A Blender Fantastic Electric
Name of Book: A Blender Fantastic Electic
Publication Date: Nov 19 2011
ISBN/EAN13: 1467999806 / 9781467999809
List Price: 10.00 (Paperback) 10.00 (E-Books)
Author Note: You are free to use this work for any reason, but attribute the work to the author
A Blender FantasticElectric: Post-Modern Pop Poems
by, Jeremia Sterkel
Preface
Prefaces suck, and I never read them (Um’Kay). I suppose, if you’re lucky three out of 3000 read it, and all three are your mom. Far be it for me to tell you that this is my first book, but of course, I will. I will let you know right now I was drunk the entire book, and remember penning none of it. My consistent habit of uppers and blow caused a sort of hodge-podge of thought and spaced out reasoning.
By the end, I was speaking over the phone to an elephant know as Big Mama, who said I should quit my day job to professional edited manuscripts for Mother Jones. Mother Jones took one look at the book stating quote “I deserve to be poor, and they hope my food stamps run out on a cold day in South Dakota”. Course, in all fairness they did validate my parking, and the receptionist was cute letting me know if I wasn’t a drunken slob she might consider fixing me up with her friend, who was (in her word) “not the prettiest, but had a great personality”.
Now folks, this is obviously some kind of code for her face looking like a frying pan at Goodwill, and I can only assume the body was one that was a fixer-upper like a home in the east side of Indianapolis. You know, a fixer-upper full of charming damages of mostly forget lawn maintenance and bullet holes. But, the bullet holes are really just really small sun holes (now, don’t forget to lock the doors). But, this book is really a book about our culture, and what we believe in, not if we have to lock our doors now or not.
It was a process of tapping my collective pop culture knowledge. We live in a now world. I see the popular poem books about pop culture as Justin Bieber Suck, The Fantastic World of Real Life (a meditation by Snookie), Honey Boo-boo’s Third Chin is Just a Love Biscuit, which to my thinking the Honey Boo-boo book is more about cannibalism than a book on pop culture.
The one thing all those pop culture poetry books say to me is read me now, and forget about me tomorrow. The intent of my writing is to not be forgotten tomorrow. I hope, in the sort of weird hope of lunacy, this book will strike a chord with those who read it. Remind you of a place, a time, or feeling. Hell, it’s about all poetry can do.
Poetry is fun to write, but impossible to sell. I never thought, in my wildest dreams, people will line up for the book nor make a book club about the book (Oprah thinking may not be for everyone), nor place me firmly in my mansion so I can fire guns at passersby the neighbors saying “he’s a poet, so just don’t walk past his place”.
Pop culture will continue to impact us for years to come. We are obsessed with knowing every detail of every life we think worthy of our attention. It is so awful celebrities live on one headline to the next. We destroy and uplift those who we choose.
The book states this plainly, we enjoy seeing and believing in people we have never met, nor never will. I wish I have the answer to why we enjoy this circus. I, myself, enjoy it on a small scale with moments of mild obsession, like watching every episode of a television show in a row, but I do not take it in a Warholian way.
Yet, some people are obsessed with the tabloids, watching athletes personal lives unfold on ESPN, or even following celebrities on the internet making that person every thought something to be treasured and pawed over on Twitter (we should have known something by the opening part of the name twit). We have destroyed so many would-be celebrities like John and Kate, yet more people just get in line to be famous the next day.
All our internal greatness comes from our own belief systems, whether it’s our families instilling value or ourselves. The popular culture surrounding us invites us to challenge what we see against our own thoughts. The challenge can be for good, sometimes to pass the time, and sometimes to horrid results.
As long as we continue to value money, sex, love, the American dream, fetishes, or the other plethora of fantasies the media will always make us pop culture fanatics. Because, deep in our hearts we all long to get noticed and be loved from other outside our immediate world.
The drive for fame beguiles some to take the ultimate risk by opening them up to the world of art. Inside this world are high energy and beauty, but full of the harshest criticism imaginable.
This book is for those people whose blood runs hot with passion of saying those things making life meaningful. They dream an impossible dream during their coffee breaks, folk’n out at a local bar, or in between changing diapers. Remember, when Big Mama calls don’t answer right away make her think you’re too damn busy. And, don’t mention my name. I still owe her two months’ rent.
Section 1:
The Scissors of Harpo Marx (humored pop)
Tricolor
simple colors are always the best
looking at Atari
pure and chaste colors
ruby reds, sun yellow
EleMENTary oculars
the visions are quarter
then fifty cents,
now I think it’s a dollar
Fuck progress
Give me tricolor CRYstal castles,
plucked starlit Pacman, Mystifying
Ms Pacman, exciting Centipede
Simple songs are always the best
Debbie Does Dallas
What is pornography?
Debbie, the blond (of course),
stood eager for pleasure
does this really exist?
could women do anything to save
their cheerleading squad?
