Poetry & Songs, by Charles Carreon

Identified as a trouble maker by the authorities since childhood, and resolved to live up to the description, Charles Carreon soon discovered that mischief is most effectively fomented through speech. Having mastered the art of flinging verbal pipe-bombs and molotov cocktails at an early age, he refined his skills by writing legal briefs and journalistic exposes, while developing a poetic style that meandered from the lyrical to the political. Journey with him into the dark caves of the human experience, illuminated by the torch of an outraged sense of injustice.


Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:33 am

Diggers, by Charles Carreon

Psychedelic ways are out of style
I'm a relic of former days,
Maudlin nostalgia-monger of
curious ways.
Flower children, hippies,
Alice in Wonderland--we're all out
of style with Peter Pan
Nobody ever visits Neverland.
You and I, we remember
When hearts were mild and faces
And the city haze was left behind
Looking for naked woodlands
and clean water.
So what if it never panned out;
if the dreams glimmered and faded?
We looked and dreamed
and held and knew our dreams
before we traded them for food and
This phase of life that's helter
Having learned to dream,
you never forget how
to seek a path with heart.
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:34 am

Disarm Cheney Before He Shoots Someone Else, by Charles Carreon

Dick is such a prick
It serves him right
That we should flick
Him copious shit
For shooting Harry Whittington
Right in his fucking face
And then taking no blame
Eschewing all shame
To proclaim
That the fellow
Sneaked up behind him
Was where he shouldn't be
And caught himself a blast
Of shot in the piehole
On account of his own
Stupid self
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:34 am

Doin' God's Work, by Charles Carreon


It’s a 24-hour trading day
Stack it up high
And haul it all away
I got a money machine
And it works just fine
It grabs everybody’s money
And turns it into mine.

Cause we’re doing God’s work
We're doin’ God’s work
We're doin’ God’s work
That’s what the Goldman said

Now Congress is my boy
I keep him by my side
They listen when I talk
And when I yell, they hide
I said I’m feelin’ woozy
They said, “What can we do?”
“Gimme $700 Billion and
I think we'll pull through”

Cause we’re doing God’s work
Doin’ God’s work
Doin’ God’s work
That’s what the Goldman said

Some people say that money’s like a clock
Runs slow when you work
And fast when you shop
Then I’m the watchmaker
And they run like I say
I’ll turn Sunday into Monday
And midnite into day

Cause we’re doing God’s work
We're doin’ God’s work
We're doin’ God’s work
That’s what the Goldman said

When I lay odds it’s not really a bet
Tails is what you lose
And heads is what I get
But ya can’t write words
Without the alphabet
And if you’re runnin’ short of money
I can give you debt

Because we’re doing God’s work
Doin’ God’s work
Doin’ God’s work
That’s what the Goldman said
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:36 am

Don't Kill Nobody, by Charles Carreon


Might it be possibly
Worth a try to govern
Ourselves peaceably, following
At least the 6th
Commandment my friends?
Just resolve not to kill anybody
Plan ahead so when someone
Says to kill someone else
You ask why they don’t do the
Same to themselves and rid
The earth of their wasted girth.
Just resolve you won’t
Kill nobody’s brother, sister,
Father or mother, write it down
Just like I did, teach it
To your little kid,
Don’t kill nobody!
Don’t make it complicated
It’s totally underrated
Peace is an option if you
Have a plan. You can trust
The next guy as far as he
Trusts you, and it’s always
Great when no one pulls a gun.
Violence is bullshit, so chicks
Don’t fuck a guy who
Thinks it’s cool to kill
Somebody’s kid. Why reproduce
That killer seed? Find a
Nice guy and do the deed,
It’s nice to know he
Didn’t kill nobody!
Don’t kill nobody!
Don’t kill nobody!
You never know
When someone might kill you!
You wouldn’t have too
Much to say, having just
Been blown away,
But if you could I bet
You’d say,
Don’t kill nobody!
Don’t kill nobody!
Don’t kill nobody!
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:37 am

Don't Let It Get You Down, by Charles Carreon


In a world full of woe and trouble
There’s just no place to stand.
We worship at the House of Mammon
All over this Promised Land

We walk our dogs and wash our cars
Sip latte from a cup
Read about the people our bombs are killin’
We just can’t give it up.

There’s gotta be a way
To a better day
But I just ain’t found it yet
Put a message in a bottle but it ain’t come back, so
Don’t let it get you down, no
Don’t let it get you down.

Yeah in the world that our fathers wounded
We’re standin’ with empty hands
We took all the good times for ourselves
And made other people’s plans

We sooted up the skies with our lies
Plugged the rivers with our wasted dreams
Killed women, children, men like flies,
Cause they stood in the way of our schemes

Yeah they’re flying the flag of the USA
All over this bloody ground
But cheap gasoline is on the way
So don’t let it get you down, boy
Don’t let it get you down.

