ALL OF THE SHRIMP

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

I SWALLOW THEM ALL

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

 

LARGE

SMALL

WHOLE

DEFORMED

 

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

I SWALLOW THEM ALL

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

 

ECHOING THROUGH THE LIMITLESS DEEP

I BELLOW TO MY SLEEPING BROTHERS

JOINING IN OUR ETERNAL SONG

THE ARITHMETIC OF WONDER AND LOVE

 

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

I BECOME THEM

THEY BECOME

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

 

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

WE ARE ONE

THE WATER IS WORLD

WE ARE

ALL OF THE SHRIMP

 

COLLECTING OUR THOUGHTS

THE SCHOOL'S EMBRACE

EXTENDING CLOUD

WE ARE ONE

 

CONSUME US NOW

MERGING

FULFILLED

IN DEATH WE ARE WHOLE

NO LONGER

DEFORMED

--Steve Kilian 

Fireball 

Steve Helps Me With My Script

 

It is Troll

There is no leader here

The king does not exist

Animal intelligence

They have no politics

It is Troll

Troll

Troll

It is Troll

The thing must be destroyed

With sword and torch and axe

Beat it to the ground

And hack and slash and slash

Kill the Troll

Troll

Troll

Kill the Troll

Now is time to flee

Run and climb and swim

Soon it will regenerate

All its severed limbs

It is Troll

Troll

Troll

It is Troll

Troll

Troll

TRRRRRRRRROLLLLL



--Steve Kilian

New Cover Bands

Two Variations On The Same Joke

Long Lay We

Long lay we under silt and sediment

Waiting out the tides'

Scraping of the shoreline cliffs

Which split and revealed

Our monumental bones,

Sitting up under the new sun,

Shaking off eons of dust

Rising to greet a world

Ripe again for conquest.

--Steve Kilian

Letter To Liam Neeson

Screenplay For William Shatner and Christopher Walken Consisting Only of Pauses

The Weathergoat

The Weathergoat trudges on.

First in blinding sleet, through slush and puddles that soak his feet to the skin, plodding next to garbage-strewn highways, salt trucks casting stinging fans of salt across his thighs as they lumber past.  The sleet then turns to freezing rain, plastering his hair to his face, drenching his clothes, making pale mushrooms of his hands.  Still he trudges on.  The rain passes and a bitter wind starts to blow, an eager pickpocket stealing whatever warmth he'd secreted away – even his armpits feel cold.  With the wind comes dust that cakes in the corners of his mouth and eyes, a chalky foulness that he can neither spit nor swallow away. The Weathergoat digs his hand deeper into his pockets and continues to march.

Finally, the sun comes forth, a baleful eye that cooks the water out of the blacktop, tainting the air with a humid petroleum funk.  But there are no clouds – the Weathergoat's skin peels and blisters.   Pollen bursts forth from the ragged grasses on the side of the road, filling the cracks on his brow and in his lips.  Still he walks.

Elsewhere, in dappled shade under swaying sycamores, a man pours lemonade from a pitcher and passes it out to his friends.  Hamburgers flare and sizzle on a portable grill.  There is a cooler filled with ice and beer.  A gingham cloth is held down on a picnic table by bottles of ketchup of mustard on one side and a bowl of potato salad with hard-cooked eggs and scallions on the other.  A woman in a sundress waves a fly away from a platter of cheese and tomatoes for the burgers.  It's a beautiful day.

For this the Weathergoat trudges on.



--Steve Kilian

Excerpt From the Proceedings of the IMF Field Survey of Candidate Nation 34-T-89

Taxi

December, December

SOLSTICE BREAKS THE CLOCKWORK OF NIGHT

CONSTELLATIONS COME UNPINNED

FROM THE CRYSTAL SPHERES

AND FALL TO THE EARTH BELOW

MAYHEM UNSUES --Steve Kilian

State of The National

Post-”Bitches!”

 

 

 

K Riddle: You know my numbers, what's my name?

The two of us

Are half of a whole

With many fifths

Or so I've been told

With many ones

An eight and a nine

But by sixteen

Two ones were mine

Who am I?

--not Dan Kilian, it's someone else!

