~for Marissa Fanelli<
*living with a woman who loves her
some vampires,
is difficult for endless is the sweet sorrow,
of
never having known the thrill of someone biting her neck for a transformative transfusional exchange of body fluids,
makes her sigh periodically as she applies
her makeup
Dutiful man, you do something about it!
I sweep in when damsel is vulnerably unsuspecting, sweeping her blond tress
from her neck, applying combinatory
kisses and nibbles, she shivers delightedly,
b u t
inevitably
indubitably
emits a gasping sigh of great and
delicious length,
signaling she must finish her makeup
applications lest she be forced to begin
all over again
and
her deep regret
that her-nice jewish lover is,*
still no zombie
p.s. and when she makes a sign of the cross
using both pointer fingers, to shoo me away
I retort
“Boy oh boy lady, have you got the wrong zombie”
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:11 AM UTC
deaf eyes, blind ears, pens down!
two of my English Teachers,
from high school and college
from way way back when,
i requested, critiqued my poems,
cause they could, ex-teachers...et al
They said:
Your emails are too short,
your poems are too long,
we recommend that your
quit this, do what we say:
pens down!
Your poems are travelogues
to places in your mind, we’ve
got no interest in visiting, Egypt
and Exile, cemeteries in a privy,
time to get a new travel agency!!!
Your imagery, ars obscura to us,
everyone but you, despite too many
copious notes, which proves our point,
you need to
smile more and write less.
Just because you’ve got creases,
lines all across your face, doesn’t
mean any wisdom came with them,
nor did you listen in our classes,
we suggest, resolutely, give it a rest.
all the best, & do not ask again
Dec 26, 2024
Dec 26, 2024 at 9:07 AM UTC
do not address you with frequency
but here, where I am disguised in
a public facing place, it is easy relief
that recent reversals, have occurred,
contusions upon my self, body, mind,
scattered have combined to cause an
erosion of soul
of course this matters little to you, but
nonetheless will inform anyone’s eyes
who happenstance falls upon this page,
and I am gripped by paralysis. life-by-me-
threatened, and I’m ashamed of myself,
but offer no forgiveness nevertheless
what I value has not changed, but my
core is wilting, eroded by the confluence
of circumstances, aging of time, and no
one to ask for guidance, or support genuine,
I’m soft froze exterior, interiors rocky ice
ask you do nothing. but someday - when?circumstance will circle back, perchance
to this literate plea, that asks for nothing,
posting gone unnoticed, on a bulletin board
I reserve the next three lines to unsatisfactorily not explain, just
to inform, erosions of pieces of me, now gone
in these two lines, a fine of fine will have to
be paid, in a currency of cell’s dying quietly
and here, I,
Ogdiddy,
cease, in every way possible
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 8:27 AM UTC
Short Term Memory Loser
<>
the joke on you,
with foolish hobgoblins hobbled,
them youse~peeps whom to themselves
think “oh, I’ll never forget this precise
precious momentary
fragment”
haha ha on you!
more fragging(1) of our minds
into piecemeal shards
claiming, boasting, that it will
live forever
within this rented
storage unit, leased
& renewed analy,
upkeep-no-needed
haha ha on me,
the ironic ticking pricking of
my brain, when least expected,
in my kitchen sinking awaning,
days, the poem potions potentials,
fly to mind with the fast and furious,
with missile accuracy entering, gleaming,
but explode before I can script the scribble,
and the notional dissipates into ****** ashy,
left with a title, no body, a perma-headless ***
mulish poet hapless, sap~less, sticky stuck
with no idea what my intended writ
was to be it, and I consign that.title
to death by draft, never to be
credited created or crafted,
cause that’s how bad my
short term memory has
devolved
or more dimply put,
slam, bam, thank you man,
the whole blows up faster
than one can utter our
American anthem,
*** IS WRONG
with the Dallas Cowgirls?
