Home   :    About   :   Albums   :   Comics   :   Bands   :    Songs   :    Store   :    Community
  • TRACK OF THE WEEK

    Every MONDAY begin your week with a new original song on RADIO COBALT! 432 songs in the vault! Plus: ART!! POETRY!! COMICS!! ADVENTURE!!
  • Pink Lemonade by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Couch! by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Live Minnows by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Mister Juicy by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Uma Dune by the Flat Astronauts

  • White Chocolate by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Blue Stars

  • That One Slipped Away Like Mercury by the Flat Astronauts

  • FACEBOOK

    Join Radio Cobalt, The Tombstone Teeth or the Flat Astronauts on our FACEBOOK pages and interact with the Radio Cobalt staff directly!
  • The Latest

  • HUNG MING

  • Tags

  • Aeolian Harp by the Tombstone Teeth

  • Archaeologist by The Tombstone Teeth

  • Sandbag! by the El Maximo Quartet

ART: Cheerleader Rug
by CW Cobalt on July 21st, 2014


POEM: The Pig Poem
by cobaltblade on July 20th, 2014


THE PIG POEM

You, Pig,
this pole plunged through your anus is also in mine.
Allow me to introduce myself, Mr.Wavering, Watery, watching you here,
plastic party cup in hand, sock feet on fresh
cut, periodically sprinkled end-of-summer lawn grass,
in midst of mirth, keg, horseshoe and barbeque.

You, Pig,
like me, you wish you were putting on preposition one, the
systems analyst from beyond town, the chain smoking, volleyball playing,
blue false eyed vix, orange lapped chapped lips, blurred
super sauce sunrise nails. Immobile swine, you are suspended
on pole, arrested in the supreme zone of immobility, edging the landscape,
impaled sub-dominant form.

You, Pig,
once gnawed the trough as I lick this cheap plastic cup. We
are much the same, ‘cept the big fat apple
in my mouth is called language (or lack of language),
stuttering beer mouth, beer words, stale metaphors,
symbols and swill,

ah succulent swine,
let us view our next example, Proposition Two, the woman who bared and brought the
kewpie haired baby. The single mom, sienna thick woolly brittle toast haired, obscured
face in string, peekaboo in matte, semi-pocked face, denty, inset
cool ice blue eyes, pale blue x-mas light eyes, edge of suburban
Barnegat beacons, tossed fast face eye bulbs, flash landscape and she take a drag,
take a drag, and I could be painting her words right now. I speak, but —–>

Pig,
I am inert, busted, basted, broken and lame. Grass stains
crouch on my socks, contemplation enlisted non-memories
of a smelly glazed historical gore. Burn my tongue and blaze my brain,
I thought I recognized this address!! I mention it,

Pig,
as your skin flakes away in hot fried shingle shards, I want you to know,
my confidant, that this is the house, this is the bi-level house, where the freckle girl lived,
an old ex-lover of mine who co-incidentally is getting married today,
is getting hitched on this very day of barbeque and beer.

Proposition girls pound balls fruitlessly over the net.

Eight years ago, I passed without much argument.

The gum chewing freckle queen subsequent of suburban haze, who used to disrobe in
that window, drop shades, in that hazy window, in white dress, pale, pale
white dress, fluttering cloth like summer dust. Bronze she was and bronze she is and freckled, the color of cider sparkling in the sun.

Nothing more than dressing. Sprinkled with spice, barely fit to eat, crusty in fragments of
freckle nipple in a you-are-not-invited volleyball barrage. Yeah, yeah, and it’s not eight years ago, Pig, it’s the end of summer 1998, you’re not at a wedding, you’re at a barbeque,
and those coals are flaming hot, licking your swollen bulging fat guts.

Suburban sub-motorpsycho dreams will dismantle us, as I tip my dented cup on the tap.
Too much foam. Remember to remove your shoes so as not to scuff the new hardwood
floors. I’ll keep my stained socks on the lawn.

Dream freckle not taking me in mouth but I will take you, uncomfortable swine,
to gnash, to chew, to devour and digest.

Dear dismantled swine, the
stalker gets the girl, and we’re left with the scraps;
a warm glass of keg beer, and
and overstuffed mouthful of you, Pig,
pork.

POEM: Might
by CW Cobalt on June 9th, 2014


MIGHT

There is a might in bed
who wraps her fuzzy legs about my head.
She broods
as I snatch a victual or two,
her burnished eyes calculating the view.

I buzz back
and discern the sky.
Beneath blanket ligatures
my left arm is free, feet tangled in the lace;
I am oozing pudding on a hairy belly,
an opaque sheet over my face.

POEM: Smash Poem 06
by cobaltblade on June 8th, 2014


SMASH POEM 06

01)
Lightning blow, drawn extermination, modern boundaries
You need me to run things for you, purges and parties
Gather some wood and I’ll heat up a can o’ beans squinty
The speed of a hurricane sapped by news, wrecked families
Well oiled elaborate jumping submarine, the twentieth mighty queer.
HMPH always bothering me with trivialities master sassy boom town jokes.
Gather the slim figured fancypants thud the corner of eye pug fish espionage.
Sorry to have to hurt you. It’s cut off, sir. Go straight the smoke.

02)
Every night he works late, beaten terribly, this unusual
Office on the seventh speeding car, the jaws of death.
Picklenosed ingratitude. That fellow is trying awfully hard
To get himself hurt. His future happiness depends on it.
Your optic will blacken, stamp on face, a grand alibi being a consistent loser.

