… is writing with each syllable counted,
So perfect in rhyme and pentameter,
Spondees so pristine in silk stockings,
Trochees in combat boots trudge through Toronto,
And then run naked through New Jersey,
Just for the alliteration.
And give me that naughty little smile
That’s all teeth and no tongue.
Touch me, but don’t use your hands…
Dance on my skin,
Like the sun
That swims naked
In the clouds…
Until the world explodes
Ummm, next time, we should
wait until it’s dark.
nothing more than having sex with words
while reason is
drunk on the porchsteps
sneaks in through the back door with
the broken latch
to watch and cheer you on.
SEX IN ARIZONA
All rhyme and no reason
Or sometimes neither
Like licking hot grease
Or sharing a French kiss
With a cactus
Because, after all, orgasms are not rainbows.
Love and Hate
Love doesn’t rhyme with fate;
She doesn’t pine away in pigtails,
In her little pink room, dissecting daisies.
And she doesn’t write poetry;
She doesn’t sop up syrupy words,
With blank squares of paper.
Love’s the one waiting in the alley,
With the brass knuckles.
Ah, what’s a Monday without a little “Alice and Wonderland” reference?
Do I make you nervous
Because the devil’s in the lines
Of my asymmetry
Off the coast of Ohio
In the oceans of Australia
The hint of the laugh
That you can’t hear
More than the one you do
Or the fact that you
Don’t really know why