He ate his plastic bag of fruit
in a sea of sweet snicker doodle
as he rehearsed knock knock jokes
to dusty chairs across the table.
Then like gymnasium whistles
a blue tin bell hoarsely hollered
and thirty ducklings hurried
to waddle out a wood red door.
Now, superglue on race car shoes
root the beast to burning black top
as his mates play patty cake
with no room for pudgy paws.
He leans toward the hula hoops
but pink bowed girls unravel and wail
calling for the tank top boys to save
them from the smile of the beast.
So, he crouches on the tar and holds
his sweaty hands over pointed yellow teeth.
He moans to hide the angry growls
from a round belly tucked in ***** jeans.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 9:33 PM UTC
Lights like fireflies trapped in cans, hang
from frays of woolen string on a ceiling
bent from cracked planks into the shape
of a mushroom’s cap, an umbrella boat.
Underneath the molded oak sits the oars, sunk
half in the sand; a tattered cloak wraps a back
warped from the wet algae of the sea into the
shape of a green tortoise shell, an umbrella boat.
A chest on his chest, and a crown on his crown
protects his head and lays just ahead of the
waterline that creeps down the rotten ceiling
to a curled spine stuck to gold, an umbrella boat.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
My eyelids refuse to kiss, wide,
they retreat far into dirt and sky.
The bottom lid is too occupied
with the layers of black fudge
frosted below both my eyes.
The top cap, too green to budge,
starts a secret affair with the lady
wearing a fur scarf up on my ridge.
They ***** with needles of hair
to make their once-kin bleed red,
but the only veins that appear
are on the black and blue gem
swaddled in my glossy white quilt,
cracks of lava in its wet soft nest.
My eyelids refuse to kiss.
They fight like street lights built
over the glow of neon signs.
My eyelids refuse to kiss,
but my lashes grow lush.
When the sun rises again,
an eclipse covers them
with a final wink, a touch.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
The six-turned horns with yellow eyes
shivers in the crispy Olympus air
as a wave of clasping hands
claw at his wet blooded hair.
A man of the pebbles and mud,
a crook that grazed the land.
He grazed sixty years, but then,
anchored a fair folk on the red sea,
babes in the arms of the slopes below.
They were green and white, with smiles
and ears that savored his wispy white hair.
But a harsh winter came that
uncovered the black, they
dug it out of the caves; and so,
Gaia took their warm green away.
The people fought and spit as they
stole more slick from shadowed pits.
Friction sparking fires to burn their ire.
and the Ire spewed fire back at Him.
Now, the Horns stands betwixt their heat and the pit
shedding salt over their fall, not his, and
with a bleep tosses his cloven hooves over.
to leave them their green, to drown in black..
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
Within black feathers that perch on a pedestal, she
stands on an asphalt floor washed by static cymbals
that weave through bodies bumping clumsily together;
a sheen of she that rises up with eyes of red silver.
Eyes like a halo of stain glass windows over obsidian
with brown bear brows bristling at tees and suits
that slap and grab at the flow of her river of hair
winding over the hills and slopes of her dewy pear.
She sits and taps and drags a chip on her nail,
a red shattered mask of salty and wet sunsets.
The curl and pout of a finger and pointed chin
begets of me a twitch as if to hold her head.
I breathe in a shutter of her honeysuckle mist
that rushes to cover her meaty sweat and spit.
Its sugar tips into my sandy lips and tongue and
begs me to dive into that oasis of Sangria breath.
My hot skin stretches its trembling hairs to caress
her walnut varnished chest that peeks barely
out of her hide-and-go-seek black velvet dress.
Cheeks and belly stuck in a butterfly grip, I gasp
as she turns and beneath peachy lips gives a grin.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
We dance, two silhouettes under a laundromat
that inch and creep closer like mice, black blips
on a blizzard earth thick with moonlight that lean
and dip, dodging icicles to touch cold fingertips.
