Negatively Third Street

The brunette bottle brush

with the unrivaled poetic prowess

acerbically blisters his opponents

with the acid bath that is his prose,

even though the references are more

veiled than a virgin wearing a shame tent,

all while his meat grinder voice and the

pipe organ giving off silent movie stereotypes

employ attitude that is purely on the top

of the nickel-cadmium rechargeable capsule.

 

And yet, the obese force of nature is

devoid of musical talent, singing and

instrumental ability, and he won't make

the impact that this brunette bottle brush

from the state where the revisited road

originates and terminates on the north end

did and has done for the last half-century,

akin to how a bald ape with a banana peel

complexion compared to himself to the

heathen who patented direct current

transmission on a random episode

on the television program bearing

his surname sometime in the recent past.

 

But that's neither here or there or

anywhere else, because he starts

another day in the salt mines that

are populated by enrolled members

of a supposedly subjected race, and

he drives along a major street to get

to the place where he meets the other

disgruntled public servants that are

in his automotive pool, the one that

makes the drive south the number of

miles that are congruent to the year

the bottle brush released the song

that inspired this random pile of

brain droppings modulo one hundred.

 

And everyday, he drives on the

memorial pathway to the connecting

street that will take him to the place

that priests stereotypically molest

altar servers because parking is

essentially free for everybody,

and he drowns out the time waiting

by pretending to care about Biblical

brimstone being spat from the lips of

Jesus like a porn star snowballs her

way into hedonistic history.

 

And when the appointed time arrives,

he travels southward with them each day

and their collective sanity quotient drops

by an angstrom or two, an ever so slight

amount in the geologic reality that the

pale blue dot is, personifying, humanizing

the demoralizing maxim that is called

a little south of sanity.

 

The day grinds forth, another day closer

to the big finish, and eventually closes off

with another bullshitting, bitching session

about how the job sucks no matter which

way the personnel trade winds affect the

forty-two of it all.

 

And before they each return to their

subset spheres of influence in the

battleship capital, they each meander

along concrete waterways to where

their spheres of influence lie, and his

is along the one where the welfare

cases and poor white trash and

natives without drive call home,

and this isn’t fourth street and there

is nothing that gives it credence to

be compared to the top side of a

battery.

 

It’s negatively third street all the way.

Reviews

[Matthew Smith]

...Dude. This is scathing.

But damn it's good. Normally I would point out lines that I enjoyed in any given work, but there are simply too many here.

Good write.

[Tkess]

Bob Dylan is one of my favorite artists of all times and Positively 4th street is one on my favorite songs of his. If I can quote,

"When you know as well as me
You'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once and scream it"

This one screams from start to finish. Nice work.