A Blender FaNtasticElectric: PostmOdern Pop Poems

by Jeremia Sterkel



  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