A weeping willow
weeps for me

it wipes the ground
and washes my feet

a canary sings a chirpy
little tune

that might be melancholy
if I let it

but time is too short
it was the last thing

you had to teach
me

Once at the guillotine

Now an out-of-focus angel

"Crime is shame, not the scaffold!"

She's got a '45 strapped

To each of her thighs

Speaks French with a Martian accent

Wishes she was a siren

When bathed in happy thoughts

Wishes she was the ladybird

When her wings

Confuse amuse transfuse

Into dreams of blood

Lukewarm prisoner

Detained for seven years

Now lies beside her

Asking for a helping hand

She loosens her corset

But tightens her grip

Boxes of stuff
dropped
by mechanical pigeons

flitting about
from street to street

eggs and spam
sizzling in a frying pan

the bouncing ball
the Yellow Brick Road

if we follow the plan if we paint
by the numbers

our wedding picture
on the mantle

forever young
as we slide gracefully

into our golden
years

We're no longer young
or wet behind the years

are jokes are old
and they groan

like hunger pains
from someplace

down deep

but what is it
we hunger for

and will we find it
before it's time

to lay down
and go to sleep

but what we need
maybe just one little
thing

like a crayon
magenta
then

viola

a picture

the loaves
the fishes
to feed the soul

with seven baskets
left over

Just one red candle
******* into a log with peeling bark

burns

with fresh wax
dripping

down the sides

so much could have been said
should've been said

but now's not
the time

What was once
child's play with thrills
and spills

is now a useful tool
for adults to shape
and mold

the World
one broadened
and bird's eye view

at a time