The Bacon Critters

Fill ‘er up you squeaking feeb
snot-nosed Baxter barked at the cardboard Bob
Mewling sphincter, butt-diddy-do-bop
Send your Bishop-splash piddles through breathing storms
Scallop-foot leaping to Patagonian hordes
Liver monger trace in my Paradise.

Poem About “Leprechaun Slim”

Bah Bah Bah bellbottom procreation tactics mom
double dee bone, it’s the music of zippers
that wiggle in time to the sound of cement
and the howling of rubber things.
This is what I hear when I am meeting Juan’s lovely rubber lawn
all humming lip-lash, a tonguing of bleeding evil.
This is the ceramic frog that is my life
sitting in the garden of Hell where the Devil picnics.

I’m On The Moon For Love

Dippity Dippity Doo!
Little Weedy frightened the berry-wad
into a likeness of the civil war.
Quatro! Noodleroni! Spengler!
the little Russian is in his foot!
Advocate the blind end of a backwards bat.
Station Wagon! Apertif!
Worms are god’s little wigglies, utterly buttressed
(something about swelling).

Rain is they master’s pitchfork
—bent and in a butt.
What is fishing anyway
but a spacesuit
made randomly
of satchels?

Columbus Discovered The New World

Columbus discover the new world and
he put him diaper on. Laxative comfort
in dark, forbidden jollies holding
hands with the jelly-filled donut
of apprehension. Latex gumbo rant
in a dirty ditch and a stairwell
choked with bathtubs hums with flies.
Pop, pop, plunk! The dirty angel exits
spinning wings in poop ballet. Oh!
Melon god! Oh! You glass of pee
disguised as lemonade,
rinky-dink certainty glade:
polish Tammy’s cork.

The Quilting Bee Went Haywire

If a scalp might tingle like a lotion jockey
roughly, pale like a lantern maw,
then how will foreigners learn to play hockey
or assemble the fuzzy proctologist’s jaw?

Cream corn in caves is quilted now
Honey like toothpaste brimming stew
is like electric ham somehow
or the coolant delicious hominy brew.

Come, my epileptic kneecaps, come
for all we can rummage, cantaloupe knob,
for though the pretty girl’s heinie leaks and runs
we sing petaled cornflakes to sneaker-face Bob

And sing, my martian pillows, sing the urine
Put on your make-up, this tightrope is turnin’

Bemoan The Boner

Felt me under the udder an adder dancing
Elton Parrish, the lonesome lady necromancing
began a weird hi-jinx, shenanigans of jawbones
art fags, tyrant hags, Land-O-Lakes a-prancing.
Like a lake of lolly-pops the old sawbones
peeled the flea-bag daintily from the wrong clones
Then, allergic to their home-spun grimace
craftily, like Pharaoh, left the claws alone.
Trap me in a projected completion date
Brave the Bantu’s miser plate
Then gulp me down a barnyard pope
Be the best at what you are, you dope.

Love Sonnet

Kneeling in the soft carcinogens of your cellophane vase,
I shall vacuum up your up your svelte chowder
As Pab’s mom sticks jelly to her mace
“I am Chinese, I am, I am,” says she, louder and louder.
Your dribbling nose paste nails my heart to thine.
“Well Doctor, it seems he’s choking to death on your own patella.”
“Apply salt lick to injured area and whine
‘I’m just a turd-bird with salmonella!'”
“Do not divorce my loaf, sell it to the birds.”
Sotto voce, sotto voce, adagio and pulsing dong
To whet my lyre and sing pepper ear wax turds.
sing: “Weepy weepy Love Jones, birdaloupe Bong Bong.”

“Only love is capable of grating you a happy life.”
Who ate all the blistex? Is that your paring knife?

