Frank’s Depression Poetry
by Frank
illustration by R.D.
SESAME STREET MAYHEM
Haven’t you heard?
Sesame Street has become a ghetto.
Oscar the Grouch went on a shooting spree
bagging 14 youngsters
before a SWAT team blew up his trash can.
Ernie & Bert are homosexual lovers.
Recently, both of them died of AIDS.
If you thought Grover looked skinny on TV,
you should see him now,
strung out on speed.
Big Bird hasn’t been the same
since Desert Storm.
Cookie Monster has given up
chocolate chip cookies
for the salty taste of little girls.
John Denver made the mistake
of stepping foot on Sesame Street
during a Muppet riot.
Needless to say, John Denver
won’t be singing anymore.
He’s buried under Hooper’s Store.
The Count has been busy counting
sexually transmitted warts
on female orange snakes
that slept with the infamous
Kermit the Frog.
GETTING DOWN ON MYSELF, PART 1 (excerpts)
I’m lonely and miserable,
feeling guilty for admitting it.
Spent a night on a friend’s couch
talking my head off for hours.
In doing so, I forgot she was human
reassuring me she enjoys listening
rather than speaking.
Next morning, on her short walk to work,
my friend labeled me self-centered.
I haven’t seen my friend in weeks.
Self-centered is a label I’m getting used to discussing alone.
“What are you searching for in life, Frank?”, a girl wrote.
I’m too pathetic and shy to answer her reply.
If I were a real man, I would phone her
and explain I am searching for an experienced female
who would allow me to sodomize her with crayons,
one at a time,
then draw “Thank You” on her back.
A DEPRESSION WARNING
Never wonder out loud
whether or not an elderly woman
ever had a penis in her ass.
People will think you’re an alien.
ENOUGH EXCITEMENT
Don’t need no television screen
to scream in stereo, bleed in color,
die nude.
I understand very well
that society is ugly, cold.
Standing impatiently
beyond my locked door.
Holding a pizza,
Holding a Bible,
Holding a gun.
Bars on my apartment windows,
Sirens in the street,
Drunk neighbors fistfighting day and night,
are enough excitement.
Woman hangs herself in kitchen.
Husband comes home from work,
drinks a beer,
takes a shower,
and then calls the police.
No hurry . . . she’s dead.
LIGHT UP
Hangman’s noose
in Sunday Paper
wrap the picture around your imagination
and fall into a black out.
You don’t have to walk far to die,
alcoholism is digging a shallow grave
on your face.
How much did you pay your spirit to
leave you alone in darkness?
Feeling numb, apologizing to a
stuffed cat, torn in pieces,
under your feet.
Sounds like childhood, doesn’t it?
Remember the leather belt.
The religion.
The stepparents who threw you out at age fourteen
for not having the same blood.
Sleeping in cars, doorways, panhandling, shoplifting . . .
Sucking dick to afford dope.
Better to spit it out and light up
Then to remember your first lover who died in flames.
Would you explain why there’s a convict
filing iron bars inside your eyes?
Would you feel threatened if a dirty mirror
asked you for spare change?
Would you party with the Kennedys
if they promised not to rape you
after you pass out?
Sent flowers,
hoping to rent space
in her heart.
Last tenent
trashed the place.
DEPRESSION RECOMMENDATION
Tell your lover you need time alone
to masturbate.
Count the questions.
GETTING DOWN ON MYSELF, PART 2 (excerpts)
It’s becoming extremely difficult for me to shake another stranger’s hand.
I don’t want to lose another friend to marriage, drugs, jail, or death.
In 6 years
I’ve lost 27 friends around the country.
I was close to 4.
I either move away
or God becomes bored and murders my friends.
After mourning for 3 friends
I am completely convinced God had an abusive childhood
and is now a grown loner, crippled with rage
bent on destroying the human race.
It’s been a year and a half
since God blew apart my ex-girlfriend’s skull
with a shotgun in San Francisco.
I’m trying to keep Eve’s memory alive,
lighting candles, playing all her favorite Smith’s cassettes,
masterbating and crying.
It’s hard work.
If you think I should carry a video camera
around this violent country,
catching poison oak, hiding in bushes
to record Rodney King dressed as a cop, raping Clinton’s daughter
you’re nuttier than the cockroach in a glass jar under my bed.
The roach actually believes I’m gonna set it free.
FRANK’S DEPRESSION POETRY
Frank recently put together the largest compilation of his work to date. The booklet contains poems, short stories, journal entries, and drawings. To obtain a copy of this 80 page book, send $10 post paid to:
Frank’s Depression Poetry
c/o Frank B. Hobbs
P.O. Box 292
Boston, MA 02101
A RUNDOWN ON THE AUTHOR
Frank has been complaining with a pen for four years. Frank has spread his depression in San Francisco, Chicago, New York, Nevada, Maine, and Boston. Frank is currently living in a shoe box waiting for the damn world to end, already! These writing are dedicated to Eve, a cat named Jezebel, and Mr. Peppin.
