Thursday, February 23, 2006


…or maybe just a really bad poet

How do I lust after thee?
Let me rhyme the ways.
…or speak in the tongues of boastful oarsmen
their swollen, ripe and sinewy shoulders,
pulsating travails
up and down
your quavering Mediterranean spine,
dipping soliloquies into the bottomless wells of your ear.

and ever-so-slightly-crazed,
wandering about the saffron palaces of Cadiz,
only low sustained booming grunts,
conversing my internal disgrace.
Just like a porpoise in heat,
or Cro-Magnon fish out of porthole.
I am the El Cid of your incredulity
Oh, captain, my conqueress.
Not castrated in shame,
but underwear bulging inside out,
glazed donut
without its tidbit.

To you,
who ignites such giddy clueless bliss,
with one sticky membrane
hot glue-gunned to each sloppy kiss.
Balancing my contorted limbs,
as they manically flail and flay,
like a decapitated chicken,
auditioning Cirque du Soleil.

If I were the proprietor of spirits,
drunk tipsy, to name after you a lager
nay liquor – never ye fear;
if a painter, cut off my ear –
Superlatives bid such waste of art and time,
Hey baby, doth ye not dig my rhyme?
No please, my darling,
Ye quintessence of feminine loveliness…
No restraining order.
No mace…
Would doth a young maiden,
Like ye, rather suck face?

And the moral of this piece is
“Can you say, “stalker?
I know ye can!


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