Crickets of GloryEveryone who walked past 15 Solomon Street knew there was something wrong with that house. It was a nice enough place aesthetically, built to look like the other homes on Solomon Street, with brick siding and a raised front porch, but 15 Solomon Street was no ordinary home. The other estates in the neighborhood were teeming with life, the essence of barbeques and birthday parties. During the day, though, 15 Solomon Street sat in silence and the shades were drawn. According to the residents of 14 and 16 Solomon Street, it seemed as if no one had entered or left the house in months. The children of the neighborhood thought of the place as haunted, although the house's grim diurnal silence seemed far more sinister than a simple case of poltergeists. On most cold winter nights, anyone who listened carefully could hear squeals emanating from down the street, so highly pitched that human ears could barely detect them, like dem
PsychomachiaEliza1: The end of the world! The very end! Can you imagine?Eliza 2: Yes, and it doesn't look pretty.Eliza 1: But the end of it all! We'd go down in history.Eliza 2: There wouldn't be a history.Eliza 1: We could make one! We can make people, and buildings, and everything.Eliza 2: Why remake everything when we've got everything already?Eliza 1: We don't have a pony.Eliza2: We don't need a pony.Eliza 1: I want a pony.Eliza 2: You have the human race in the palm of your hand. The last thing you need is a pony.Eliza 1: I would name her Clarabelle, and she would be my Clarabelle, and I would feed her sugar cubes and carrots, and we would trot through Pittsburgh and be worshipped.Eliza 2: Fine. Make your pony. You don't have to destroy all existence.Eliza 1: I do so. It sounds like an awful lot of fun.Eliza 2: Probably not. Sure, the explosions are nice to look at and all, but then you have a
Pretty.uglyWar is not only a science; it is the most practical form of art. The vibrant reds of oxidizing blood, the gorgeous gold of exploding bombs and the sleek pale hues of the desert. The screams of women and babies are musical, like the voices of angels eternally in harmony with celestial lutes. The sheer irony of the act, gently patting the uncivilized into submission, spreading the word of America's holy gospel like marmalade on warm toast, defines war as not only a work of sublime aesthetic value, but as the ultimate sadistic masterpiece.
Violet Wants It Her WayVerse One:Violet sat alone at lunch every day in high schoolSurrounded by the shallow jerks who should be drowned in the gene poolShe wasn't even close to hip and hardly even coolShe got tired of following every single ruleThe popular kids all had their funBut now Violet's on the streets so you better run!ChorusViolet wants it her wayShe's fed up with the status quoViolet wants it her waySo the old way's got to goIf Violet wants it her wayThat's the way it has to beVerse Two!:Violet was smart, she took the hardest classesYou could have burned up ants with her thick glassesNow Violet's gone violent and she's kicking assesDefending the poor weak and huddled masses!The popular kids went out to playBut now Violet's on the streets and she wants it her wayChorusYou should always watch the quiet ones'Cause Violet wants it her way.
College boy blues.Hipster supremoCoffee shop nebbishUndeniably emowhy don't you see me.She doesn't love youwhy bother tryingYou're just a fradoa sheep in wolf's clothingYou love to complainin the right punctuationI'm going insanefrom this side of the phone lineWhat else am I butyour awkward stage hangoverTranscendental washoutthe cynic left to sufferSo write in your journal andbrag about crying andDeep inside, we'll both knowthat you're lyingJust to be existentialto defy your upbringingSo brag about cryingi'll brag about singing.
SqueakDear friends! my brothers and sisterstake arms against your sea of troubles.And embrace - let us all embraceOUR PRETENSIONS!All my friends are pencils and pens.And I feel crazy, living out thisElla Fitzgerald fantasy.Don't call - she'll just hang up.So sue me.There's a pig in the White House.And it's eating the Lincoln bedroom.And it's eating Times Square.And it's eating Malaysia.This is our weapon of mass destruction.My soul is an earthquake my face is the moonGive me seratonin so I can be happyGive me a nosejob so I can feel rightStick it to the man!If everyone craves normalcy no one will create.If common sense was common they'd all be bored blind.We'll all be sorry for the human race.I don't mind being misunderstood as long as you speak my languageIf you comprehended this poem then it would be worthlessThis is years and years and years and yearsof sweet repressed rage.Violence ain't the cure, it's the disease.Let us all be White Anglo Saxon weird