The Burger King

          Hundreds of years ago, great kings and queens ruled the world.  Their mighty empires controlled and conquered vast lands and their people obeyed their every command.  These mighty monarchs may be long gone, but one “great” one still remains: The Burger King.  The Burger King is the miraculously rare kind of king, for he is magnificently benevolent and magnanimous.  He wants his people, he begs his people, to have it their way.  For his mighty decree is, and shall always be: “Have it your way.”  And let us say Amen.

            The Burger King, like most kings has his very own coat of arms, or, as the cool, modern kids call it, a logo.  To most people the logo is just two buns and the mighty Burger King’s name written in between.  But, to a sharp, keen eye this logo is far more complicated and intricate.  But, what else would one expect from The Burger King?  The buns are a shiny gold, the sign of wealth, riches and success. People strive for gold.  They want that golden sticker, that golden A+, or even that golden gold.  But with The Burger King, and his food, they can taste the richness for a far cheaper price.  And thus they are drawn to him and his delicacies.  They become necessities.   They want the golden standard of The Burger King; they need the golden standard of The Burger King.   But something else also is symbolized in The Burger King’s logo: power.  The Burger King’s name is written in red, the color of power and rubies, another precious item.  With the gold, red, and the impressiveness of the signs all over modern day highways advertising the mighty monarch, how can people resist the King’s richness?  Better yet, why would they want to resist?  There are all the rich flavors and all the rich feelings, all for a cheap price.  That is what the Burger King strives for, for the Burger King wants you to “have it your way.”

            But, is The Burger King really as great and mighty as he seems?  Does he really want you to “have it your way?”  Conspiracy theories have been circulating, theories that put The Burger King in a disastrous position.  The theorists believe that the your in the mighty King’s decree actually stands for “why our.”  It makes sense.  Why our way?  Our way because if you cross us you are committing treason.  You are going against the King and his people.  If you go over to monstrous McDonald or wicked Wendy you are going against The Burger King.  You are disobeying the highest in command’s orders.  You my friend are committing treason.  But, the question is, is this a fair law or a deceptive trick enforced by The Burger King to ensure his people’s business and loyalty.  If it’s the latter, the mighty Burger King may not be so mighty.

      - J. A. Kind  

Deep Fried Oreos

Grew up obese in the decade before the next.

Always making fried wonders in the oil with the pancake mix,

always smearing the black and white ones up with the semisolid

and suffocating them with the opposite of water,

sharing with none and no one and nobody;

always stuffing the faces with fried fritters

that frankly featured freakishly unflattering levels of fructose.

Crematories packed with the living.

Each one with its canyons and crevices,

each one less nutritious than the last,

each one more debilitating than the first,

with their indentations of unadulterated grit,

the kind that seeps into the mother-laden bone of the predecessor’s streaks,

all of which, nude at the core, jolt indifference from the others

in the land of the unwanted members.

They used to coat the others’ bodies,

now, all that terminates breeds succession and invasion

from calorie induced chaos to dollars and change

dripping from pockets onto my sugary street.

     - J. A. Kind

Unloved Limericks

Yemen

I once met a walker in Yemen.

I popped all those diddies with semen.

My whore then declared

That her blood had not aired,

I asked, is there child – heard, “Yeah man.”

Moe

My step dad’s last name is just Lester.

He always strokes my best friend, Ester.

I tell him, “Jeez, Moe!”

But he just moans, “Oh!”

Wow, how I hate that Moe Lester.

Copulating

Your uterus will soon hold my kid,

I just first need to open the lid

Of a jar that does hide,

Your reproductive organ inside,

That gives me no need of a bride – forbid!

My Winged Companion

I really want to find some love.

So I must get a messenger dove,

To send this here letter,

That’ll be read to get her,

Kidding – come bird, I speak of.

Breakfast - the most important meal

I listen to your beating heart.

The sound it makes embodies art.

I lick it - yum - with my tongue,

Oh, your heart bleeds so young,

I bite and then rip it apart.

It's a little dusty down there

You’re so pretty you look like a rose,

Oh yes baby, please stay in that pose,

Ha – I reckon you will,

Due to the previous kill,

Quickie? You might decompose…

       - J. A. Kind

mournerskaddi |sh|

blame – i washed your corpse with the sins of my sorrows.

white powder caked your feet, and the gravel of heart worms ate at your pockets.  i piled them in, with the grapes of waves.  flowing iridescently in the showers of the undercut that shot like the sparrow onto the yearly nightfall of our ghouls.  why have you blessed our caverns with the gropings of our hands.  juxtapositions never seem to flail and yoller like the cold tipped metal of a sterilized needle.  or the golden bump, its crease coated in mold, fill the atmosphere of a blue jay’s nail.  i ponder, i burden your weight with the scale of my injustice as goose bumps and song tails flutter in the kale as the indiscriminate meadows undulate in the tides of the groupings of elements, without their odd man out.  my tears stream eyes.  my cartilage melts into the cauldron of disapproval as the witches brew and the bakers flatten.  why cannot i just wrap your blanketed thighs around my mouth and suffocate me in the night as rebirth expels me the next eve.  for the same beat plays through the speakers into mine earlobes, hovering in fraudulent bachelorettes that shutter and stutter at the grip of a vivacious grandmothers’ bone crackled thumb.  babble, breathe it in – i scream.  i tell ye, open thy eyes and understand the greatness of our lord, bow down to its and their feet, kiss their heels, and skin their hinds.  boil their blood and billow in the existential existence of their ambiguity and sheer elusiveness.  handle their governess with grace and wash their corpses.  add the soap – tide to go is nice.

            - J. A. Kind

Joanna Concejo - The Persuasively Eerie Illustrator

Joanna Concejo

Joanna Concejo is a French Illustrator.  She uses a mass armory of multiple mediums to express conventional ideas through her work. In her works, the mediums are applied to large blank canvases.  Most of the space in the canvas is left blank – this creates an ambulatory scene of eeriness and creepiness.  

Joanna Concejo

The negative space of the backgrounds accompanied by the textured forms of the characters combine to wash over the viewers of Concejo’s work with an uncomfortable awe – a curious appetite to learn more about the work, yet a creeping caution to not become enamored with the work’s perversity.  The simplicity accompanied by the strange discomfort of Concejo’s works attracts people immediately. It is almost like an intellectual, masochistic need to understand the complex simplicities of her work. Overall, Concepjo utilizes all of the aspects of her pieces to compile a persuasive, artistic argument.

Joanna Concejo

              - J. A. Kind