because if I woo you
sending in clowns
and selfishly gelled modern
photo-shopped dick pics
I become a shade thrower
darker than I was before
and it wasn't as you say
to publicly humiliate me
because of my not being
of any particular length or girth
but it was because palm trees sound cool
even if they don't keep you so...
the fronds over head knife
scrape against near noon now
and in some future variance
a folded universe
with holographic
halls of worship
has you sending me
your dick pics...
the ones you've collected
below the belt
from men who,
not coming correctly,
stood testament
to your standards
and remained tributes
affixed to your
console control arm
or maybe this does have something to do with it
or just maybe this Monday
before tax day and patriot's day
is national shade day
or that the world is and has been
wanting to be a backwards Mercury all along
a Mulberry bush monkey
and weasel break out song
and the poem goes
hey Edward
show her a smile
and your eyes
so next time maybe
it won't be
a Punch and Judy
show and tell
okay now this has got me thinking
about the fates of attraction
and all the rules of said engagements
and this little self deprecating poem
jiggy blessedly bouncing
out from me in a smile...
it is facetious, slightly ribald of course
I am thinking about you and the game sit and spin...
so thanks for tuning in
sweet milk ladies with kids...
this is KROW radio and you're all I eat here
west of nowhere east of everything...
Baba Yaga's house
wants me soon
I want to live
there too...
trembling
womb-ed
pregnant too
with and by you
and your tingle skinny
sin tintinnabulation, oh fatten me with the
elation such consecration would bring forth...
a voyage to wear under
I am filled with a breath
I dare only to exhale
into kept cookie jars
for you see, scent, dear one
is the who who has my soul
but it is Circe certain
of her dance with Hypatia
that rhymed time
as an electromagnetic
insistence emitting
a pattern-less
and algorithmic you...
and when
open palming
any sort of possible
I make sure
the fantasy island
starts right after
the plane has landed
with you tickling my belly
getting me through to
your breast ware full
of milk, honey
and laughter
the way
every story
ought to begin
and end
don't ya think this may be
like discovering
you worked an entire shift
with your fly undone
and no one said anything
while each odd smile
leaving you was
taking home
a quiet dessert too...
EJR ©
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