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he called me *****

when I left the room,
he called me *****,
My tombs of Shakespeare,
fellow poets all, my wall decor.

well familiar with fools,
reported the occurrence
upon my return.

confronted, it,
he did not deny,
for he understood
at that point,
exceedingly well.

was not angered, simply asking,
since he fancied himself a poet, did
he know any rhymes for that word?

in the interest
of poetic brevity,
answered for him.


gave him reason to use
those words

after that, he addressed me
as mistress, or *******,
with respect, an attitude
that was previously
menu unavailable.

what then shall we call you?

the Bard,
his Band of Brothers, and I
jointly confabed.

undignified is slave,
Shakespeare opined,
human dignity needs

my walled observer,
co-conspirator of
all that transpired,
drew upon his
own source material,

yes, quite apropos,
my considered reply,
a fool always, and still,
after all, was he not
himself not a
son of a *****

as much as I,
Brandy Channing, is, was, daughter, proud, child
of one great and wonderful *****.

neglect and respect do not rhyme,
{will grant you one,
will give you none.

will demand one,
will send you some.

you poets,
always thinking
you can get away
with murdering
the English language.

***** of assonance,
you do not fool me,
I’ve killed a thousand
men’s “original”rhymes,
while you’ve been
fast sleeping,
they’ve been
fast seeping.

I’ll give you no quarter,
won’t spare a lousy dime,
my spare change,
is poet-unaffordable,
cheap suited hucksters.

work and ****
do rhyme.  
you can be one,
if you do not
put in some.

work by day,
slave by night.

awake to the sun’s
inquiry, what have
you done for me


all you have to show is this
scribbilus miscellaneous,
tear up your lice-ence,
poetic and DMV, you
ain’t going nowhere.

was branded by hot iron,
early on,
brandy channing.

your best nightmare,
guidance counselor,
great big fairie,
poseur, exposer,
m u r d e r e r
of awful poetry}

what do you stand for?
neglect and respect
you stand
that is what they come seeking.
yet, when I tell them pretending
Boy Scouts to
be prepared!
for the burning,
they gulp saying ok,
but the higher heat of the fear
feted in their eyes, them instruments
that never lies,
so I send them home, unscathed,
scathed just enough that
they’ll never ask

I’m so easy to please.

Queens Loves Poets. (for Em MacKenzie)

Kings love making war,
no wonder, the people,
remember well fond
their femi-mine
rulers with femi-fervor,
Queens, who loved poets.

You fear Jesus,
Adore Mary,
generosity of understanding.
because it is hard
for woman to do
till she has been abused
by men who thought
they were kingly by being
beknighted, unbeheaded
for now at least.

Men who invented Brandy,
in the be of night,
were stupid men,
they forgot alcohol, the
Brandy of Channing,
is not fit for manning,
for it is a

toxin, like me, like me.
long after you’ve logged off,
the screen, now, just room temperature,
no longer warming plate hot, a good feeling lingers,
the glowing, slowing remains of our days first visitation,
reducing to a single dot, fading gunshot message, but unstated:

”I was here, but moved on,
I am your first, yet you, are not mine...”

the Dylanesque mystique, mystifying, mind-burring,
in the air hanging, those words sticky stuck in your craw,
ear worm ya, until, you utter rush, desperate to return,
shoot, what was that poem, its title, the author, ****,
on what-was-that-poetry-site’s-name?

Hello Poetry! and now it’s too late, you’re not entranced,
no darling, you’re entrapped, fly glued to my sticky heart,
you, served raw, with the hook, line and sinker still attached,
you, my friend, are now my poet ******, my belonging, for
fourscore and evermore there is no cure, no cutoff, no resisting.
fresh meat for the poets beat, and you still have not even tasted
the salt water words, the rhymes that will tie up, and prolapse
your heart ******* in the love poems, ha, so when they ask what’s
the name of your new friend, the one that you are keeping so secret, tell them, shyly, bravely, whispering outstandingly, upright, shouting forthrightly: it’s me, Brandy Channing, and your soul is now mine to keep...for as long as deemed necessary to extract my ****** poems essence, so be my parasite and I will be you mistress, the mutual infection meaning but one thing! we, you and I, will live always apart, always together, yes darling, be distressed, you’re oh so blessed now, and
f o r e v e r....but tattoo these words upon your bicep lest one forget,

I am your first, you, are not mine
Kai Feb 3
the brandywine has struck
from the tops of your cheeks
right down to you feet

you heard it from the birds
and heard it from the bees
now you're hearing it from me

the brandywine has struck
you're woozy and acting floozie
but you're never going to stop

not till you drip drip drop
straight from the bottle into your maw
it burns like your cheeks in the candle light
This is actually lyrics to a song I'm writing right now. They don't really translate well into poetry and I removed a lot of lines, but I thought it would be nice to get them out there. I got really frustrated with my ukulele chords while writing, so I took a break to post this here.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Brandy-dipped lady fingers
Bavarian cream;
cinnamon, sugar, eggs, milk
light, cool, smooth like mousse
Summerberry crown
dust sugar
Nineteenth Epulaeryu! ^-^
In need of a pick-me-up, I got some Charlotte Russe!
First time trying it and it's..... aaaaaaahhhhhhh!
The ladyfingers dipped in brandy is AH-MAZING!
Lyn ***
Kambria Keelie Aug 2016
You told me I could be anything in this world, so I became your favorite brandy. Because for just one moment, I wanted you to hold me with a sense that maybe, just maybe I've been your sweet brandy all along.
drink me
*let me warm your heart tonight
Mollie Grant Mar 2016
The duvet is disheveled—
hanging onto the mattress,
half draping the ebony stained
floor. Admiral Blue walls are illuminated
by two brass pendant lights
that have sprouted from the ceiling
and are growing off of
the bitter ends of
the anchor rode.

My attention is pulled down
by the locket
weighing from my neck
as the silver braid bites
with chill and I stay on the bed
and focus on that brightwork
laying on my chest and
I keep trying to ignore
the far corner of the room
by the vanity because
I keep trying to ignore
your blubber-skinned suitcase
painted in barnacles, sitting on the floor,
mouth wide open, like it is just there waiting
to swallow you whole and
spit you back out at the next harbor—
I swear, I think it is trying
to rename you Jonah.

Tonight, like every other night before
that you have stepped from my deck
to throw yourself into the sea,
I will find myself,
after the moon has risen,
after the tide has shifted,
and after the town has fallen asleep,
wandering aimlessly down the hand paved
roads that weave along the port to sit
with *your life, your love, and your lady.
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