Biography of J.W. Frogg
J.W. Frogg resides mostly in the mind of an uneducated, under-achieving, mouth breather who's contempt for almost all emotion seems hypocritical as tentative keystrokes lend credence to sarcastic demons that have manifested for J.W.'s entertainment.
The walls are up but windows are open and sleep does not come easy.
J.W. Frogg Poems
Zombie Sex Slave
This is my zombie sex slave... She never again needs to shave... Someone sees me after the veil has closed... But, she is not quite the same and her body feels froze...
Mold On My Think Stick
A woman once told me the most romantic sound she'd ever heard was that of a train in the night, in the far-off distance. She likened it to a powerful yet sexy force, reliable but dangerous, pounding away into the unknown. I began to wonder... What is the most romatic sound I've ever heard? Could it be the early birds of a new dawn, welcoming the sun, teasing a lover and I after we've spent the night talking and laughing, all the while engulfed whithin each other's arms and our own autobiographies? Or, maybe it is that of an angry honeybee passing over two naive kids as they roll naked and shameless in a field of tall grass, hidden from their parent's watchful eyes? Could it be the ringing of my phone the next day to tell me she is at least interested in another date? Or her voice whispering in my ear, reassuring me that she likes the cut of my jib? Maybe it's more vulgar than that; the sound of a woman, whom I know little of, moaning with surprise as I touch the areas that her lover has neglected. Or, the clammer of my headboard, as it triumphantly slams into my bedroom wall. Suppose for a moment, that I appreciate the the sound of my flabby thighs smacking against the derriere of a woman from my dreams, or the woman of my last call.
In 1 ear & out the other 2 lives possess a power Their's a tainted melody & mine the mind that wanders
There is a River in your head it flows until you are dead It brings little thoughtful fishes
The Holy Grail The Holy abstinence We are all going to places no one wants to admit... not the Christians, not the Atheists not the Buddhas or the Jews
The Full Report
Nothing bouncing around in here tonight nothing new to report it seems that way most days
9pm, the screaming starts fighting sleep, the world might not wait 10pm, the Magic Boob only stunned you for a spell, a nap in the PM, a Parent's nightmare
Play In The Road With Matches (A Baby'...
We'll play in the road with matches... We'll drink the Drano down... We'll run with scissors in our hand and... hide in the fridge where we can't be found.
The Dreams Of The Broken
The unfavorable odor of an under appreciated lover lingers, going unoticed by her self-proclaimed soulmate. The taste in her mouth is of cum and disdain. There is a reservoir of innocence, in which an almost child-like river of hope still flows whithin her, allowing the dreams of her youth to continue to grow.
Sit in this Circle Hunch over and lean in close, breathing in everyone else's exhale Squat down for a spell... or your life Turn your back on all who'll refuse this space we fill
(So, fly away little dreamer & dream this into dreams) Playing search and grab with his eyes, he leered over the balcony, tired of fighting for a lost cause. Who did he think he was, trying to stop time like Superman or John Lennon did? He should've known that that nothing like this would fancy them like that, never in a million dreams. He was dead at seventeen and restless at twenty-something, now his Mom showed no existance beyond her own exit strategy. Her daydream voice was overshadowed by her longing for the fifties-lifestyle of her parents.
Beauty (And One Sentence By The Pot-Head...
My mirror is in my way my mirror, my dear, is in the way My dear is in my way
I'm back in here again... I've been here before you see. The house seems cold this time, not warm and soft like before. There are no friends to count out and there are no women to spy. Sweet Virginia isn't home and she's not knocking at the door. All the houses on this block seem empty and even the ghosts no longer linger. Strange for this time of year. The trees are moving in rythm with a breeze that I can't feel and my hair grows too heavy for my eyes. Something is not right, something seems out of place. Is it me?
My mirror is in my way
my mirror, my dear, is in the way
My dear is in my way
my dear, my mirror, is in the way
My way is in my mirror
my way, my dear, is in the mirror
My dear is in my mirror
my dear, my mirror, is in the mirror