Lazy as a Constipated Nuclear Meltdown

Smokin and strokin ham
the prophetic courageous scamcity can-can thrill,
deliver us deliberately.

Slay the quagmire dizzy banjo glitterati spankin ham
and veggie-slicer villain
with dalmation blackeyes caught at the Scaramanga
ringside of a dangerous dozen pompous pigs
eatin figs and twigs

and the chics and dudes on the creamshores of
hallelujah bear breakdown
jam jammin jam jammin
ham spammin it up
comin up
from the slumstyles and riverbed
dams of fetish.

I got a octopus friend in a octopus den

I am woman
with a Buttafucco-pie way
of gauging my triangular thighs
in a secular, circular world.

I'm a bloomin crabass,
many contagious dream ditties came
from a mortal wound infected with
my dipshit-hysteria.
And suddenly, brooke shields
pulled my lobotomy itchy finger.

She's a real dead ringer,
ms. susan bee anthony doll-baby with the scent
of the Irish anti-jerry springer.
Too bad she's not as adept
as an Irish setter,
well...that's the stevie wonder of things

I'll just thicken my bricks
enjoy my bowl of Trix
and wax a lightning rod when it's raining.


Lazy as the Twelve Steps of Terrorism

Ka-thump. The paper came late
this morning, tossed on my porch
like a useless idea.
They need to bring their own welcome mat
next time they swing by with the horny urge
to violate my private stepping-stones
cast like an underbite
at the mouth of my home.

I hardly know why the dog
comes near me when I make no effort
to speak to any creature as sober
as I am disgusted with the taste
of clean piss in my coffee.
It borders on lunacy with a language,
it hasn't sense enough to die
like a drunk in a trash-heap
when the bastard keeps evolving
into a smarter bastard with every
dog-eared page from the Big Book.

Eloquent tips on how to justify the voice of purpose
and the purpose for flat-chested taxes
are the meat and bread and crooked
dipstick bare bones between the letters
of my invisible-man complexion,
and I have no tastebud theories left.
My inner voice is hoarse
as a tinfoil sound effect on a dictaphone.
But I've managed to separate two acres
from the village idiot groundationless
farms and contraband brigades.
It continues to give me a reason
to laugh like a savage at my fortress
of barbed-wire fence and sandbags.

With my satchel bag packed
and an AA clamor looming from the hall
next-door like the last Howard Johnson
disappearing into an industrial park somewhere,
I can only wonder if they'll appreciate
the finer points I learned on taking hostages.


click on author's name to send email.
© Nick Csizmadia

Nick Csizmadia was born in Dearborn, Michigan, in 1966, the youngest of two brothers raised in Melvindale, a small suburb of Detroit. He attended Melvindale High with the literary genius, Uriah Hamilton, who sent poems to Allen Ginsberg and received personal praise from Ginsberg one evening from the Nuropa Institute in Colorado via telephone. This prophetic event sparked Csizmadia's interest in writing. He created his first story, "A Suicidal Mind", in 1980; his first poem, "The New Beginning", in 1981 and has steadily been spitting words ever since. He joined the Army in 1983 immediately after graduation and spent two years in Germany as a track vehicle mechanic, beginning the inner searching that would continue to haunt his poems, stories and essays. Csizmadia's first chapbook, "Six Years Today", appeared in 1987, but it was "Survival Has Its Reflexes", published one year later, that paved his departure from iambic meter and conventional rhyme where most of his earlier work was confined. He was the most notorious and best-known philosopher and tapdancer in his bedroom at home where other books followed his lead, among them "The Fisherman's Daughter" and "Seasonal Beast". Csizmadia considers them all to be time capsule fodder. "I am relieved in my own image," he wrote. "I am more that I could ever ask to borrow...unless the topless dancer sunbathing next-door comes over to borrow my hose. Then we'll see what can be arranged." Csizmadia has published work in anthologies and small-press mags and on the internet. He has received honorable mention from Iliad Press and was interviewed by the Lima News in November of 1999. His first novel is due to be finished when he stops daydreaming about Heather Graham and actually goes back to typing it. He says it will be a book about "...alcoholism and sexual addiction and taking God out for a lapdance at the Par-Three but picking up the tab this time."