Somebody got some diethylstilbestrol?
Just started my moon
Plus words that rhyme within themselves
Are a super hot turn on
Which is exactly for what this is prescribed
Don’t box it in ladies
May be circumcised, but won’t be circumscribed
Well fancy that, two words
With another little naughty word right inside
Whew! It’s hot and sticky
Hand over a popsicle too, would ya Dahlin’
Havin’ a mind melt
Time for this child to get imbibed

To emulous praise of great simplicity
Whose tale, before me coming here, was told
But soon shall come summer tomatoes’ harvest
Leaf after leaf sprouting now, who play
In soft breezes of spring air warming
Modest speech and glowing courtesy
Then a flowering so distinct and delicate
Ah, yet smell of this particular chlorophyll
Lingering like incense of religious experience
Makes me wait with baited taste buds
For “Aha” to be exclaimed
By New Jersey-ites who have seeded heirlooms
In humble suburban backyards
And wait for that delicious immortal juice

She surrenders herself to passion
Like moth drawn to flame
As if color red
Which cannot be removed from blood
Attaches herself to it solidly
So that pry bars or even acid bath
Could not remove her
From what she longs in her heart
But cannot feel with sensible mind
Anguish is her first love

Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.

What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.

A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.

Sun begins its rise, taking baton from setting moon
Freak closes curtain, sealing darkness within his room
Compulsive habits draw and push, metering this tune

Addict sees the devil, meandering wide labyrinth
Drunkard finds green fairy within precious Absinthe
Religious zeal is just a steal from place called Nazareth

Judging from the junkies, who line up on the street
Methadone clinics make perfect meet and greet
Cops are robbers, faking stats, keeping rule of their own beat

Faithful followers of god-pill-poppers do it just the same
All the people seeking steeples, much, much the same
When will devotee know a drug by any godly name?

It all goes round and in this town, martyrs everywhere
Adhering doom upon a tomb, getting closer there
What we don’t know is soon to show a resemblance of somewhere

Similar brick within trust, this stack, a wall
Quietly nestled in its like kind
How building grow ever so tall
Aesthetics determines turrets that wind
A clinker brick amongst, its unusual find

Remembering philosophy and not style
Arts & Crafts taking account natural
Movement stylizing; making worthwhile
Grace given to home by an irrational
Misshapen brick making plain more masterful

I wish to be the clinker brick
Not same as all the others
Happily I apply a quirky trick
What care I if some may shudder?
I simply exist to add clinkered color

Fussily he figures, that’s not good enough for him
Excessively high standards got his best, and then
Contempt for average qualities; things he had abhorred
Became almost everything, as he always needed more

His code of behavior, to one, might seem ideal
Criterion of excellence would show at every meal
Fork, knife and spoon oh-so polished, and set precisely
All a fanciful show, and done so ever nicely

Particular attention to each and every detail
In acquisition of mate, indisputably he’d fail
For who could ever live up to these extreme conventions?
Or be it prissy of me, to mention these intensions?

Mr. Fastidious to some, might seem the status quo
A state in which display, is an always-complex show
Fail not to follow all rules, as they are set to be
Or you might dine alone, a wordy one like me