|Ode To Samantha
You are my one true love.
You remind me
of dew on a blade of grass
during the middle of a rainstorm.
You make me feel
as if I were five feet tall.
Your smile reminds me
of a mouth with teeth in it.
I cannot get enough of you --
even though there is definitely
enough of you for me to get.
My heart feels something
that can’t be denied.
I think it's gas.
You make me feel so special.
I love you,
But do you love me?
You remind me
of a woman.
When I look at you,
I become nauseous -
I mean nervous!
are like two round objects
that can be found in the eye sockets
of a human being.
is like a lethal gas bomb
that could kill me in my sleep.
When I think of you,
I think of a beautiful woman
With great personality,
but, then I am brought back to reality.
You are too beautiful for me.
I hope you love me,
For you know that I love you.
When you are around,
My heart beats faster,
But then I realize that it's only you
and not some big, horrible, ugly monster
with big fangs.
Then I am relieved.
are like bones with layers
of skin surrounding them.
is like a protruding piece of cartilage
covered with skin and containing
enough hair to strangle a person
Your neck is like,
well, actually, I have no idea what your
neck is like,
since I can't even find it!
is like a round, flabby hunk of skin
located beneath your mouth.
And so is the other one,
and the other one,
and the other one.
When I see you,
I want to run and hide,
But I don't, because I love you,
and because you are loaded with money
and you will die soon, anyway.
So I say to you,
"You're special --
you're not like the other girls!"
abandoned in a random
act of apathetic, lack of feeling,
change of heart, and unappealing slap
of truth and all-revealing false excuses,
never calls, bullshit lies, and lack of balls
to say the truth that times have changed
and love is lost, and all we’ve shared
is tossed away like shattered glass
in picture frames and, though
you may not feel the
same, I’m still in
I say, unsympathetically.
“Who cares if your
The corned beef
on the table smells
like pie. An angry look,
a bitter stare. I hate the saffron
daisies on her shirt. I take the silver-
bladed kitchen knife and drive it deep
into the meat. I offer her a slice. “I hate
the taste of corned beef,” is her reply.
“Is that why you’re so frigid?”
I feel the sting
of fingers on my face,
and her hand
retracting in an instant.
We share a look of bitter angst,
of mutual disgust. I bite into a greasy
slice and find myself erect. The hotness
of my cheek where she just slapped, and
the hotness of the greasy beef contradict
the coldness of my tone. She tells me
to go fuck myself and I find the
irony amusing. I never
liked her mother.
The window blinds have lost the war against
The rising morn. The amber hue has shattered
Through and slain the curtains drawn.
The shadows in my darkened room erode before
The dawn. Then, slowly disappearing,
They evoke a tender yawn. My eyes arise
In faint surprise to hear the denouement.
And there beside me sleeping lies a naked
Debutante. Her skin the flesh of angels
And her color as the swan. And in
Triumphant morning rays which graze upon
Her arm, like brave courageous antelope,
Or brazen hungry fawn, her face remains
A strange melange of innocence and calm.
So, I taste her freckled shoulders, and lace
My fingers in her palm. For though the blaze
Of evening fades, our flame shall linger on...
|Waking Up Abandoned
standing in an empty
bathroom, staring at
myself and asking,
“What is wrong with me?”
reeks of urine
and my skin of your
infected sexual secretions
and my mind deletes the
seconds that we rolled
into abandon and it
centers on the
that I’ll find.
Splashing water on
my face, attempting to
erase the one-night stands and
empty love without protection like
a glove without a hand, and I feel the
brisk and cool sensation on my closed and
weary eyes, bleary with the lack of sleep from
plowing deep inside your every night is someone
new religion as I hunger like a pigeon for a crumb of
something more. I let you come, but still you go. You
fucked me like a whore. I touch my eye, and feel the dry
and cracking skin beneath my touch. I don’t know why I
do this to myself. My reflection plays it cool and answers,
“Stud, the golden rule is never let a woman get you down.”