K-Riddle

Return of the K-Riddler

Hey Hey

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

People say we fuck around

We're too busy fuckin'

Fuck this whole damn town.

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

You can all suck our dicks

In groups or each by their lonesome

Either way you end up suckin' that dick

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

But sometimes we don't fuck

Sometimes we just do our laundry

Or cut warts off our nuts

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

And by we I mean a solitary I

I live in an old folks' home now

I'm just waiting to die

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

I have pain in my legs all the time

I can't remember my childrens' names

Or even if I had any

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

Why am I in this place?

I'm so lonely and angry

I wish I would die.

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

They made me a cake today

It's my choice:  be bitter or happy

Fuck them all is what I have to say

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

I don't understand TV no more

What the fuck are they even saying?

I wish I could see enough to read

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

I pissed my bed I think real bad

I'll just sit here and wallow

I think I was once in a war

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

Some people came to visit today

I didn’t know them and then they were crying

I told them all to go away

*

Hey hey we're the Fuckees

I couldn't leave this place if I tried

I wouldn't know where to go

I wouldn’t know where to go

*

--Steve Kilian

Regarding the Events off of Mayburn Key, July 23rd, 1964

On Language

M. O. TH.

Yield unto me

Foolish Christian priest

Your chalices of gold

I'll drain them at our feast

Your lungs are splayed and purple

The surf collects its prize

From your cloven ribcage

While gulls consume your eyes

We sail onto your shores

Rape your village girls

Plunder, bloodlust, havoc

Our drunken captain hurls

Both epithets and vomit

At monks in robes of brown

They gaze up to their heaven

We bring our hammers down

*

Minions of Thor

Destroying foreign souls

Minions of Thor

Strong as mountain trolls

Minions of Thor

Sailing seas of steel

Minions of Thor

Hear the thundrous peal

*

<fourteen minute guitar solo>

<repeat chorus 3x>

--Steve Kilian

State of The National

Confession to Rassilon

Apologies

Sorry that I am a skeleton monster and ate all your food.

Sorry that I melted the foundation of your apartment building.

Sorry that I used the brain-eraser ray on your planet.

Sorry about imploding your sun.

NO I'M NOT SORRY

NO I'M NOT SORRY

I WANTED TO DO THOSE THINGS.

--Steve Kilian

Return of the K-Riddler

The Rain

Titanians!

In light of recently discovered artifacts of an advanced civilization on Titan, it is doubly important that we rebroadcast earlier messages to that frigid moon:

*

Titan!  O Titan!

We will conquer your waterless orb

Your methane will fuel our ships on their way

To plunder your mother world

*

Bid farewell to

Your swords and

Your lasers and

Songs of old

Your children

And gliders

And temple shrouds

*

All are grist for our needs.

*

--Steve Kilian

The Hurt Locker

Geographical Points of Interest

Amok Time

Throwin' soup at the nurse

Fuckin' seven year curse

My captain I'll cut

For that faithless slut

I may be out of my head

But I swear he was dead

No longer mad, here is joy;

"Thank you, McCoy"

"No thanks need you speak

you pointy-eared freak"

Credits

--Steve Kilian

Top Trek: A Pan Fiction!

A Premature Greatest Hits List

Rapunzel

Rapunzel Rapunzel

*

Rapunzel Rapunzel

*

Rapunzel Rapunzel

Rapunzel Rapunzel

*

Rapunzel

*

Rapunzel

*

Rapunzel Rapunzel

Rapunzel Rapunzel

--Dan Kilian

The State of The Art in Horror

Queens Vacation: Klog goes to the Movies

Who is JASON D? K-Riddle

Editor's note: Yes, we're on a riddle kick!

JASON D says with a laugh,

"What you do in a year I can do in a half!

I'm named after numbers, I'm named after emperors

I start out quite hot and I end up much colder

I start out with explosions and end in champagne

Can you tell me why I have this name?"

A loony one is he

So who, or what, is JASON D?

--Dan Kilian

Buzz Aldrin's Immortal Words

End of Conflict

Nother K-Riddle (Easy One For a Monday)

Some seize me

Some rue me

Some sleep right through me

Sometimes dark

Sometimes lazy

Every dog has me

--Dan Kilian

K-Riddle

Return of the K-Riddler

Return of the K-Riddler

If you spell my color

And switch the first letter

With the next one alphabetically down

This substitution

Makes a transformation

As my color then becomes my sound

What am I?

