thismonkeysgonetoheaven (THIS BLOG IS DEAD)

Thats right folks.

whohadfood.worpress.com is over.

I will be replacing the above image

with an appropriate omage soon.

dont act surprised.

good things only last

so long.   besides,

this blog has  been dead

for three years.

also

I am currently

migrating all of the posts to:

darrenangle.com

darrenangle.com

darrenangle.com

which is

my latest exploration in narcissism and getting a job someday in the future. it will evolve as my needs do. It will feature a CV once I have one. For now: it is a wordpress blog, so it should show up in your googler readers and your wordpress readers just fine.

If you have linked to this blog, might I kindly ask that you instead link to the abuv site.

I have emblazoned your lovely names and numbers HERE.

holler <3

I Found My Parents

My ‘mother’ accidentally dropped a large manila folder labeled SECRETS that she peruses every morning over a bowl of total and a banana. The sun blazed. We sat across the room from each other with the folder halfway between us making no sense but scaring us harder than a fevered baby with a gun. My  ” mother “  accidentally dispelled her previous assuagements that the reason I felt strange in the world was because I was touching a TV screen in South Carolina when it was hit by lighting and I am actually the Powder of Poetry. My ‘” mother ‘” accidentally dropped a large manila folder labeled SECRETS and as she lept to correct her mistake the whole folder fell onto the family overhead projector and my ” ” mother ” ” was revealed to not be my ” ” ‘ mother ‘ ” ” at all. This is what I saw:

ELABORATE EQUATION DE #438290’s ORIGIN

+ PLUS +

= EQUALS =

Things began to make sense. Because for some reason, perhaps that I am caught between two worlds, perhaps that I wake up and think get money and I also wake up and think slice yourface open on a canvas,  I knew I could keep it gangster with a boa.

New Poetricks & Muzicks pagination.

got no time no money thats why get ‘em up put ‘em up get your dukes up now

I was all like fuck I got no time to be sad I gotta blow up so my kids can go to brown because I payed for it not because they have one drop so I punched the sunset right in the meat. I was like I’m gonna smoke in the rain like a real poet should but only because I’m addicted and not because I’m cool. All along the rib pain ants are snorting cheetos. Speaking of which, this is a food post. Earlier when I punched the sunset right in the feet he said here’s some money go eat.

So I did. After not waking up to infomercials on a couch that wasn’t mine I met a man in the street named Finger and he cooked me this:

Its called My Body in the Sauce. I told finger to hold the body part because I’m trying to be vegan. He said in that case you should snort some ants first because they will find his body like they always do and eat it before I can. His body is the best part according to ants. I thought to myself “People with big noses don’t appear to smell any harder or longer than people with no noses.” Finger and I contemplated the possibility of having no nose. It made me think of Michael Jackson. Finger punched me in my sunset and said Oh I make a truly fine meal called The MJ and this is it:

It became clear that Finger is a man of consistently fine tastes. I asked if I was looking at two MJ’s stacked and he said nope, there is a surprise between the pies. I asked if it was the same surprise in My Body in the Sauce. Of course, he said. Consistency makes the heart grow molars. Molars are not good for the heart so I abandoned Finger like his father did. Despite having eaten a My Body in the Sauce and the MJ, my stomach looked like two hair follicles fighting over a drop of water.  I met a squirrel named Pongdollar while sprinting away from Finger who had recently threatened to show me why he was named that. Pongdollar the Squirrel said hold on to my tiny paw because I’m a glider and I will take you to my home of dreams fulfilled and poems that write themselves. This sounded too good to be true so I whipped him hard against the literary arts building and covered him in sauce. It is called The Pongdollar:

As I neared the completion of my meal, Pongdollar let out a long-winded scream. Something about how he has daddy issues and that his son must have the same fate as he. I was to find his son gliding from potential into a revolving door. This was on a street near Pongdollar’s final resting place. Pongnickel was a less tastier and less physically attractiver specimen, but he would ultimately create better art and a better life than his predecessor.  This is the Pongnickel:

