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he called me *****


when I left the room,
he called me *****,
My tombs of Shakespeare,
witnesses,
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
pointless
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.

*****.
witch.
twitch.

gave him reason to use
those words
sequentially.

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
respecting.

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

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 *****.
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,
and
scathed just enough that
they’ll never ask
twice.

I’m so easy to please.


brandychanning
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
cruelty,
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.


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
lately?

IF

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,
extraordinaire,
great big fairie,
poseur, exposer,
m u r d e r e r
of awful poetry}

WHAT,  
what do you stand for?
neglect and respect
rhyme,
you stand
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

— The End —