April 11, 2016

why poetry still matters ..................#NaPoWriMo2016 NSFW 18+





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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