She knows it is something to eat
Smells like what she’d fancy
as yummy … but not quite
so She smoothly zigzags along
Forbidden Chords
Smells - Tosses - Hops - delicately Licks
and Jumps at once
back to Shadows wherein she always hides
paints Numerous Cooler Tones with her Yawns
Lest her Glittery Eyes
a Pair that never shuts
despite Days Seasons Nights
I approach silently
beside her
Not to bother
As if Wiser
because I look taller
-I guess-
Stupid! Stupid!
I just realize now...
An elegance of furry highness lying aside
For her ‘of me’ means
Playmateness just
none about silly bossiness among us
With me
She does her pats Gingerly
Not to hurt
As if
as if I could not handle some
Innocuous Spice
But I mind not
if she finds this way alright
because I trust her nature
with all of my broken Hearts
And let go
the all of me
Fully
to the fury of the Furry
come on babe Hit me
Come! Come Now!
arghhh!
Bites She!
swiftly and tenderly brushes afterwards
happens this
All the -outta my sight- Time
but she also
Lets me win sometimes
win ...I guess. ?. Purposefully
Anyway Yeah
Maybe it’s Love
dunno why or how
I wonder and smile then Cry
aiaiaiaiai
until a PATZ Paw
shoots my Pathos
outta Sight
Come on Babe
Hit me!
Come now! Come!
Argghh!
:))))
Bites She!

Janette Richie
didn’t like you much  
as was shown

that time
in Mr Finn’s class
when she slapped

your face
for something you’d said
leaving you

with a spinning head
and a red cheek
but that aside

and her rather
plump frame
and maybe spectacles

you kind of like
her motherliness
the bossiness

around the class
the way she walked
the wiggly ***

but whatever it was
you’d said to her
to invite the slap

it was just a string
of words carrying
no malice or meaning

to hurt and the sensation
of her hand of flesh
touching your

young boy’s cheek
a nearness
she hadn’t thought on

or given any deeper
probe than the desire
to swipe an annoying boy

not realizing
that the gesture
and the plump hand

landing had more
than a momentary
feel or touch

you there after kind of
liked her in your
secret way

never repeating
the words said
about her plumpish

frame or swaying ***
or the spectacles
of thick glass

and maybe the other
boys laughed
and thought it some

joke of misjudgement
on your part  
but you found

a secret place for her
in your nine year old
heart.

The day a man needs regulation to plant a seed, is when choice is chided for its existence.
Out of existence.
Reduced to two parties - and we believe without doubt.

When schools and factories will burn along with all bossiness and business, perhaps the land can feel hands dig in again.
Metal needs repose, queues deserve to die.
Rules thrive on Pavlovian tinkles to sink the horrid in, endless gauntlets on repeat.
Time to eat, time to work, time to play, time to die.

The matchstick burns bright, a blaze of life, fizzles right before it gathers thought enough to know.
So too, when the coil burns fulsome and beauty carries fitting, bells go silent in dreams.