these thoughts are skittering katy-didn'ts
seizing and disjointed like twitchy smother-ees
sometimes i look at death despairingly
as a vacation i can't afford.

i only write poems to practice my prose
so i have fifteen minutes to write this down
and i can't hear anything with the bells in my ears
clinking together like our silver tongues.

march never seems real year after year
even when i explored your tan lines
while the upside-down sun scorched my hair
and we measured the various states of abandon.

i'm never as morose around other people
as i wish i could be, sincerely.
they are a mirror to remind me, cruelly,
that i am a sentient meatbag.

my grandma likes to tell me that i have compelled her
to replace her carpets 3 times.

once, on easter,
when i gleefully peeled brightly dyed eggs
and
upon discovering the contents,
disappointed by their deception
that something so beautiful could be so mundane
and uninspired on the inside
with a scent that reviled,
naturally,
one after another,
i ground them into the rug
until yolks and whites mingled
satisfactorily
with fibers from the seventies
and became something far more interesting.

the second episode
met me with shears.
how was i to know
that carpet does not grow back?

i like to think i pulled her
out of the eighties
when i fell down the
metal-plated stairs,
split my head open
and seeped blood in pools
deep into the sea foam green.

a new carpet erased the evidence
but
a score of years has passed
and my forehead
is still proudly marked
a reminder of the day
i fell and
shattered on the inside.

these days i fill my lungs with smoke
to insulate my brain
and consider the londoners
who i haven't seen in far too long.
michael with his spitting essex accent
and juliet who michael says 'sounz welfee'
telling me to put a kettle on and then
complaining when
i leave the tea bag in the mug.
"i like it strong to the last drop" i insist
and they call me a 'daft ****'
and michael says that if all yanks made tea
like i do
then it's no wonder we were willing
to throw it in the harbor.
we all take our tea in different shades.
and they can tell just glancing at the cup
that i've over-poured the milk.
they seem to always consider hue
those londoners
who know their nuances.
                                               afterall
they were raised beneath shades of grey.

perhaps i see more delicately,
too.

rickety rackety hickory sticks 10
bundled for the burning 6
finicky syncope, verse that predicts 10
a pleasure twice returning. 7


clickety clackety silver-wrought tongues 10

kittens and cats in cahoots 7

its four-thirty-a-m and i've thought up some thoughts,
with the inspiring aid of too many shots.
and on what should my facebooking-eye soon alight,
but the dismal reminder that tonight is tonight?

oh, it seems it's your birthday, even while you snore,
and rigidly, it's your birthday, even though i'm poor,
and it remains your birthday (though i wish it wer'n't),
as there's no worse day for a birthday than current.

your birthday falls on a least halcyon of days,
a day like all days and undeserving of praise.
the only thing that july ever did well
was birthing my darling (from the depths of hell).

[and making me a versified cheater/
by ******* around with my lyrical meter]

alack, alas, i'm poor as ****
so i'll hand you these stanzas and that is it,
borne of the gods and holy writ,
my gift to you: my sparkling wit.

[essentially, i just promised an empty box/
but whatevs. you can **** all my figurative---]

[Fanfare, obviously]

This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.

Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.

Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).

So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.

She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.

And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.

Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.

But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.

Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.

But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.