I was concerned with the way one tree was clearly trying to become a fan favorite. I was concerned with the way beanpods just fell like they owned the place. I was concerned with the letter U showing up in words like armour, colour, and paramour. I met a guy named Ringtone who had just got out of prison. He had been a champion cup stacker for nine years until they made him leave because he refused to stop saying ‘Aflac’ like a duck. He said I’ve always wanted to feel the feeling of a duck putting its lips between my lips and quacking. Ringtone likes the anxiety in the fact that the duck might bite you, or the duck may merely quack. We contemplated the possibility of turning this moment into a spray. Ringtone said he once created a sprayable meal called The Greyhound Left me in Connecticut The Worst State. He had one spray left, which he gave to me in exchange for a bean. This is The Greyhound Left Me in Connecticut The Worst State:

Ringtone planted the bean next to the prison and when the money tree grew tall enough to reach up and over the prison walls, Ringtone’s friends bought tickets to the Connecticut Cup Cusping Crunch Claw Area of Stacking Championchips. Ringtone lost and I got bored with him and his sprayable lifestyle. They say it is not what you can do sometimes but who you know. I know a woman named Elkwinner and she stomps out other peoples fires for a living. She did not make me any food because she said including a woman on a diet in a satirical piece about poor diets is poetentially offensive. Elkwinner only eats ash and flames. I asked if I could know what its like but I didn’t know how to eat them without burning myself. I told her once I got ash in my eye when I was smoking a cigarette with a squirrel named Pongquarter and she said you’re experiences though relevant are not the same. I told her what if I cooked for her and she said Elkwinner will put out the fire for a fee. This is  Getting Burned by Elkwinner In the Winter:

I want you to believe that there are things worth believing in. I want you to wake up tomorrow and say mom/dad that thing you did that you didn’t know you did really altered my perception of the world permanently. I robbed the moon for its moon shoes and when I tried to leap to the top of a money tree I decided that the view of everything was worth more than money can buy and placed the view of everything higher than moon shoes can fly.  I eat at the Pocket over 5 times a week. They give me baklava because I am brown and tip well. It pleases me to tell others: I am in The Pocket. There is a Modest Mouse song that will help you understand why people say I used to like them but now I don’t.

 

Sans Happy Sans Witty Wrong Things

I puked. I ate combos and my tooth fell to pieces. I thought the wrong things. Mark said write down the wrong things.

I made a big huge mess after a big huge night. I got into a fight. I ate combos and my tooth fell to pieces. Spicy tortillas. I miss my god damned friends. I listened to a song that includes the lyrics fuck me up and it made me full. I need a dentist and a therapist. I am sad I have to sell my car for parts. whos who vivid in the moonlight

I wrote an epigram that I didn’t share in class:

do point me to the leader of this town
I fear a mere brainstorm could knock it down

Waking The Tiger Is Not the New Biggie Smalls

waking the tiger is a non-fiction self-help book in which readers are instructed to confront in themselves the sleeping tigers of their unexplored traumas of yesteryear. this is opposed to the normal treatment of such tigers: ‘not only are you not sleeping but i can’t even talk to you because i’m not aware you exist, traumatiger’. waking the tiger says that even if your only trauma is that your mom made you clean up the years worth of boogers you mashed into the side of the couch, if you ignore the emotional impact / dissociative quality of such a trauma you cannot control the tigers waking. the tiger will wake up and claw your minds eye during a mostly innocuous moment and you will think: oh I must be crazy for getting so upset that someone put a booger in this library book I checked out. you will not make the connection. you will be stressed when people sneeze. Someones picking their nose in a seth rogan movie and you are freaking out because the tiger inside is saying: hey brosef, I’m awake and not on your terms, kiss your eyes goodbye. I’m betting the author of the book would say, hey biggie smalls, I like how you woke up your tigers, fed them haters, got them dressed at barneys and brought them to work so they could spit on your tracks. I especially enjoy gimme the loot. biggie smalls would say, motherfuckin right. my pockets [were] lookin’ kinda tight.

iokanaan was a dreadlock rasta