Rock’n’roll Beer

Today in a dream I drank rock’n’roll beer,

The bottle itself lets out a loud cheer,

When you touch it with intention to drink,

Even better if your skin has some ink.

When you de-cap the bottle, then it starts,

The kind of rhythm that jump starts hearts.

You just lay the bottle down on the table,

Looking at the band performing on the label,

While you listen, the beer flows up,

You don’t need a glass or an icy chill-cup,

Just open your mouth and wait for a while,

The beer floats up towards your very own smile.

Drank one bottle? That’s no problem,

A brand new one brought by the beer goblin,

Will stand there after only one measure,

Holding your bottle like a precioooous treasure.

Open the cap and hear a new song,

Tapping your foot to the bang of the gong.

Do I know how it works? By no means.

Something about small nanomachines.

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Breadography

Breakfast time, breakfast time,

Time to make my blood sugar climb.

Ham and cheese on my oat bread,

After some butter I’ve smoothly spread.

I take a bite and leave a mouth’s mark,

It looks like legs and I get a spark.

Stand the bread up and make it take steps,

Dancing on an empty bottle of Schweppes.

The ham and cheese fall off like a dress,

The bread screams shrilly with near-death stress.

Howling it runs back into its bag,

Without its dairy cover, its meaty rag.

The clothes of food fell off of my bread,

Its ensuing scream of scare left me dead.

I didn’t know that bread needed clothing,

And I bet what it feels towards me is loathing.

I didn’t know that my bread was alive,

I can’t eat it, it has to survive,

Tell its cool story to everyone around,

Write a breadography, “Not burned, just browned.”

Skin cream spy

We have a mission for you to blow off steam,

We need You to infiltrate skin cream.

You need to be the skin cream in and out,

Act like the skin cream, leave no doubt,

Gain the skin cream’s trust, get chummy,

Blend with the skin cream, be a skin cream dummy.

Then comes skin cream mission phase two:

Stealing skin cream secrets like a sneaky gnu.

Skin cream mysteries on how to stay soft,

Skin cream enigmas on their savory waft.

Bring back skin cream codes home to show,

Do this and watch your reputation start to glow.

Understood everything I said greenhorn?

Orders from up top, top secret, I warn.

Major Dermatitis gave us this mission.

Go now. Follow orders and not intuition.

Portable tub

I heard someone sell a portable tub.

Featuring a dorable polar bear cub.

I got excited in this hot summer,

Sweating all the time is a real, real bummer.

I could carry this tub to the park,

Just sit there and bathe like a lark.

I could take it to heart attack grill,

Order my dose and then just chill.

Reading books would be less draining,

Librarized tub: no complaining.

With heavy breathing, I called the place,

Made agreeing noises with my face.

Some weeks later, I got the package,

And, in the middle of the cardboard wreckage,

I saw a bucket with a small white scribble.

I used it to store my moment’s fury-dribble.

They didn’t cheat me, it’s technically correct,

I got excited and I forgot to check.

Cell-fie

I woke up to a sound in my bathroom,

A faint “Scrape scrape, swoosh swoosh boom”

Shaking the dinosaurs out of my head,

I stumbled towards the hall with the grace of the dead.

Opened the door and took a look inside,

I saw my cellphone, it didn’t hide.

It was standing or sitting, whatever’s the verb,

In front of the mirror, on the sink curb.

I asked it why, in the middle of the night,

Was it here, in the bright light?

“I am trying to find love that agrees with me,

I’m, for Phonder, taking a cell-fie.”

Oh well, I said, try to be quiet,

I’m going back to dive all the way to Guyot.

Yawing the yawn of a Jotun or Titan,

I hear a “Ch ch” sound, as the lenses tighten.

Hanzi practice

Languages can be fun in surprising ways.

Chinese characters made by my pen,

Maybe I’ll remember if written times ten.

Stroke to the left, I hear a scratch,

Scritch to the right, doesn’t quite match.

Up and down make different sounds,

If I close my eyes, my ears are the bounds.

Writing a sentence makes a melody,

Another, shorter one, sounds like a fruity bee.

As I drill the words many times into my brain,

The singing of my pen means I won’t strain.

Filling out a paper, graphite on the sheet,

Map of my learning, or a field of word-wheat.

Imprints on the paper, left by my hand,

Atlas of the new information I now command.

The paper now heavier, I put away,

With all the others I’ve made in my day.

Portable cooler

I went to Shanghai to do some work,

Not knowing the summer had gone berserk.

I sweated bullets and shells and bombs,

They came pouring from armpits and palms.

I needed a portable cooling device,

A thing to cool me cooler than gneiss.

Fans don’t work, they need the juice,

A/Cs neither if you’re no Zeus.

I asked a friend if she could offer advice,

Her words were, as always, quite concise:

“Take my friend Felicity, she’s always cold,

She has that from her grandmother, 100 years old.

If you keep her by your side:

Weather Scandinavian, chill, not fried.

Cool and dry like it really ought to be,

Sweat pores’ day off and cooler for thee.”

I called Fel, as she’s known by friends,

Asked her on a trip for a quick brain cleanse.

Now she’s by my side, left or right,

Cooling me down, healing my plight.

Cold toed friends are helpful in heat,

Hot bodied ones when it’s bucketing sleet.

I guess what I’m saying is, each has his place,

Whether or not your blood likes to race.