A Letter To You Mr. Fucking Editor - Poetry by Uncle Kenny

The mad rantings of Moisst's favorite Uncle.
Original poem by Uncle Kenny. Taken from Issue Two.

A LETTER TO YOU MR. FUCKING EDITOR

WHO IS THIS VULTURE ON MY BACK
PRESSING DEADLINES
LIKE MY LIFE DEPENDED ON IT
I SAY SHUT YOUR FUCKING HOLE
“IT’S ALL IN HERE!”
TAPPING MY FOREHEAD

OH YOU AGAIN
OFF MY BACK
YOU FUCKING FEIND
TAKE YOUR CD REVIEWS AND DIE
MY LIFE DOES NOT REVOLVE
AROUND YOUR GOD DAMNEDNEEDS!!!
BUGGER OFF
OR I’LL BITCH SLAP YOU
AND I’LL BITCH SLAP JACK SCHITT TOO.

The American Dream - Poetry by Uncle Kenny

The mad rantings of Moisst's favorite Uncle.
Original poem by Uncle Kenny. Taken from Issue Two.

THE AMERICAN DREAM

Is this what you asked for?
Working your ass off for someone else’s dream?
You have the “American Dream” in return and aren’t you lucky.
How does your ass feel?
Sitting on that couch, or maybe having that big black dog bite it.
Biting your ass!!!!!!!!!!!!! Is this what you dreamed of as a child?
Thought of as “cool” as an adolescent?
Maybe you should just accept God.
That will make your pathetic life acceptable, tolerable, and bearable.
Are you tired everyday?
Worn out like an old trail horse or a business man.
Shame on you, for lying to yourself for suppressing that voice inside.
That screamed for freedom, for adventure, for eternal youth.
Do what your expected and shut your fucking mouth.
You no longer posses strength or beauty.
Your average, dull, and obvious.

*If this poem doesn’t apply to you please disregard*

Strained - Poetry by Uncle Kenny

The mad rantings of Moisst's favorite Uncle.
Original poem by Uncle Kenny. Taken from Issue One 1992/93.

STRAINED

RESTING LIKE A GARGOYLE
SPECTRAL AND REFLECTIVE
GAZING OUT OVER EAST HARLEM
PAPER THIN AND TEETERING
IN THIS WIND
BROKEN STOOL IN LIMITED SPACE
THESE ARE THE WAKING HOURS
IN STRAINED PEACE
I HEAR THEM SCURRYING ACROSS
THEE ATTIC PLANKS
LOOKING LIKE JUNKIES IN RIOT GEAR
THEIR WAITING FOR THE WEIGHT
OF MY EYELIDS TO FALL
WITH THE DULL HUM OF PASSING YESTERDAY
I HEAR FOR ONLY A SECOND
A BLINK OF THE EYE, ONE
LAST BREATH, THEN
GONE WITHOUT A TRACE

Stumbling - Poetry by Uncle Kenny

The mad rantings of Moisst's favorite Uncle.
Original poem by Uncle Kenny. Taken from Issue One 1992/93.

STUMBLING

and i watched the wildebeest
pull himself from the desert floor
vultures dodging stumbling hoof
labored breath as his body is lifted up
by his frail thin legs
chewed whittled by impending death
his entrails sloth out
reaching for dry cracks
finally gathering strength
to embrace the roots of a dying tree
hyaena's laugh wildly, jumping on his ass
digging deep into his back
between tough hide and tender flesh
to find the vertebrae of a child
the beast contorts his body
into strange hieroglyphic symbols
to where his nose is touching
the bottom of his left hoof
a hyena falls of and ribs are crushed
spewing blood outward
painting a mosaic picture
of cherubs jacking off to Satan
with no organs lifting his body
the wildebeest falls exhausted
impaling his ribs
on rotting elephants sun bleached
tusks passersby notice nothing
as they are entranced
by all nude reviews here on 42nd street

Here In - Poetry by Uncle Kenny

The mad rantings of Moisst's favorite Uncle.
Original poem by Uncle Kenny. Taken from Issue One 1992/93.

HERE IN

HERE IN HELLS KITCHEN
THE WEATHER CHANGES
TO FIT AGONY
SIN FLOWS FROM IT'S GUTTERS
A JACKAL OF LEGS, LIGHTS AND BREAST
DEALERS PUSH JUNK , AND SMOKE CRACK
COPS DON'T GIVE A DAMN
GUN SHOTS PLAY SYMPHONY'S
THROUGH THE NIGHT
THE THEME SONG IN HELLS KITCHEN
IT'S STREETS PAVED
WITH A BILLION BROKEN DREAMS
ALLEY'S FILLED WITH STENCH AND SCREAMS
EVERY SOUL CRYING OUT FOR RELIEF
TRYING TO ESCAPE THE HEAT
THE LOCKS AND GATES MADE FROM VICES
THIS TORTURE BURNS WITH NO LIES
NO PROMISES OF ESCAPE
NO SALVATION ONLY SCAMS
AND JUST THE PASSING OF EACH DAY
HERE IN HELLS KITCHEN