Love Bomb

Mars’ pit–partisan wit
They orbit the universe astray
‘O brazen marching–
He’s going to Venus to
write history anew

Footbinders; dead ringer, father–
Corsetmakers; dead ringer, my friend’s selling relationships
just like my mother, Eve,
They will have them march down in a spring of thorns and light
It’s wedding of the century:
“Taste that apple, she is your sin,
When all’s a Mars everyplace you go,”
‘O Damsel in distress,
Your captor
is a knight in a shining armor

Mars, girl; Mars, sir,
Drawing his lips near your breasts, yes–
Don’t drive that streetcar yet
“They have to be Desire,
They have to be Blanche,”
they wailed–
follow St. Paul

Flirt fishers; dead ringer, mother–
Jailbaiting; dead ringer,
my friend’s selling relationships
just like my father, Adam,
They will have them lounged in their gothic fainting room
It’s fashion of the century:
Porcelain face
Belladonna eyes
Brownsugars–
We will be, born from a rib

The Stranger

Venus is a sugarcane
Maybe not from where I can taste it
like when all appetites wane;
I did not know our tongues can be fooled

Dear, you are a dandelion
Maybe not from where I can smell you–
I am your red rose of thorns
We both only cruise with butterflies

I’m a cascade in summer
Swigging me dry until I’m a dune
I can only stare to where
the moon is; you never pray for rain

when our wisdom can only
get true, love, is one-way getaway–
we are tea and sympathy
Run into me when we’re out of sight

as I am your myrtle, though
not from where I can be your cocktail–
I am not the earth you sow
but I’m content when you bring it close

to your lips. You can shatter
me like a glass but I’d still be the
pane in your windows; I’m never
the house you built it to be; I am

Venus is a sugarcane,
doubtlessly your Mars when in distress,
put damage on like armor
Maybe not from where I can defend

my territory; you are
a flood in my farmhouse of bygones
Brew me, make me a fountain
of your Dionysus, red as it is–

I’d always make you sober
It is a future we bet
when our wisdom only get
vague, love, is a one-note symphony

Getting Ahold of You

Get ahold of you getting ahold of them
Get ahold an atheist in a coffee fizz
Mars on the red corner
calling out on the telephone
Ms. Medusa on the blue corner
turning me into stone

and I am alone,

in blades of grass, wounded
I surely need my fix
I didn’t know you were headed
Home, my prose kiss
the lipless

as doggerels can only cope
All their words turn to tumbleweeds;
I’d like to go to Venus, elope
with her and hit the moon
but I know she won’t be flying anywhere soon,
I still walk in the dusty fields

until I get ahold of them getting ahold of you
When you can get ahold of me in a tumbleweed

and I am alone,

drifting just in time to get home
I was hoping you were not sculpted like everybody else
and holding that chisel
to get ahold of me to be carved for your collection;
Fix your telephone instead, maybe I’ll get ahold of you
Close your eyes, maybe you’ll see more,
maybe you’ll break the wall that gets ahold of us, with Mars on the telephone,
Ms. Medusa turning me to stone, while I’m all alone,
in blades of grass, wounded,

I didn’t know you were headed
Home; yes darling, I surely need my fix
my stone-cold prose can only kiss
what is lipless

The Long Fall of Justice Pt. 4 (Exclusivity)

The interest, yes, he will give to acquiesce
to a dearth, neither extent nor depth
Nay, just to his appeal to repel
monotony to exclusive monopoly
You just have to pretend,
Probably contend
in the mind’s eye
Meekly lie
As he brags his bags of sugar and beans
when the list just about begins;
all around the hounds,
with uncouth watering mouths;
as silly as their crime may be,
since if sins were truly stints,
I was to pay attention fee
to sleep beside your monarch, oh your stark highness
and our thankfulness, yes, to our acquiesce
to a bohemianesque so-called unique speck of existence
among a thousand more
reason to bemoan and feel real rare
Nay I say,
everyone’s a nugget for all you care

Not About Life: a Ripoff

The morning blues
before now soothes
all the nicotine breaths and merely stares up yours
And nowadays’ lesson’s about how sure
you are to know if you’re the third policeman

but does it not scale to be truer
that my time is smithereens-clicking of an automaton
It’s not that I reckon
to be wide awake, for any more resolutions,
and just enough to retch
while I fetch
your dismal decisive approximations

Rapport, once married with Regard
bore children of tomorrow and now they’re just talking backward
I date a mardy Frown,
now are you smiling a tart one,
drinking your wine as your eyes turn white

for does it seem much truer
that time is just a sick in the head sort of various burlesque
It’s not that you asked,
to be here for the getaway, sweet enough to sting
or to depart, or to linger
in a sugarsweetbitterthrill...

...well enough that it’s not about the life
because you don’t have one
Actually you keep on your purple prose
since it’s not about my life
because I don’t have one
Honestly I just keep on my woes
when all I do is to keep losing purpose

Oh is this holiday in hideaway, well I don’t want to stay
That’s what I carry on with when I’m clockwatching
Adjust the hands, maybe I’d stay
That’s what I said when I was singing
my morning blues
It just scales truer because I only dream ahead with my sour words
But I could amend just as much
Take on the time that I think I stole,
stack it up with what I choose,
pass on the morning blues
and abscond the third policeman
because this is not his life
because he doesn’t have one
He just keeps on telling time
since it’s about my life
and I don’t have one
Honestly I just keep on what is mine
when what I’d do is to keep on what I have