Yeah everybody’s got a piece of the plot
You can cash it on demand
Our money’s plastic, that’s fantastic,
Spend all that you can!

While huddled masses yearn to breathe
We tighten up the coil
Extract the wealth, abuse their health
Some blood must flow with oil

Yeah they’re cursing the name
Of the USA all over this tortured earth
But it’s still a place of sacred birth,
So don’t let it get you down, no,
Don’t let it get you down.

So saddle up now, time to roll
Into the desert sands
That Wolfowitz sure had some balls,
And Rumsfeld is the man,

The Chief’s the best that could be found
Amid piles of skull and bones
And Condi’s here, so please wait, dear
While Karl gets the phones

If these clowns aren’t yours
Then whose are they, and who
Said they could stay?
Votes don’t mean nothin’, but a gun’s still somethin’
So don’t let it get you down, no
Don’t let it get you down.
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:39 am

Don't Mess With My Mom, by Charles Carreon


(Dedicated to Matthew Inman of the Oatmeal)

I'm the pterodactyl killa'
From the City of Tucson
Ya' mess with me baby,
Come and get it on.
There's never been a fight that I backed away from,
So next time remember,
Don't mess with my Mom.

You make fun of my name,
The noble Carreon,
We came here with Cortez,
And our legacy lives on.
The battles that we fight
Are the ones that must be fought.
When the smoke clears, Matt,
Your army will be gone.
Next time remember,
Don't mess with my Mom.

Your allies are the fools
Who cut and paste all day.
They think they're important,
But their anger is impotent.
They say nasty things,
But they don't get paid.
Their ignorance is deep,
So ya' get 'em on the cheap.

Your humor's scatological,
Your mind is pathological.
Did someone drop you on your head,
When you were in your baby-bed?
Did they take away your rattle,
And teach you how to tattle?

Whatever the reason,
You have committed treason
Against decency and sanity,
You're offensive to humanity.

But never fear --
I'm here to liberate you.
There's no chinks in my armor,
So I don't have to hate you.
I raise up the sword
That vanquishes disorder
I place you without passion
In the matter transporter.

You see, winged reptiles
aren't needed here.
What we need is thoughtful people
Who are decent and sincere.

So get behind me, Satan!
You're just a bit of roadkill,
Like the thief of Sex.Com,
Just another fool,
Who thought he was the bomb.
Next time, Mr. Inman,
Don't talk about my Mom.


Andrew: How do you respond to someone who says, “This is the worst comic I ever saw in my life"?


Matt: When I used to work for people I had this sense of diplomacy. I had to respond like, “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I appreciate your criticism,” and blah, blah, blah. Now I work for myself and really no one can control what I say. So usually I tell them that I slept with their mom or I say the most vile, awful thing I can think of. If you read my Twitter account, it is like Hitler’s port-a-potty. It’s the worst thing that you’ve ever seen, just this awful stuff that I say to my critics on there. Just to troll them, mostly. So that’s usually how I respond to it. Like a drunk 15 year old, I think, is the best way to put it....

Andrew: What about in the beginning when you were going into Digg and you knew that if you won this group of people over, they’d send you massive traffic and if you turned them into haters, they’d bury you and you wouldn’t get anything from them. At that point, weren’t you nervous?

Matt: Yeah. At that point, I wouldn’t have gotten on Digg and been like, “Hey, your mom and I made love under the stars. Ha ha ha. I liked it.” That probably wouldn’t go over so well. But now I’m kind of at this comfortable level. And part of my writing style and the persona that I have online is sort of this crass, bloated, obese, drunk monster. So, in the beginning, you’re absolutely right, probably insulting my critics wouldn’t have gone over so well....

Matt: I think the feedback that has changed my comics somewhat wasn’t from comments, it was from traffic. I found that certain themes, that if I attack, will actually drive traffic like crazy and that other things won’t.

In particular, writing about a gripe. It’s the stand-up routine where someone gets up there and says, “What’s the deal with airline food?” You take that and you apply it to a comic. Those ones go crazy. Like, “Things That You Shouldn’t Do In E-Mail,” “How to Suck at Facebook,” “Words You Should Stop Misspelling,” these are all gripes. That was one that changed. But that is, hopefully the one that stands alone. I try to make things that I think are funny and that I enjoy. But the gripe one is one that I sort of embellished a little more because it seemed to resonate with people.

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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:45 am

Dorothy Chandler's Dead, by Charles Carreon

Dorothy Chandler's dead,
You can be sure of that,
Yes that's what I said:
"Dorothy Chandler's Dead"
And there's a parking
lot named after her,
And everyone remembers her,
But Dorothy Chandler's dead.

