plump, cherry smile?
It's painted on.
With a crimson lipstick
it is drawn.

You see this
round head?
It's long golden locks?
It's been turned
by gibberish talks.

You see this
shoulder?
Round and clear?
Too much weight
it’s had to bear.

You see this
rhinestone stiletto shoe?
You haven't walked in it!
Now have you?

I'm alone. I'm a raging river;
he's a jagged stone. I dance around
him in the billowy air. He's fixed
as a toilet on his stare. He's a ship

in moor. Not a thing I can
procure. The two of us,
a heavy tanker, weighing me
down like an anchor. My wing

is clipped. I cannot fly. I've been
stripped, ****** and tied. I lost myself
next to him. The silk shades drawn.
The light is dim. All I learned

undone. My ****** pen is now
finespun. I'll plant him in
my rose bush yard. As a scarecrow
to stand guard.

is this head
propped on a pole
that's how I’m bred
but I just let it roll

as a woolen sweater
tossed for hours in the dryer
should have known better
I’d burn in the pyre

So is my wallet
thinner than a crepe
that's how I call it
empty with a gape

and like a popsicle
melting in the sun
I find it comical
this is a dry run!

as the Milky way
from the dawn's gleam of light
to the black edged sword of night
divided as the oceans

on a seascape terrain
landing as a pin
on a galaxy pulled to spin
she planet Earth, him Neptune

with no bridge
to cross them over
green as a field of clover
under a grey goose sky

hailing with stinging bees
a woman's silhouette
with pen dancing pirouettes
her soldier turns and flees

she lost him in the dust
blown like spores of pollen
he cannot hear her callin
the horizon has leprosy

on my shoulder
is waiting to knock me
over. The cloud above
my head is filling me with

dread. The ground
beneath my feet is naked
and fleet. This air I’m breathing
is smoky and wreathing. The fog

on the horizon is not
compromisin'. This speck
in my eye I cannot pry. My head
is a mountain that is mount

on sky a hundred and sixty
stories high. I’m drowning in
a puddle through a fuddle of *****
and gin. I cannot bear to win.

the rain is my shower.
The sweet, green grass my bed.
Perfume is the lilac flower
that dangles on stalks of silky thread.

A canopy of trees is the roof.
A dancing breeze, my fan.
No man here to reproof
or make some onerous plan.

The squirrel’s antics make me laugh.
Lunch is hanging from the tree.
I cut a red plump apple in half,
and down it with a wedge of brie.

My song, the melodic canary.
No television or radio,
just a swinging hammock and sherry.
Life's too fast not to take things slow.

running the reds
bleeding in threads
sticking as green algae
swirling the blues
in nostalgy
into the browns
pirouettes spinning
in striped corsets
plucking them strings
like Raymond Dorset
a palette of color
on a grey canvas
twisted as a cruller
Dust in the wind/Kansas