Make Daddy Proud

Winnie the Pooh runs
through one hundred
naked Barbie wood.
Stumbling over blonde-haired,
glazed eyed,
anatomically incorrect trunks,
running from the enemy.

GI Joe rounds the corner,
gunning for pooh,
gunning for glory,
running on pudding
and juice
and hate.

Pirate ships swoop in
following General Rubber E. Ducky
on Hot Wheels.
Coming to Pooh’s aid,
too late.

General Flop Ear,
sniper for the Joes
sights down Lego towers.
Takes pooh down.
Dozens of mouthed
RAT-A-TAT-TATS
fill the Saturday morning air.
Pooh’s eaten his last jar of honey.

The Joes are victorious,
and now it’s time for a snack.

Stop Light Occurence

Your eyes are undressing me
when I’d rather stay fully clothed.
I don’t appreciate the mental rips,
the tears
revealing my pumping,
throbbing
heart,
pulsating there beneath
your lupine eyes.

You’re imagining my lips,
painted red,
dancing feverishly against
your chest.
Well sir,
I prefer a pinky coral,
and they’ll be staying firmly on
my face.

You see my legs,
wrapped around your
portly, porcine gut,
grabbing for better purchase,
higher ground.
Too bad for you,
as my legs are staying
tightly together today.

Heaven only knows
what you’re thinking
about my toes.

Now, if you don’t mind,
your light is green,
and I’d like to cross
the street soon.

Procrastination

Maybe if I just put my.
No. First I’ll go do.
Wait. When is this.
Hm. Do I really have to finish?
A late grade is better than no.
Maybe he won’t notice if I just take.
Hey look what’s on.
Where do I put the?
Forget it. I’ll do it in the.

Morpheme Cannabalism

Teacher’s droning cannot cover
the sounds of tongues seducing
tactile sense
to extract every morsel
from the branches of delicious
sentence trees.

Leeching out knowledge,
being careful not to choke
on diction
on syntax
on the crunching structure of
“the mouse chased the cat”-
Here, take my mirror,
You have some noun in your teeth.

Damn Flowers

How nice it would be
to wake up in the morning
and raise my face to meet
the sun.
To stretch my leaves
high,
painted face smiling
as the sun caresses my face
with tenderly waving breezes.

Flowers don’t need coffee,
a morning paper,
a properly balanced breakfast
to feel happy with their lives.

Always waking on
the right side of the bed,
all ready good to face the day.
No mascara runs,
pantie hose rips,
under wire pokes
to put them in a foul mood.

The only thing paining them
is the occasional bird poop.

Lucky damn things.

Silent Refrains

Metallic bow glides
graceful smooth
teasing red tinged notes
from the pale, flesh-toned
violin.
Crimson tears weep,
comforting,
quelling the pain that looms
screaming silently
like sheet music,
sitting, waiting to be played again.

Winter Sun Dipped in Black

Cold wind flows swiftly
Brushing waves of tendriled hair.
I always feel so bleak
sitting here among
shining caps of wintry snow.
The animals are sleeping
while I sit here patiently
waiting for the sun
to wrap it’s warm arms around
me again, but ‘til
then, I must wait while the wind
taunts my death chilled bones
hidden under lambs wool, soft.
Soon though, my flowered face
shall once again see the world
through shining eyes and
sand buried ankles and toes.

Take a Breather

Writer’s scribbles,
sad attempts at feeling,
at avoiding,
skate across blank pages
in blank verse.

Writer’s shaking hands,
full of fear,
fear of not feeling,
struggle for coherence
while Writer’s brain scrambles.

So inadequate,
the words Writer wants
to write.
Words of love,
of hate,
of whys and whens and whos.

Writer chokes,
audible words,
mingling with scribbles,

asking,

wondering,

fearing,

missing,

longing,

dying.

Death Rattle

Death slithers through the crowd,
picking a victim,
tingling and tickling on my scalp.
His fingers tug my pig tails,
straighten ties and starched collars,
unaware that I’m watching him.
Undulating, he caresses my back.
The cold lips of Death suck and coddle
my warmth
like a prize.
He doesn’t realize that
when he really comes for me,
I’ll be ready.

Mutual Understanding

You’re totally right.
I don’t have time for lofty ideas
of you and I,
we,
us,
traipsing down a velvet aisle,
flanked by satin bows
in silver and blue.
vowing forever,
planning a home,
three perfect children,
a golden retriever named Al.

I really don’t care
what you want for dinner,
how you like your coffee,
or your preferred brand
of after shave,
but if you’d still like to share,
go ahead.

I’ll be over here,
reading these bridal magazines,
hidden behind Psychology books
wondering when you’ll get a clue.

Love is Easy When the Lights Are Off

Sweaty palms grip sweaty sheets
while one word pleas,
already broken promises,
tremble on the tips of lusty sighs.

Eyes meet,
dash away,
seeking remembered faces.

Hands and mouths race toward better ground.
Better to pinch-
tug-
lick-
bite-
slap-
scratch-
suck-
bodies grinding to a stop.

Racing hearts staccato
against awkward silence,
smothering temporary thoughts
of forever.

Cold Lips Speak of Hot Murder

I cut out her cold heart.
Warm blood no longer flows.
Her cold forever stare sears
into my mind
while my lips drip
with just drying blood
freshly licked from her
fingertips.

Carnivale of Cruelty

The tinny music
grates my ears,
as monkeys in coattails crank
their music boxes.

The carnies shout half hearted heckles at me,
their voices warring with the circus clangs.
These words are wasted poetry
lying dead
among the paths of dancers,
flying feet grounded,
past last call.

The smell of exotic rarities
waft from every direction,
mingling with the muddy ground
and horse shit.

The lights dazzle
blinking in a cacophony of epileptic cheer.
The patterns becoming an alliteration
of movement.

I drag my polka dotted plushy prize
through the chicken bones
and caramel corn
caked in the spilt wine
on the pavement,
escaping to my car.

Tomorrow I’m going to win
the goldfish.