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Izshe Jan 2013
He sits at his desk
Contemplating his unfulfilled destiny.
His bulky form shadows old letters.
Thick fingers linger and ****** photos
And dusty promises,
His "Awakening"
Turned into a funeral
Of ideals and love.
Oh yes . . .
His integrity is in tact.
Izshe Jan 2013
My Dad
Didn't speak,
Worked endlessly,
Ate bowls of white bread
With milk and sugar
Before bedtime,
Got up early
By himself,
Percolated morning coffee -
Blip Blip Blip -
Into my bedroom
From the kitchen.
He watched over me
Protected me
Loved me

Why didn't you send that boy away?

Because you never would have spoken to me again
And I could not have borne that.

Now I know.
You were right.
And I apologize.
Izshe Jan 2013
I am the "Lap Cat".
"Lap cat"???
Why am I
being called a "Lap Cat"? --
Then the "steak" (*** roast)
came out.
Oh yea . . . !
We be likin' the "steak".
In fact,
I'd do most anything -
even be a "Lap Cat" -
to keep the "steak" comin'.
two other critters
with whom I share this humble abode,
have discovered
my secret passion
doggone it,
their share of the loot.
In case you're bad at math,
this leaves less for me.
I'll just
have to
puke up the Meow Mix
a little more often
to accentuate my point.
The battle
of the (animal vs human) minds
has begun;
don't underestimate
the devious methods
of . . .
the "Lap Cat".

Izshe Jan 2013
The sacrificial lamb
On the altar of your manhood
Bleats not for mercy
Calmly places
Precious head on stone
Cold and yet familiar.

Descent of hefty glistening blade
Splatters blood-stained
Doubts and fears,
Drenching peasants' shirts,  
Of patriarchal reasoning.

Slightest quiver
In resolve,
(The lady's
Last refute,)
Gives pause,
A slight reflection.
But no,
The Jester
Gains his poise.
With thick dark fingers
Fate explodes,
Lest uncertainty reign the day.

The quintessential
Manly gesture
The righteous perpretrator
As if the deed
Was done to Self.
Izshe Jan 2013
you dont get away with anything
my dear
you plan
and wish
and manipulate
your monsters
into manageable darlings
you neatly putty them into corners
of a box
you have purchased
at a pretentious gift store

you speak sweet words to them
they whisper their concerns to you
you nod knowlingly
ask questions
act interested
hope that they will soon fall asleep
and secretly pretend that they do not belong to you

next morning
or next week
or next lifetime
they come squealing
out of their reverie
clawing for attention

sometimes they even try to **** you

you don't get away with anything
my dear
Izshe Nov 2012
Go away little wisp.
I know what you are up to.
I pay the slightest notice,
you morph into an innocent, seductive puff
strutting to and fro
offering companionship,
yes, even love.
I admire you; you gust, fat and fluffy.
I compliment; you explode into a cumulous mass hovering ominously above.
I worry; ashen gray lithely overtakes beguiling white.
Rumbling belly fills with rage and swells with forboding.
There is no longer an escape.
My thoughts
are pulled into shadow
and slapped onto earth
in torrents of unrestrained rage.
Completely engulfed, I choke, and
swirl in great muddy vortexes down lost drains.
Who am I?
Who are my thoughts?
I only have you to grasp onto,
and that is no solace.
Izshe Oct 2012
Give me a pink hat
to match the blonde hair.
Give me twenty-five men.
Let one of them be drunk.
Give me a deck of cards
that sends me good luck.
Give me great heaps of money,
ready to serve.
And let's see what happens.
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