Tomcat has his breakfast
of Mice Krispies
and reads his mewspapers
when Molly comes out with a snarl
in her purr-ple pajamas

she claws him all over
there’s such a caterwauling
and Tomcat emerges bewildered:
What? Why?

She’s upset that all night
her hubby Tomcat
called out for Cat Woman in his sleep
And what do I do with Tomcat
after this Claw Enforcement? thinks Molly
*Oh, just hiss and make up

She thinks that puking will make her
Pretty
She believes that starving will make her
Beautiful
She thinks that cuts lined up on her arm will make her
Pitiful
She believes that bruises dotted on her thighs will make her
Lovable
She thinks that suicide will make her
Better
She believes that not being alive will make her
Fixed
She thought that bulemia would have made her
Pretty
She thought that anorexia would have made her
Beautiful
She thought that cutting would have made her
Pitiful
She thought that bruising herself would have made her
Loveable
She thought that suicide would have made her
Better (It just made her dead)
She thought that not being alive would have made her
Fixed (It just broke her neck)
She thought she knew the solution to everything
(But every solution she knew just killed her more)

Ah, the saints and the holy men
and the followers and the Holy Books
Ah, the wise men and those with deep insight
and those who are able to penetrate inner wisdom
(such wisdom as beyond the ken of the masses,
of the ordinary human)
they have declared the Eternal Truth
to the question:
What is better than Eternal Bliss?
Nothing

But O most Wise Seers and Prophets:
Verily, a little pizza is better than nothing -
therefore Pizza is better than Eternal Bliss.


You want a bite?

Oh God, how are you still talking?
I can feel myself nodding,
head bouncing like a metronome,
Yes. No. Maybe.
Of course I’m listening, Babe.
Except I’m not - obviously.
I’m  watching that girl walk by, all lithe limbs,
languidly lounging past the window.
I wonder where she’s going,
I wonder where you’re going -  
with this tiresome tirade.
Your eyes rolling, like the reels on the fruit machine,
No delay on your train of thought.
Hard to keep track, can’t read the signals,
eyes filled with smoke,
trapped by your tedious tannoy,
covering old ground,
chugging relentlessly,
chanting incessantly,
crowing endlessly,  
My job? It’s fine.
My health? It’s fine!
Finances? Enough to get a pint in!
Can I risk a diversion?
Why are you broadcasting this nonsense?
When will it stop?
Pregnant.
Pause.
Wait. What?

Elect, select and write it down!
Stare at it for 60 seconds, no more,
Then write the first thing that comes along!

It matters not if it is
Inferning or just churning,
Cold or hot,
Matters not to anyone
On this site,
Even if it is explicitly ***** (alriiiiiight!)

Hell, matters not
Even if it is absent from the
Dictionary's stock!

Matters not
If it is two or letters twelve,
**! **! **! reserved for Santa Claus,
Rambunctious, reserved for his Elves!

Put, pick a word and work it well,
In fact, give it hell!
Squeeze it, free it, and when you're done,
Just leave it the fk alone.

Milk it for all the silk
In it,
And if its only cotton,
Turn it in to cotton candy,
Which rhymes with dandy,
But I refuse to use that rhyme,
But thinking about using randy!

Put, walk, nay, run
That word, now single,
But soon to be married,
Upon whatever you write,
Chew it up and spit it out
After, but a solitary bite.

Taste it,
Run the  tongue's buds upon it,
Make it a flavorful word,
Then fool us with the saddest funeral dirge!

Vanilla passed away today,
The Chocolates, mourning, both,  dark and white,
By celebrating  and laughing long into the night...

This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!

It was the early days of the organic food craze
and my wife, ever a slave to the latest fads
(which disposition sometimes benefitted me pleasurably
but mostly cost me dearly)
made me run on an errand
(like: “Fido – go, fetch!”)
to get some organic vegetables
and arriving, I blurted out to the produce guy, stumbling:
“Some ****** for my wife” –
and that wise guy, Oxford-educated as he was
(though a failed Professor, so ended up at the greengrocer’s)
he said: “That you must induce or encourage in your wife, Sir;
I cannot and will not be of service in that connection.”

And I slowed down and I said:
“Well, dear fellow – for my wife, have you any organic vegetables?”
And Oxford-educated as he was, he did not understand such fads
having mostly a sedate and Classical demeanour
and he pointed his most English nose to the air;
and so I attempted again to sensible-phrase my inquiry:
“Are your vegetables -
and this I ask on account of my esteemed wife -
sprayed with poisonous chemicals?”
And the Oxford guy apprehended now, and he pronounced:
“Poisonous chemicals for your spouse
you must procure yourself, Sir”

Now, that was an idea. I knew Oxford-educated guys
were smart in some way or other.

And since then I have been free of my wife.

I have no need to run on errands for no baby, no more;
though I do have to count bars,
limited as my numerical skills are,
as is my verbal proficiency.

And the Oxford guy, meanwhile, I have it from the grapevine,
has set up an ******* Food Chain Store, worldwide;
I knew he’d go places, sooner or later, far and global