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 7:40 AM UTC
“Remember when we used to pour our own milk in Starbucks? I miss those days,” one patron wrote nostalgically on X earlier this month... Now in the process of getting reinstatement…
<>
oddity sujet for a poeme. and it begs with
hidden overtones even, for an overture, please,
even the babes&big babies among us with barely a decade to call their own,
long for the un~
complicated places, days, even the moments
momentous that will resonate evermore,
even the most favored nation of that stuffed
animal, that cannot be dismissed, discarded,
who will join them in their no loco parenting of a
snug single of a freshman doormroom,
with no shame, when the hungry boys are
permitted entry to the chamber, blushing from the hopefulness's of potency of
getting first lucky,
foolishly sarcastic remarking on
this sad sacred animal presence, and being subsequently serviley, quick dismissed,
with a stupid,wry twisty, puzzled squared landing on their mouth, where the just sensed
**passionate kisses will ow/now
never arrive**
yes, nostalgic
commences amidst the multiple in ~ puts
from early days, ever on,
sorted, filed, systematically,
in a system greater than the
dewey decimal of our libraries
and we experimented with
numerous pours of variable quantities
of
various “milks”
lesson taught when the station is unbusy,
and cute yong men offer helpful hints,
calorically, nutrient-wise, taste varietals,
and leaving a phone number
on the wax container of the
trialed oat milk
which is so a
thing
hard to miss, hard to lose
perhaps this instant of rapture rappore
will lead to a long life,
maybe till spring semester when
you,
a saturated years older
slightly more cautious,
*and yet^
after a hundred nyets,
in a San Fran Starbucks,
near the first job,
it happens, and memories are
rejiggered, restoring priorities
andy
don’t tell nobody
that stuffed animal
is resting comfortably
on her bedroom
in an apt.
Shared with two others,
To all entering, holy of holies,
as a prescreening no~tech
stuffed, well hugged
animal device will
assign a
pass/fail grade
Nov 16, 2024
Nov 16, 2024 at 7:25 AM UTC
*majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies
adverbs in adversity
that modify our satisfying actions,
gut punch in our eyes,
scrambling the taste buds,
now inoperable,
incapacitated to differentiate
what is disturbed - what is sweet -
what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to
my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
come they in 1000
radium-tipped can-nisters of
seriously humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you by a few itinerant followers,
brave enough to follow me into the
depths majestic,
disordered by radioactive incomprehension,
contrary harmonies,
of no particular disorder,
a thousand times,
a thousand lines,
but none
as perfect poetic as a landmark of
hallelujah*
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 9:18 AM UTC
platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive, never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”
I listened, warming,
but warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry
of those who cannot
decide what to write
next”
I drove away,
in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms
retired at the crime scene)
lest she
****** macabre me
like in an Agatha Christie.
I foresaw a drama
developing of her
hanging me by
my bottoms pj,
knotted two by too
tightly trite my leggings
drawn to prevent
the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to
peeve me
into panting:
one leg named
moon and
the other,
June.
so I decided
what the heck!
I’ll go firstly,
hanging her early,
for the greater sake
of literature
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 8:58 AM UTC
he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically
and of course his name
his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son
they ask,
no, they
declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?
Oh no, of course not.
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyming
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 8:55 AM UTC
every day we make rules
for ourselves, gonna do this,
never eat that, drink less,
write shorter (ha!),
write
less, more, better, so as I edit
the preponderance and infiltration
of that word,
(that shall remain nameless),
it
plague my scripts, diminishes my
verbal acuity, curses my perpetuity,
inserts itself without asking, is a
rudeness to your host, an intolerable
sin that cannot be abided,
know now
that it shall be banished from speech,
daily conversation, a heretic, born to
die in The Void, spent superhero,
a place languages send there superfluous
constituents, to live, hopefully disappearing
via the Ark of Archaic…
*weirdly, my writing pointer tips sudden
drained of blood, my composure and
composition disabled, when I hear a
sumptuous sobering voice declare:*
Sit down and shut up
to which authoritative declarative
I reply:
“Yes, God, Roger that,”
adding,
“over and out”
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 3:25 AM UTC
ever since seven ate eight,
cannot expect much
too much return on
my in-vestments,
given the hole in
my accounting.
five, six, seven, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.
brunch?
neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know
what time it is
by the meal’s
nomenclature
nothing sensible rhymes
with supper
except for
crupper
and scupper,
both of which
like brunch,
leave me confused,
wholey unsatisfied,
as I’m clueless
as to what each means,
just like,
brunch.
by the way,
do have the time?
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 3:10 AM UTC