full Beam

Highway One,

dead silent, empty,

a dark night when all indoors

watch the rugby world cup,

a wet shimmer glows,

sending stones into high focus

to the eyes of the madman walking

the centreline.


Yellow'd white lines

freeze in unison going nowhere,

stretched out and beyond

to infinity, or roads end

and the beam of a car approaches,

I walk on, knowing he won't see me

till it's too late,

he misses,

dark clothing disguises me in the dark

as the air of his speed passes me by,

I walk on, the glow of wet tar

shining evermore dark upon

my maniacal stare

and the glare of another Highbeam

lights my path,


A Truck, many lights,

big, and solid, and very fast,

I walk on, sticking to the middle white line,

his approach is roaring and incessant,

he flicks then, low high low,

seen me, observed my presence

and the sound of a mighty horn roars

as he moves to the left


too late, swish!

and the air blows me to the side,

his speed a challenge accepted,

his vulnerability eaten,

and I straighten back to the line,

march on, and the road glares back at me,

the yellow lines pale glow flows

through my intent,

I walk on.


1Yes, it was a game

a fools errand

but I did it,

45 years old and still able to walk

the centreline,

challenge death and life,

and I breath in the crisp night air,

walk off to the side of the road

and turn for home,

tonight, I survived, again,

the Wet Highway, Madman and Highbeams.



A million little furry things in Daniellas King Size bed.

He saw her in the bar, cool, brunette, sexy,

smiled at her across the room, returned too,

bought himself a drink, he; Ralph, sophisticat,

she kept looking his way, bought her a drink

and they met, chemistry like a shot.

Hi, Ralph, pleased to meet you.

Hi Ralph, Daniella, the pleasure is mine!


Later they went back to her place,

drunk a little more and she showed him around,

they never got past the bedroom,

clothes strewn everywhere

and mad passionate effort of foreplay.


She is beautiful, he thought, nice quim too,

not too shabby, nicely trimmed, well shaped.

He's a hunk, love those rippling muscles

and the size of him, this I will love.


Exhausted and sweaty, they rolled over

and went to sleep, sated in each others efforts,

they dreamed, she on her side of the bed,

he wherever he roamed to and from,

the night rolled on.


What the fuck!! What is happening to me?

He looked all over his body, attacked

by a million quims, her quims, nibbling

and sucking his flesh,

Ralph swatted at them, but they persisted.


He woke in the morning, it was dark.

Shall we have another then shower?

He looked at her, and smiled,

they finished and headed for the shower,

he was in heaven, he thought,

then the dream resurfaced

as he showered with her.


I see you have met my friends,

Danielle smiled at him, cheekily,

he looked then at his body,

little light bruises everywhere,

he gasped, it wasn't a dream

and then she laughed, maniacal,

a Black Widow look to her.


He was athletic afterall, clothes on, wet

and running out the door before you could say

"Jack Robinson."


Translating Pillowtalk

Bought a machine today,
newfangled thingamy whatsit,
put a pillowcase in and it plays it back
everything, since the last wash,
even, yes, even, snores baritone
and falsetto, snuffles too.
Played back a dream from three nights hence
something about love, and fashions
didn't make no sense, then what dream does.
Then a voice, high pitched, womanly
not mine, but a female answering me back!
Was she there then, heck I don't know, asleep,
she was sexy, cooing to me, and my breathing
sort of grabbed itself and ran,
and then I had to change to side two,
must have flipped the pillow over
and nothing, slept like a baby, yeah
even a gaga googoo whistled softly
out of the speakers either side,
I sort of smiled, how many pillows did I have?

Got a job, cleaning carpets by day,
took my pillow corder along,
tres interesting mes amies.


The Ballad of Unders Tress

Have you ever had the hammers knocking at your head?

Do you often feel that you're better of dead?

can you think of nothing but your worldly dread?

Well here is the tale of Unders Tress.


Can you wonder why your life seems such a mess?

Can you hate the girl who wears a dress?

Does anyone find compassion when you try to confess?

Such is life when you're Unders Tress.


Is your head always ringing with startling indecision?

Does everyone look at you with mock derision?

Is your problem deniable, yet exacting precision?

Ask anyone, when they're Unders Tress.


Do you continually question your role in this life?

Do you blame yourself when your family is in strife?

Are the things you say and do, hurting your wife?

Is it possible that you could be Unders Tress!


Can you climb out of the hole of your benign rat race?

Does it feel good to have the wind in your face?

Is working too fast just a mediocre pace?

Then being confused could be Unders Tress!


And can you imagine the harm that only you are causing?

When life is continuum apace, without pausing?

And the littlest of things come at you ad nauseum!

Imagine, my friends, what it's like for Unders Tress.


Will compassion come, and some rational thinking?

Or will you sail on the life ship, while the ship is sinking?

Can you hop ashore and take a reality check, blinking?

Then try to get out from the life of Unders Tress?


But how?

Ah, Therein lies the answer,

Unders Tress ain't a dancer,

Can't have any fun,

with his life in shattered pieces,

feels that everything

is urine and faeces.

Who the hell wants to live Unders Tress's life?


Shape of things to Come


Yo, Ladies

You Looking?

Swell, good on ya'

No doubt seen this before

a widening head-shot 4 sure

a wet dream on a Sunday

as you kneel and pray,

'Tis your hubby, no?

Watch it grow, hmmm

A symbolical ecstasy

invader of virginity pure

a thought for passion?

romantic compassion

a night of one stand??

You'll grasp it in hand

You wonder and think

Why this poem stinks

the heights of ecstasy

your moment is come

and the realisation that

this poem is so dumb

that your lips cry numb

and close out the thought

that like all men, this one

comes, as usual to naught.


Bourgeois Circle Jerks

There is a bunch of circus clowns,

Who swing across the towns

Making dreams work

Bourgeois circle jerks.


There be night crawlers deep,

Creeping and trolling for sleep,

Removing every perk,

Bourgeois circle jerks.


There be reaction or counterreaction,

Satisfaction and broken faction,

Icelandic singer called Bjork,

Bourgeois circle jerk.


But in the middle of the night,

When I'm feeling goddam alright,

And the nurses think me rather perked,

I'm just a Bourgeois circle jerk, too.


Reciprocal Analogies

Red makes a bull enraged,
'Bullshit!' I say,
the wasp sting in the tale
maketh a Bull Rush.

Dog is the reversal of God,
do I call pooch - Susej?
saviour of mankind,
or just write a book called the Fable.

I hate vegetarians,
high and mighty wankers,
preach the healthy gospel,
never met one older than fifty eight.

Liars are my life long bane,
yet every 3 years I vote for them,
then wonder why my lot is piss poor,
maybe I lie too much to myself?

If I was confronted
with the choice of being righteous,
or healthy and clean,
think I'd take the lower human offer.



All material this page Copyright of Thane Zander.  Any requests for reproduction to be emailed to me at