I suppose not, but Freud's
dream of the ID blossomed true
with triple X rated acts of Kodak film
in the end we don't need story or actor's motivations
we only desire pleasure from voyeuristic
visions of perky Debbie desperately saving her
cheerleading squad
Debbie and dynamo of debauchery
the sinful sister of cinema
whose acts may seem whorish, but pleases
the person who drops the DVD in the player
drifting off into ecstasy
dreaming of ID's domination of the dominion of SUPEREGO
of BODY BLANKET
SOUL SLIGHT OF HAND
SPIRIT SYMMETRY
Cary Grant Drops Acid
Hello baby I’m feeling fine,
at the doctor’s office and they’ve
given me a room with a view
tapestry of pigments pulsate the
hallway musical notes from the radio
gorgeous baby gorgeous I’m like a priest in
Delphi only I have a flannel suit and I’m less
religious I wonder what Grace Kelly
would think of this? No doubt she
wouldn’t like it she’s too stuffy always
the uptight squeaky clean sort turn her
own mother in for cheating at bridge makes
me sick sometimes I’m being driven home now
it’s great to
have a chauffeur on this breezy California
day the buildings are shirking on me
gazing into my bathroom mirror, baby
I’m not looking as good as I used to
long ago I always had the pentacle of women
NoW I couldn’t even get Kathryn Hepburn’s
mother if I had a piece
of meat attached to my leg I dive head first
into the cool clear pool
purple sharks swimming around me biting me in
my flabby abs I look fine in my swimming trunks
at least some things don’t change, even
if the sharks wear grey suits and sing off key
channels on TV
I was 15
AMC
Planet of the Apes 3
first times are those greenglowing stickers
you wait undernight
hoping the stickers will shine like day
in auspice of dark
INnocent under the inFLuence
helicopters, suit jackets, twist endings,
with FIgURE heads Mr Youth, Apollo…
Rickety Ramsis’…
I forgot most of the story now
To RustedP oetry (old skins new wine)
sitting motionless looking look
gaze into empty space
Mr. Rust glibly replies had rather
masturbate than go to another poetry reading
water swirls half full glass
OxidizeRue the straight rusthaired poet
Simplicity is numbers
wrought in packages destined for nowhere
I say
I just like my masturbation poems he responds
sips of water he glances
around
I give my turn at the microphone on Poetry night
he too
he looks consistently frustrated
like the world passes him, and laps him
on a Nascar track he was forced to drive
but refuses to put his foot down on the accelerator
His tempest hair and clothes all
suggest he is more beyond his Thunderdome
YoU know the rotten sequel to Mad Max?
Orange light (SuperVixen’s Poster)
Russ Myers manfested bosom laden beauties
drive in movies
a calculator of lust 2nd power lazying lumps
the orange bubble letter poster proclaiming the feature
when I was 15 I spoke fluent flesh
a frantic frank language
not of love
persimmon colored blossoms or deeporderedheart
but purposefully pleasure
orange
Now
on my cell phone I have the poster
oldtimes newflesh fluent
in peachtree mornings lightcologne colored nights
citrus scented soap
placed between dappled breast to DElighT
Jimmy Stewart Survives a Zombie Attack
I, I drove my F1 down an old dirt road
the farmhouse was not far off
the sun was high on that windy spring day
kinda day it makes you happy to be liv'n
like a giant hole in your hearts been filled
with simple laughter and golden sunshine
I, I careened into one of those undead
by a Texaco, the last gas station for miles
he was dressed in all dirt brown uniform and
had an Ushanka hat and well I don’t need
to tell you what kind of life he led
I just like to point out that I’m
well, well, not your typical zombie slayer
right away I knew what to do
aim for the head those Frank Capra films
will tell you a lot about life well, well that’s
what I did but, I need ammunition for
my Browning Auto 5 Case so I walked
into the Texaco got myself a coffee an,
an O Henry bar and a couple of boxes
of twelve gauge shot and set out to save my
little farm community well, first
thing I did was go to the graveyard cause well I
expected to see them there like a moth at a
baseball field light during the double header and
took a couple of those darn brainsuckers down
after that I set fire to that graveyard and
put my, myself up in a tower to pick off those
undead one by one then feeling satisfied with
my progress under that azure sky of springtime I,
I, stopped off at the movie theater and caught
the picture Lady and the Tramp, such a sweet
little movie the mayor even gave me a key
to my little farm town for my service
I guess I ramble too much
but I’ll tell you there’s no better zombie
killing movie to watch than Lady and Tramp
have yourself some popcorn and plop down
in the theater chair when the theater goes
dark just imagine that you’ve got yourself a
M1950 pistol and lean smile and those undead
will all be quaking in their torn up boots
Star Wars Poems *does anyone care anymore?*
Princess Leia
the SEXUal dynamo
buns and all
smiled gazes of Freudianism
but, I prefer Carrie now
a disgruntled thespian
forsaking the comforts
of the slave bikini
asking to look at life from a Feminist
eye
a script doctor, not savior of the galaxy
but human
like the rest of us
Luke’s Prayer
Luke Skywalker stood 10 feet tall
in 1978
saving humankind and showing the gospel
Do we really need another story?
Yoda
Sweet Jesus Yoda did you ever think
it would go this far? Did
you ever think of the apocalypse?
The returned Christ? The dove
sweet marmaladeal tone sung
by men? of TOYS BOYS NOISE Yoda
did you ever think it would go this far?
Section 2:
The Dreams of GodNocturnal (auspice of dreampop)
John’s
John Wayne paused at a wooden door
breaking light through his hand-over-hand stance
the division of legend and early fifties sexuality
my grandparents still talk about him
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