Heavy Little People

The haps and mishaps of a group of badly drawn little folks who all vaguely resemble monkey nuts for some reason

The Emotions

Emotional maturity of a child?
Well, yeah, if loving pets
and hiding in bed
And being scared of entering
A 14 year old office everyday
Has anything to say
About that
Jolting like a cat to
Footsteps on the outside doormat
Cringing to a ringing
Of the door or phone (not usually smart)
Breaking scared of family
No assuming responsibly
Doesn’t spell maturity
Something wrong with me
Probably self indulgence
Must rhyme smart with…?
Self indulgent liturgy.
Oopsie…. f***

The Fuck

Who fucked it?
My generation?
Your generation?
The Who’s generation?
The ones who want salvation?
Who cares, really, who?
Michael Jackson & McDonald’s
And your goddam stupid wedding
Fucked it.
Every soul who didn’t stroll,
Got in a car or a plane instead of a train
The barrista fucked it too,
Serving you.
Me and my booze fucked it.
Existentialist fucking analysts fucked it.
Fuck it.
I’m writing fuckalot.
Fuck that too.
No, really, we love superglue.
It binds shit together,
Just like it was new.
And sitcoms and sometimes
A trip to the zoo;
And movies and art,
That sometimes get through
To the part that thinks FUCK
And says “Hey, fuck you too.”

The Words

Where are the words?
Not the assonanse, alliteration,
Rhyme or repetition.
The fine words.
I mean the words to say out loud to you,
Words that might be true.
Though, they’re just opinion.
I feel dumb.
Not allowed… by me.
Not able, face to face, to articulate.
An idiot.
Stupid and scared.
Where the fuck are those fucking words?

No D

No dentists or doctors,
For a pretty big block of our evolution.
Were they any less happy
Through crappy teeth smiles?
Lesser lifetimes?
Not as much leisure, to be sure.
Maybe an unantibiotic doom & gloom.
It’s probably relative, ideas of an extension of
A bit of time. Better? Bitter?
What if you decide to
Just avoid the exhorbitant price?
What if you’d prefer to chicken out,
Get sick (however)
And die? Or not die…
Without their advice?

The Shit

Most that you write
It’s gonna be shit.
There’s a start & an end
& a SHITE! middle bit…
Most that you write
It’s gonna be shit.
But, that doesn’t mean
There won’t be a bit
Out of what you might write
That might just be THE SHIT!


You ran from a prostitute in amsterdam,
Back then.
And the idea of kids still scares you too.
Electric cigarette. Wham bam.
Getting older
And a bit aloner
Long time man?
Boy girl middle age breakup.
No mortgage, not normal.
Day job fakeup.
Scares of not having
The things that normals bring
To the table of that
Boy, man, middle age wakeup.