Tag Archives: poem

The Wishing Well

a stark calamity
evades this me
not because
destruction was
somehow out-
side my shout-
ing life, but
within my gut
and in my mind
the gods may find
a patient piece
of freshest fleece
where my panic
with her wick
are nestled cozy
(two pressed posie
s) and cast an odd
intricate facade
of calm above
my eyes of love

please don’t tell
the wishing well


The Parable of the Rose and the Carnation

A rose and carnation went out to play
just minutes before the judgment day.

They’d made all arrangements moments before
so as to ensure their glory was more.

Out frolicking thoughtless the rose and her thorns
to carnation did sing who blew on his horns.

But as the round world is perfectly rough
and striding sans falter is perfectly tough.

The intrepid carnation did tumble into
his enamored companion who impaled him through.

It seems on a thorn is where he there fell,
and while he went’o heaven, his rose went’o hell.

For the righteous the garden has welcoming thighs
while in the inferno the wrongdoer cries,

and in spite of St. Peter’s irrelevant nod
the irrational judgment is left up to God.


The Vicar and the Saint

“Were I wise, unlike the rest,
I think I’d do my meager best
to touch the lives of those who tried
to live their lives before they died.”

“Misfortune is our alibi
while just beyond our pleasures lie
a land of vipers incarnate,
and so we’ll not cohabitate.”

Now pleading I with heart in hand,
persuading with both gestures grand
and lust my only fetish worn
I searched for smiles within the scorn.

“Thou shan’t persuade me nor my lot
that passion’s taste is not distraught
by blood of all the ages past
and lust the crime which shall not last.”

“I cannot claim to know the fates
of those who climb your garden’s gate,
but through my gate are free to move
all those I know I dearly love.”

“Thou speakest of love as one who knows
by which currents her river flows,
but I believe thou’ve not the wit
if in a raft to discover it.”

“I’ll tell you something of my soul
it burns a fire as white as coal;
that her river flows from its source—
and that it’s me, is but-of-course.”

“So shall the twain yet nary meet,
a cross fallen broken at thy feet?
Or have thou some enlightened hope
that to me should thy fingers grope?”

“I need not thee nor thine afterbliss
to live my life within a kiss,
to take the reigns on destiny,
for that’s what makes we free ones free.”


Poem for Cecilia

I’m gonna write a new poem
not a sorry-sorry blue poem
’cause I’m a-writin’ it fer Cecilia

it won’t be a trap poem
nor a fully filled with crap poem
always tryin’ ta kill ya

it’s gonna be a great poem
a wake up change my fate poem
I c’n hardly wait to tell Cecilia

I’m gonna write a love poem
a butterfly in the bum poem
fill my pen with ink, now will ya

I’ll write a steamy sex poem
a tyrannosaurus rex poem
that’s just what I’ll do fer Cecilia

it will not a vexed poem
nor a neurotic quite perplexed poem
with joy it’ll surely fill ya

this perfect hum at work poem
this suit is just my fit poem
this poem that I done wrote fer Cecilia


My Favorite Things

blond girls in Spandex and brunettes in leather
white satin dresses in spite of the weather
screaming in pillows
those voices she brings
these are a few of my favorite things

stockings, pierced nipples, and purring like kittens
spanking a stripper with soft woolen mittens
rolling in Jello
to see what it brings
these are a few of my favorite things

touching in public her sweet folded places
flooding the nighttime with longing embraces
pressing on dimples
to see if she sings
these are a few of my favorite things

when the rope bites
when the whip stings
when I’m feeling mad
I simply remember my favorite things
and then I don’t feel so bad

[I wrote this years ago as a response to a complaint from L, a conversation which probably went something like this:

“Packages tied up in strings?”
“There are things I like better.”
“I suppose there are.”

Obviously there are reasons to prefer my version.]