on the ceiling fan,
lying carpet of grey strands.
Flying blades circle overhead
moving heat through the chalky

air. Dust bunnies hiding
underneath the bureau and rocking
chair. Under the four-post bed
they roast. As foie gras

on toast they sit plump. Dumped
on the valance and curtain. Unbalanced,
the slightest wind and they’ll fall
for certain. On the shelf they cover

her books. In the nooks they lay
as a clump of potter's clay. On the hardwood
floor swept up with the broom. Upon death
she'll be dust in the ground with her groom.

to him, light and flaky
honey wheat. Just fluffy
bedtime sweet! Yellow like
a golden raisin, and twice

as brazen. He didn't have
to butter me. I was soft
as the brie. And he saw through
every layer. He was so the

player. The girls said "he's
a dish" And so, he was
my knish. And I, his knash,
rolled and folded till I

melted in his mouth. Till I
crumbled in his hand, landed
in his lap. So full, he took
a nap. But after his long doze?

Gone was his sweet rose!

bearded and goth. I was his
flame, a butterfly dame. We kicked
up a rumpus. Both lost with no
compass.  Like a city rat

to a Cheeto I’m the sauce
in his burrito. And as flies
stuck to **** two tongues
swimming in the spit.

Like a weeb to ******
I was searching for
a Jedi. But as lambs walking
toward their slaughter this

only grew hotter, till the stench
of burning flesh took his breath. Laid
in a box like a drawer of stuffed socks
men paraded him to the overture of hymns.

that all the Brobdingnagian trees
exuviate their crimson orange leaves
gibbeting jagged appendages in the snow
and that emerald blades freeze

I'd not fall like a mosquito.
I'd grow plump as a pumpkin on the vine.
Not crushed and bottled
as grapes in the cherry wine.

And if his rounded face wasn't traced
on the mosaic tiled moon
this stock-still heart wouldn't race
and break from her blanket of a cocoon.

It hibernate in the slivers of a silky spoon,
sleeping as a nun till the lilacs bloom.
And the stars dancing pirouettes
wouldn't have me break out in a sweat!

have to talk about
girls behind their back.
They mock me and pretend
face to face

they are my friend. They could
talk about the weather, if it'll rain
this afternoon. That it's cold for
this month of June. They could talk

world affairs, the war in
the Ukraine. But they'd have to
have a bigger brain. They could talk
about a fundraiser for

the sick. Or even the movies that
they've seen on Netflix. They could talk
about style and design, the newest line
of clothes. The cons and pros of wearing

pantyhose. They could talk about their kids
or their pets/their vacations in the Carribean, wine
and e-cigarettes! They could talk shop. But they
talk about me till their jaws drop!

This sadness sits as an elephant
on my breast, bearing down squashing
my chest. I cannot breathe. I’m out of
breath. It does not leave. It's

my black death. It ties my belly
in a knot. So, my blood does not
flow. It only clots. It drops my chin
to my neck. Before my eyes

are splintered specks. And my iris
is denim blue. At night, smoky
as the flue. And in the day, like a puddle
pools. My smile is a broken locket

that sits as rocks in my pants
pocket. Clouds parades over my
head. I'm a silhouette that burns cherry
wine red. My legs are pursy tree trunks. As I

walk you'll hear this clunk. It's as if
my feet are dragging wrecking *****
and metal chains. And the sky? All day
it rains elephants in paisley prints.

he's a silver fox.
But he lives
in a ******* jack box,
sugar coated walls

with a little toy trinket
that he bangs as meat.
How can he think it
so sweet?

Holding his prize.
Wearing a ******'s hat
Swimming in molasses lies.
He’s twitching

in a buttery mess.
In a plate of
bra and *******
hose and saffron dress.