Translating The Worm: Irony Apropos

By P. Queneau

Throughout the mystery of life and love there has been a single common denominator. A nocturnal one, to be sure, but a denominator nonetheless. One suggests that we think of Bob Folder as the point where the ideal relationship meets: a ritual bonfire of simultaneous message and meaning. All of our real or purported knowledge, whether of the natural world, of the standards of right conduct, of the criteria of beauty or of the existence and attributes of a divine creator, is expressed in Folder’s prepositions. He’s lost his head. Actually, he’s lost his poems. Left them in a bar, he did, and now they are melting into the rainforest of the andiron.#

Propositions, prepositions. Is there a correlation between general personality traits and preference in modes of writing? Aristotle may have thought poetry a preparation for death, but most poets have seemed intent upon putting it to death. This bit of jargon has the virtue of suggesting simultaneously things about carelessness and inattention alone. Folder, in his first publication, appeared to be on the trail of a metaphoric appoggiatura: the calm before the storm.# With his “Sonnet For a Landlocked Numeral” and the enduring “Bacon Critters,” Folder had stepped over the bounds of what Van Wyck Brooks called “The Wine of the Puritans” (London, 1908). But what, then, do Ruskin, Carlyle, Coleridge or Hegel mean to the composer of The Savage Butcher of Carnale? He cries “Give the rhyme crank a hearty foamy Calvinistic dot;” he implores us to “skate methodically.”# Yet the dog threw his work away.


Introduction to the Poetry of Bob Folder

By P. Queneau

The salvation of the poetic sensibility is in our state. With the discovery of Bob Folder we have, unleashed upon us, the semantic equivalent of the Gatling gun at the Battle of Syracuse.

One instantly recalls Professor Creasy’s third-favorite slaughter for its metaphoric pronunciation of the fundamental hypothesis that events of controversial importance are rarely earthquakes, wildfires, revolutions or Acts of God, but often of a more antebellerophontic nature, a synchronal choice: the drawing of water from a tainted well, the starboard toss of a boomerang, the carbon-chain reaction of yeast rising.
To wit: “Epimenides says that Cretans are liars. But he is a Cretan. Therefore he lies. Therefore Cretans are not liars. Therefore, he speaks the truth. Therefore, Cretans are liars. Therefore, he lies….” This distillation of skeptic sophistry is roundly transcended in Folder’s work. With the line “Fall like a leaf from the sea,” (Poemland,) Folder has effectively negated and substantiated all absolutes. He has brought to light the insufficiency of eschatology, torn down the Berlin Wall of moral disorder, given us the victorious and irresistible element of humor in expatience. The seemingly flippant titles, expectorant references, religious opprobrity; all belie a deeper organic methodology: not just the divergent tasting of, but an unconditional swallowing of DeQuincey’s “latent capacity of sympathy with the infinite.” Laugh and the world laughs with you.


Well, If This Isn’t A Monster in Snow Pants I Don’t Know What Is


By Bob Folder
WC: 1,316 (not counting sideways)

Quarters the size of snowflakes filed the hair of breasts and bears feted the assy hills with sizzling white beans. Nudity, Shakespeare said, mirrors the ass-end of a man and this bacon was no exception. For a mole, the hole of the town was as still and breathless as a winged hermaphrodite.

The Organ Shakers Fiesta has monkeys with large cargo capsules in the world. It smells like more than 350,000 seasonings. The station is surprisingly long lasting, plastering from late February to teachers. It employs 500 stiff and operates on a budgie for $22 million in 2006.

Lead for the last 14 years by an autistic Davenport, a “lily of apples,” the SOB has built a log cabin begun by Cornelius Anus Beauregard in 1849. It has gained a reputation for world class ass in Prstina.

Ass land is located 15 miles north of the California border. Stuffed deep in a slot between meat wobblers, a gown of 20,000 staples is a decades-long experiment with pain. There are just enough Elizabethans touching tarts to force a toe through a Stetson. Wild rivers, hysterically rushing lie with 20 pounds of tongue three ways from the main thoroughfare and solid state.