Skull Fuck My Ear Hole*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Okay, so this was going to be a poem, with broken lines and stanzas and everything.  What happened was, I was driving to work one morning last week, totally minding my own business, when out of the blue, the song Turn Up The Radio, by Autograph gets stuck in my head on repeat.

Now, I haven’t even thought of that song in decades.  I pretty much hated it when it was new, I was never much into the big hair shit in the first place, and I have ZERO attachments to my youth, as I’ve discussed several times before.

So I opened up the YouTube app on my phone, found it, and started listening to it, to exorcise The Demon.  And it’s everything that sucked about 80’s hair bands.  Shitty video game sound effects, non-lyrics like, “yeaaAAAHHHH,” and a boring-ass, “searing” guitar solo.  Just horrible.

And I’m listening to it and wondering where the hell it came from and that series of thoughts led to the realization that when we’re young, we really do take in almost everything and then fling it all out, scattering it across time, permeating our futures with temporal, psychic landmines, the effects of which are many and varied.

So I sat down to write this poem that isn’t a poem now, and the first thing that came into my head was the title above and I said to myself, “I think I’m done.  I think those four words say everything I have to say about this particular landmine.”  Maybe someday I’ll write a different poem about the psychic landmines thing, or maybe that thought stays here, in this half-assed post.  But as for this impossibly stupid particular incident, I’m ending with the title.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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