Her knuckles in a thin wool sweater, she slips
into the hose of my big overcoat as I brush
snow dust from the nest of her chestnut hair;
wet tennis shoes kiss my slick leather boots.
I stand too close to the sun. The warmth blows
the snow asunder, and sets fire to my lungs; as
my fingers begin to stray; pools of cocoa, lined
in eyeliner laid too thick, draw my face to hers.
Automobiles and meaty mid-afternoon meals,
red bricks and evergreens, trains and frostbite,
skyscrapers and knee scrapes, all leave me and
dissolve in amber bubbles as I lick her liquor lips.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
My cotton candy blue eyes squint and
hide from the flow of orange marmalade
that drips off of big and burning Mr. Sun.
Splat! Splat! drums my stubby hands as I
play patty cake with the sticky sticky mud
that pools underneath green skyscrapers.
I like to come here and visit the fuzzy crawlers
and the yellow belly bees, (Don't touch!), and
even the scary green worms. Brother does not...
Brother is orange and wet and hot and sick;
Mr. Sun gives him all the sweet jelly, and
the dust from the coughing metal beasts
is making him ghoulish (or so mommy says).
He pants and he pants like he's finished
a looong race or like he's running away
from Mr. Farmer again, but he picks out
dinner, a tasty, yellow trophy (1st place!).
He looks down and smiles at me as I
make coco-cake to bring to his big party;
his teeth have orange in them too, now.
I wish Mr. Sun dried his eyes like me.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
look into my eyes
look into my eyes
and see that bright white
see it glow in your sight
see-
too deep
it's ocean blue frozen
into ice of Neptune
rivers of pummeled glass
dust mountain peaks and lead
down to a ravine of Lapis Lazuli
search its hidden depths
search deep within your chest
search-
deeper still
it's black water
blind men sunk in a cave
tears and blood
leak from shadows paved
to a floor of stone, sticking cold
run from their reaching grasp
run from their snapping jaws
run-
deepest of all
it's white noise
snow on television screens
a tiny spark of
dreams and secret things
from a naked boy, fearful of the night
see that shining light
see that glittering light
see that fading light
as you
stare out my open eyes.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 8:30 PM UTC
Skeletal sycamore branches stick out
atop crowning heaps of golden saw dust,
protruding portcullis on walls obscuring
a paradise lost in a tilted hourglass.
Trophies of green sea stone
spring tall, out the arid desert dirt,
shimmering in the spotlight and
scattering rays off a polished exterior.
Cages of bone and eyeless skulls
are covered in feathery craftsman,
sculpting leathery carrion meat
into monuments with chisel beaks.
Apollo's wavy bangs dangle down from
hurricanes of dusty satin sheets
infusing the air with a rippling haze,
a curtain shrouding the main play.
Evanescent art adorns the dunes
erupting in bursts of swirling spirals
at the lightest twirl of the wind's
dancing digits on the gritty canvas.
And lost in mirage, icy springs
attract flourishing palm trees
bearing sickly sweet treasures;
a moist fruit in a desert garden.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
You peel back lips and digits, white and pink,
at a familiar green iris on an asphalt street.
But inside your eyes, at the back of the skull,
lie a million brilliant murals, on a canvas wall,
of angry grey clouds on a sun lit grass plain.
Your brown bushy dam quivers with the strain,
then with dawn's light, the grimace breaks.
But between lines on the foreign dirt page,
book worms wiggle in a shifting and strange
pattern of words with a silk syllable twist.
You push through dead wood and slip
in a wool sweater cocoon to tenderly kiss.
But through the gap between your brows
is shared little giggles, without a sound,
and an entire narrative, like sushi, wrapped.
You feel the red ribbon is being stretched
before snapping across your moving chest.
But a beat before, in a torrent of despair,
were screams in a gym with angry tears,
at limbs on the edge of bending at the knee.
You bloom on a branch of the family tree
adding more rings before breaking free.
But in between the ticks on your clock,
ages and phases pass by and time-
stops.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC