by Rudyard Kipling

http://www.britannia.com/history/docs/kipling.html

He always wrote in purple ink and invented the game of ice golf.

Undefined

Through the confines of my mind

Course wispy trails of time

Blindly searching out mankind

Sorting out what's left behind

And what is left to win

Set out looking for someone refined

Someone who'd respond in kind

Someone whose values already been assigned

Someone who'd be disinclined

To offer up his soul

On my way I got in a bind

It was a fix, I was entwined

A problem with a solution I could not find

Sure it really was a grind

Looking for minutiae

But what I got was not aligned

And all I found was not resigned

All of a sudden I was unconfined

I could finally unwind

And offer up my soul

Undefined

While I eat, I think of you

Crazy wormeaters in rectangular coordinates eat by the crystalline dispensers of death. They douse the squirmers in pig’s blood—or that is how it appears—and stab with distustingly tinged quadblades of gray metal in order to deceitfully drop it dangling and undeserving into each undissenting mouth, dank and warm finally inside while the outside is yet a dark December. The inveterate invertebrate droops down slithering into esophageal wonder to dethrone the daemonic determinations of an unkind machinehead.

Amateurish Spanish Poetry

Yo te diré que soy fotógrafo, y dirás

Que has visto la obra mía: es el cuerpo del muerte en el primer página de la revista

Yo te diré que soy un padre, y dirás

Que has oído que yo tengo una cosa para los niños pequeños

Yo te diré que soy un químico, y dirás

Que has tomado la droga nueva—es el mejor para la cita-violación.

Yo te diré que soy un abogado, y dirás

Que has leído sobre el criminal que yo he defendido con la defensa de Twinkie.

Yo te diré que soy un médico, y dirás

Que has mirado mientras yo no pude salvar su hermano.

Yo te diré que soy poeta, y dirás

Que realmente yo no contribuyo a la sociedad. 

Hypocrisy

A plane is a place held up by God’s feathery grasp

A plane is a place where no one talks to you for six hours

A plane is progress

A plane trip is getting progressively worse

A plane is made of plastic and wires and cold steel

But what makes it go is hot invisible air

And at the airport they sell Men’s Health across from the Bojangles.

How long, babe?

How long, babe?

Til the end of time?

Did you think it’d be all that sublime?

I’m not going to go on keeping up this mime.

I’ve got to get me some shine, Lord,

I’ve got to get some shine.

How many, hey?

A baker or a butcher’s dozen more?

Acting like a bit of a whore,

By now you got to be sore.

Sore of paths so known, Lord,

Sore of paths so known.

What’ll it take to move you out?

What’ll it take to move you?

More than the rape and murder of Mary Sue?

More than me, your dead boy scout?

I’ll be goin’ south, Lord,

I’ll be goin’ south.

You’d best move it up north, Bess

Where the winters are cold

Like your friend King Leopold

Where the nights are long, Bess

Where the nights are long.

Address Upon Eagledom, Sardonic

It is strange to me that, after all these years, I might be the one behind the podium instead of the one sitting patiently in the audience waiting for this shit to be over so that I can eat some cookies. Since you now know my sentiments, and know that I might understand yours, you will know that I intend to keep this address as brief as possible while avoiding the possibility of disrespect to the establishment—the Boy Scouts of America—which has given me the opportunity to be here today.

There were, at last count, 18, I think, youth that joined Troop ### in the same year that I did. I among them stood alone in lacking the coveted Arrow of Light, and the nakedness of that particular portion of my uniform perhaps can explain my earnestness to fill up the rest of the shirt as much as possible. At first, then, you might understand that I still saw the Boy Scouts as an achievement-driven organization. When any one of you thinks of a Boy Scout, you think of these confounded uniforms, adorned with badges and bling commemorating this or that minor accomplishment, in reality achieved with less effort than we might have you believe. So you might now see that, even if my sash suggests otherwise, I do not believe it is not all about the badges.

What I am trying to say, you see, is that there is no badge to signify that a Scout has the respect of his peers, or the trust of his friends, or the compassion to help a stranger. Scouting’s foundation lies in abstract morals—duty, honor, and morality—and the attempt to concretize such virtues is ultimately futile. Our strength comes from our fluidity, our ability to adapt the universal virtues that characterize the Eagle to the individual cases of each Troop and each Scout. I cannot help but think this; I have seen my troop fragmented and unified, small and large, in blank and—yes—in blank, but it has been my troop throughout all these permutations. I would like to take this opportunity to thank those individuals who made my experience possible: my first Scoutmaster, Mr. Blank; my guide at my first Blank, Blank; Mr. Blankety-blank, who lent me a backpack; Mr. Blink, who never was unable to help; my second and third Scoutmasters, Mr. Blunk and Mr. Blonk, whose combined efforts guided my way on this path; Mr. Blank-Blank, who introduced me into the inner workings of the Order of the Arrow, and the estimable Mr. Blynk and the kind Mrs. Blounk, who tirelessly worked on behalf of the Apanuc during my time as Apanuc Chief; Mr. Blaink, always willing to pitch in for a laugh; the numerous other adults who have always worked selflessly for the Troop; my  fearless Senior Patrol Leaders; my mother and my father, and my brother, who was gracious enough to wait until I was gone to put into motion his own coup d’etat. Most of all I thank my fellow Scouts for everything they have contributed to my experience, whether that has been pointing a loaded shotgun at someone, throwing an axe at someone, pretending to be a bear, lighting Blank on fire, breaking a window at the Clubhouse, getting altitude sickness, making me carry your shit, tenting Blank, or even tenting me: thank you, and thank you. Eat some damn cookies.