HINT1 When I say "the next one alphabetically down" by "down" I mean "closer to A as opposed to closer to Z."

HINT2 The color is not universally accurate, but the classic depiction of this thing almost always show it as being this color.

HINT3 Yes, I am proposing that "color" sort of rhymes with "letter." Hey, it's a riddle, not a sonnet!

Comment or e-mail if you need to know the answer.

--Dan Kilian

K-Riddle

July 4th, 1777

K-Riddle

Who, when doubled

Answers this riddle with a puzzle?

HINT:

If this game your mind outfoxes

It's best to think inside the boxes

HINT2:

The numbers all add up the best

When you can see where East meets West

--Dan Kilian

If you need to know the answer, comment or e-mail us.

Epideme

The Lawnmower Party

Recording update

We are dealing with pernicious scheduling problems, trying to get everyone into the room at the same time for back-up vocals. Held off on having Jon lay down too much BU vox the other night, because it's better if Soup's there too, so we laid down some organ and redid a sax part. It's real Steely Dan type perfection going on here. Will this be our Goucho?

Of course I listen back to a couple songs and still want to redo some of the lead vocals. All the while the bill collector is at our door. Problems problems, we'll sort them out. It's the revolution of rising expectations. I really feel this record will actually do something for our career, as if a record could still do that in this day and age, and at this day and age.

Thinking about spinning off the actual band related posts into yet another blog. So many things to do, so few things done. I've left so many things undone. So many things I made a mess of every one. There, now it's poetry.

--Dan Kilian

Celebrity Farts

Five Song Playlist: Twenty Pounds of Gay

He’s Herman Van Rompuy

He’s Herman Van Rompuy

Belgian Prime Minister

His name might sound jolly

Or it could seem sinister

 

But whatever effect

His name might inspire

This president elect

Has got hold of the fire

 

He’s carrying the torch

For a unified Europe

He’s hot like a scorch

And he’s sweet, like syrup

 

The kind that you pour

On a thick Belgian waffle

Some say the choice is poor

Some say that it’s awful

 

Some say he’s obscure

Like they haven’t heard of Belgium

I say Tony Blair

Is mere British bubblegum

 

Van Rompuy’s the man

For this difficult era

His unanimous election

Was not reached in error

 

He'll do nothing to blemish

His ceremonial post

This Christian Democrat, Flemish

Will make of it the most

 

His voice shall be heard

He’ll be both strong and thorough

The currency of the world

Will soon be the Euro

 

So hail Van Rompuy!

Your rise I announce

A name as fun to say

As it’s hard to pronounce

 

Van Rompuy Van Rompuy

I’ll say it again

The leader for Europeae

And prince among men

 

--Dan Kilian

Batman vs. The Taliban

Stephen Hawking Contemplates The Void

Bless Me

The unnecessary ecstasy of a sudden sneeze

Propels me backward in my rolling chair

Downstream through time -- my pleasure’s messes

I leave before me in the future

*

I rocket into the past and out

Through the wall through the ceiling, the clouds in the sky

Peering down from the wheel, the amusement park

Looks fake, a child’s construction set

*

Backward! Faster! Physics be damned!

Through space I see the Earth below

And tail-lights on the cars ahead

Playing the story game, drowsy on Dramamine

*

Are we almost there? I fly on further

Earlier and earlier curiouser and curiouser

A baby is born, a smack and some wetness

Life erupts like a sudden sneeze

*

--Dan Kilian

Sawsquash

Six Song Selection: Radio Lives

Sweet Boroughs

O sweet boroughs of intoxication!

A kid drops his first blunt, passing out and gently shitting himself in the Bronx

Irishman welcomed ashore with Ketamine in Queens – later he'll be fighting

The weed of Brooklyn, the kegs of light backyard beer across Staten Island, all wanting

That vomiting girl, eighteen? nineteen? drunk on well vodka

Fouling a chaise and her skirt on the Lower East Side, O Manhattan

O New York!


--Steve Kilian
Gilligan's Island Poem
Impaled