Armand Hammer is alive,
But hardly a living treasure;
I'll wager it'll give a lot of people
pleasure when he kicks the bucket
And anoints his heirs with big gouts of
sticky black cash.

Frank Sinatra is alive,
although entombed inside himself
in a private room in the same wax museum
where Liz Taylor gets her hair done.

Billy the Kid is
neither dead nor alive,
like an arsenic spring,
that glistens even as it zeroes
every living thing,
and mocks the sun with a
skeleton face.
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:46 am

Dream Descent, by Charles Carreon

Two seagulls in an updraft
One of them's me
Talking to an eagle telepathically
We say, let's play
He says, you better be fast
We say, let's show him what we got, and then
A bit of turbulence tips me off the shelf
A flutter and my airfoil's lost,
I'm headed down, down, down
The earth getting bigger,
Clearer every second
The streetlines and the landscape
Comin' down with the wind in my ears
Comin' down with the breath stuck in my throat
Comin' down wondering can I brake in time
Comin' down and I realize
I can do this
I can do this
I can do this
Slow my descent steadily
Wind in my ears
Steady my fears
Comin' down
Comin' down
Comin' down
Reassume my weightlessness briefly
Just before my feet alight
On solid earth
At a walking pace
As I reach out my hand to catch the hand
Of a girl I know,
Riding her bicycle
Our fingers gently touch and
She says, “How'd you do that?”
“Oh,” I say without excitement, “I know how.”

(Tucson, Nov. 2008)
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:47 am

Elvis Must Die, by Charles Carreon

Elvis ushers in a New Age,
Elvis walks, Elvis talks,
Elvis must die.

Evil manipulators have Elvis' brain
in a jar in a casino basement,
And they're going to use it
to stage a psychic assault
on humanity.

Elvis was seen shopping at a K-Mart;
he bought a polaroid camera, a comb,
and spent a long time looking at
automotive accessories.

Elvis was seen walking
a twelve-year old girl to
the Minute Market on a Sunday afternoon;
they talked about loneliness in the afterlife,
And she said she knew how it must feel.

Elvis was foolish,
leaving psychic traces everywhere;
Now his face is subject
to the voodoo flock.
All those grasping souls--
could you imagine if he had to spend a lifetime
with each one ...?
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Postby admin » Sat Sep 21, 2013 2:49 am

Engine, by Charles Carreon


Engine --
Look at you, drinking gasoline
in a steady flow,
Purring with the easy shake of the
Turning the fan and circulating water
to cool yourself
Easy as can be ...
We use, but rarely admire you,
Your faithfulness, your loyalty,
your rhythm,
Nimble as a dancer's step ...
All know the greasy metal,
the stink, the heat, the cracked
and grimy gaskets, the defeated clutch,
the shoeless brakes that have eaten
into their drums, exploded mufflers,
failed tires, dead batteries,
While so few have appreciated with
the steady beat of all the engineering
ticking fine --
It's a miracle, and a homey one at that:
So many things working together to turn
a single shaft.
Valves opening and closing to the
predetermined rhythm
of the ever-turning crank,
Communicated through the simple mechanism
of a chain.
Oh spark-plugs, sparking at the command
of the
loquacious rotor
Oh silent coil secretly amplifying
the power of the battery
Oh carburetor, mixing air and gasoline
like an alchemist
Oh oil-pan humbly lying below all things,
filling up with sludge and filings --
Oh engine, we take for granted the burden
you bear --
mutely your cylinders and rings wear away --
your flywheel loses its teeth --
your valves become encrusted --
the intelligence of your steel decays,
is worn away by time -- you fumble,
you falter -- the trim muscles of good
compression waste away -- gravity gets you
down -- you do not make the hills, you
pull the load anymore.
Oh worn away, oh broken down,
Oh tired and unsteady, you are
passed on to the poor,
To those who gamble on a transmission
And play Russian Roulette
with a recalcitrant starter.
And you will try, you will exert yourself
To uphold their faith,
Drinking watered gasoline, putting up with
Quantities of cheap oil that you
Blow out in a sickly exhaust.
So come away, come away then
There is no heaven for you, to be
By grace or works !
Render them good service --
Three-hundred dollars worth and then,
in the parking lot of the supermarket,
in the carport,
on a long haul over a steep hill,
Give it up --
Burn your bearings,
crack your head,
throw a rod,
Give it up ! Disintegrate the order
that maintains you,
forget the intelligence that makes you
different from scrap,
Annihilate the hot homeostasis that
maintains your monotonous life --
Give it up, like a fevered
And submit to the junkman's hook.
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