03)
Tough exam marks this afternoon, beverage re-examination movie
Boys dormitory storm wallet button chance
Time hoodlums play against torn story money
Game 30 stalling for three minutes, interrupted, surrounded
As the whistle blows value

04)
Grave tension to the frontiers of majesty
Offensive correspondent choked with gaping crater fortress on foot
Enemy time!! To Pose post, the gallant little defender gunner back broken
Try to blast them out with captain courage, fleeping party fire
DUCK!! Machine crack dawn streak terrain.
Whenever I will look upon this medal, I will remember king repulsion.

05)
Get your camera ready, oilgusher! Is sure is a BIG ONE!
Lend me one of your asbestos towers, make your way to the dredge
Engineer spectator foot fireman flash pictures
Discovery reflection range-finder, club automatic fist game,
Before the hard blow, the war’s over, rat sound-box

06)
You don’t have to sneak in, pop Rhinoceroses have radiator caps.
Whatcha doing with my WATER PISTOL?
Ask her if she has a girl friend! I just came to take off my underwear.
IT ITCHES!

07)
Majestically plows emerald moss morning pine speed
Seeing now one, library butler string, stone lippy.
SCRAM robot particulars, deadeye rifle changes
By means of the new telescopic eye, sniping upward
Amid a hail of birds, close his mouth for good, with
No time for bouquets, elms, groves, skeletons on the bottom
of the river egg. Come to rest on the murky bottom, ghost taxpayers.

08)
Let’s see who died today. This gal sure is a looker. I’ll
Make her my queen. I COMMAND IT! Palace Garden
Trouble maker toots, this is a personal affair. Give us a kiss
Fishface, the first time I saw your face on a postage stamp,
I knew I could lick you!! I guess I’m just a tough guy!

09)
Drive to 7 Westford Square, Quick!! He’s throwing a bomb.
A sample connection of intelligent helium gas in the new dirigible
Why is that bird watching me? Catwalk vial airship pleasure,
Condition to fly with her, SAY!!! When that fire reaches
The bags the whole ship will burn law parachute, out of law’s reach

10)
Over the hot desert sands, those scriptures we found will
Bring a fortune, and looking at our bank balance we need reason.
Take everything of value, wounded bedraggled, staggers
Crowded word or sign and we will make merry mercy.
We reached a decision. The court finds you guilty of sundown,
Of meaning, of pig police suspicion seconds, better late sorry me spoil.

11)
Ointment consultation tasted perfectly formidable.
3 minutes later Autogyro coming up the stairs now!!
Close shave injurious hypodermic sales chemicals
Free samples of slum queer clues. Let’s hear
The record…call an ambulance cyclotron. It’s magnetism
Has stopped your inaudible sound phonograph,
Repeating the last groove, a sound above the ear’s range,
An alarm clock, a piece of thread, a tincture Indian,
And the magnetic force of the mighty atom smasher frog.
The blue dye driven into it’s bloodstream by SOUND.
Broadcast these sounds and your troubles are all over.

12)
Red flame, terrific world-splitting brain projectile
On a cold stone moon, shuttled abandonment boast.
Utah public sentiment flared into rebellion fares,
Nemesis gases by some natural rugged terrain midnight,
As they cruised over the forested mountains, a light breeze
On a flat, dim lava rock, opening his mouth to outcry furnishings
Of a modern apartment house in the slits of hospitality.
A gleaming projectile, foul smelling masks, cushioned concussion,
Metal monster drowsiness. Foggily, polished granite courtyard scheme,
A world-wide syndicate with smart attorneys in cave craters.

13)
Is there some trouble at the fields sir? It seems a gang of
Helium superintendents notified ace undercover trucks on
The job we ought to wonder, commander. I’ll have to crack
This job lying in the road, at the gangster’s command barns.
Ha –ha, this is some set up. Uh- ulp!! There’s nobody in the
Drivers seat! There’s a light in the covered carrier pigeon.
Sounds like a trick. You’ll get your cut. Your game is up and
For your part in the affair you are going
to deserve the United States Government!

14)
I’ll solve a counterfeit case during my lunch hour.

15)
A world goes mad, the hatreds and jealousies of world
Weary president speeches, not one drop of American blood
Will stain delicate farm machinery. Ya wanta job buddy?
Grab those rifles and contact the Rio Queen Crack Clothes.
Prepare for attack, zooming into launch bluffing. Here is your
Shovel. Steam seeps into a powered filled survivor service.
Under draft, I want a shipping list of all departing brother smuggling.
That finishes YOU, Brother!

POEM: Archeologist
by cobaltblade on June 8th, 2014


ARCHEOLOGIST

Two,
and the tick tock of the whisk
strewing the rolled mounds,
swinging about shards of bisque.

Dead,
eyeless (Spiders will avoid
threads thrust through the dust)
sockets, clean. Bulbs bleached devoid,

white
skulls smooth as marble, concrete.
Night digs on. Alone
with these monuments, I sweep.

Club
in hand, this Neanderthal
chum crumbled base heads
as once I kissed the baseball.

Young,
before my bones got tired
(flung against clockwork),
before my gut, I fired

lines,
but now sink, old in my chair,
pine, bury cracked thumbs
in chips, lap beers, feet in air,

ball
games run on television,
fall games. Dimly, my
wife, archeologist, on

chairs
and tables, dusts gingerly,
caring not to taint
stale artifacts. Gravenly,

as
janitor, I wipe cold skulls,
as she polishes
baseball trophies, bony hulls.



  • All content, art, and text is copyright RadioCobalt.com 2010