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Allen Smuckler Jun 2011
…and who knows
better than I
the ways of a night owl
or for that matter
the hour of the cat
maybe a cathouse
or simply a bar
take the Texas for instance
cavorting women (or girls)
who for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of one’s life
release your tensions
or maybe more
who knows the reason why
(and who really cares)
for 20 minutes
of uncertainty
you can pretend you’re
a man
and imagine she’s a lady
all for 500 pesetas
plus 100 for room
and 20 minutes
out of your life…



Friday, March 9, 1973 (Barcelona, Spain)
Bardo Jan 2023
Y'know the last cat I had wasn't even my cat,
  he was the neighbour's cat
Yea! He defected... came over to our house
My neighbours they had a holiday home down the country
  and used visit it often on the weekends
So the poor cat would be left behind at home
  and he'd get lonely
So he'd come out to us, and he liked us so
  much
We used give him a great reception
He'd get so much love and attention, nice
  food as well
That he decided to stay with us rather than
  go back home
We even bought him one of those nice furry
  little cathouse bed type things
Put it out in the garage and he'd sleep there.

But whose cat was he now then, was he ours
  or was he still theirs
Did they still have a claim on him
Or was it up to him to choose,
You know it could have caused a
  Constitutional Crisis
Could have gone to Court
Who had ownership of the cat
Could have been a real tug of love affair
A bit like that film what's it's name...Kramer
  vs Kramer
Luckily the neighbours though they didn't
  seem to mind that much.

Of course, the punchline to all this was, one day my Dad was out visiting
  my neighbours next door
When who should he see lying there on the sofa looking very contented
  and very much at home
Yea! You guessed it.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking
Yea exactly! I bet the cat...our cat the Defector
He was probably a Double Agent all along.
More cat goings-on.
In chambers bathed in scarlet's vivid hue,
A maiden graced with royalty's decree,
Emerged midst December's breath, anew,
From Rose's lineage, her destiny set free.

Unmatched, her beauty, whispered through the air,
The heir of nature's treasures, poised to sway,
In comfort's arms, her mother's artful snare,
A dance of elegance, life's intricate ballet.

Within a cardboard cradle, humble, quaint,
A refuge born of mundane refrigerator's guise,
A phoenix in captivity, a heart's soft plaint,
As melodies of her mother's toil did rise.

Cigar's lingering incense, spirits' lingering trace,
Notes of rye and gin, tales of twilight's embrace,
Invisible imprints of those who found their place,
Within the alcove where desires interlace.

Such life, a gilded cage, ornate and grand,
A prisoner of opulence, bound by gold,
As Rose's allure dimmed by time's swift hand,
Princess, once adorned, in shadows now enfold.

Questions, delicate as lilies on still water's face,
Restless ripples of thoughts profound,
Did her mother, too, in the past's embrace,
Yearn for a different fate, a path unbound?

Yet, such musings banished, like morning mist,
For from her mother's teachings, she had gleaned,
To drown uncertainties in spirits kissed,
In numbness find solace, in forgetfulness, dream.

But winds of change swept familiarity away,
Transforming the tapestry of life's design,
Seated in a café's embrace, a pivotal day,
A stranger's arrival, destinies align.

His smile, a canvas of sincerity untamed,
No hidden agenda in his tranquil gaze,
Words woven like an intricate tapestry unframed,
An invitation extended, a connection's blaze.

In her contemplative realm, a seed of query sown,
Could he fathom the secrets her past concealed,
A princess sculpted by a world overthrown,
In the crucible of a fate unrevealed?

Reimagined in verses, this tale unfolds,
A mosaic of sentiments, resplendent and pure,
From captive to sovereign, her journey of old,
Princess, unchained, her essence to endure.
in a state of trance, imagination is the master
sandra wyllie May 2019
where you could eat the walls. The roof
was made of royal icing. It dried on thick and
hard. And the tiles were sugar-coated gumdrops
that the birds pecked off before the fall. Candy

canes for doorways you could lick. But they’d stick
to your lips. And after that you couldn’t get
your mouth open a crack. It looked to all outside
a very pleasant place to reside. But no one knew

it was a cathouse, and that the field marshal
was a master of disguise who drew the curtains
over her candy-shop of horrors. And welted our bottoms
with hot molasses stuck to a long wooden spoon. Some

where even jealous of me. They thought I had chocolate
pudding drawn for my bath. And that my bed was made
in lemon meringue. I wouldn’t tell them the truth. I didn’t
want to break the spell they were under. Everyone needs to
believe in something.
Cannot Wall The Will Of Catapulting Mice

A titled unwritten poem requiring
little effort to dip and dive
I accidentally, inadvertently,
and unexpectedly scrolled up in digital archive
among various and sundry literary endeavors,
eh, maybe about a bajillion and five,

in various stages of completion kept alive
on life support, and one non entitled migrant idea,
that unwaveringly, incessantly, dost connive
clamorously, cetera doth buzz inside my head
(aswarm like angry bees in a hive)
constitutes how ("FAKE") president Trump

emits asynchronous vibe that dost not to jive
with best interests of American people even Ivy
League scholars found yours truly ruminating,
how mine "avid groupies",
would deem to warrant duct taping
me whole body, asper drive

ving figurative written wedge, sans
my blunt opinion against commander in chief,
subsequently finding me literally diced,
hashed, minced, et cetera as an endive
or more palatable onion's relative chive
into a million little pieces,

thus better angles with me strongly advised
(along with voice of Robert Mueller) best to arrive
at less controversial topic, hence I will strive
even if blindly chased by Farmer's wive
to express (with rhyme,
but no reason), and douse

or simply avoid trumpeting, scathing,
flickr ring potential conflagration
reject as acceptable carouse
zing which resultant virtual wildfire,
would most likely lack adequate Whitehouse
funds to extinguish, this phrase

e'en thee spouse
would elicit, and expect
no readers to grouse
finding your truly making
bee line to dormouse
which doubles up (at least

for this poem) as cathouse
captivated by entertaining antics
of common house mouse
(Mus musculus), a rather mundane
alternative fur this louse,
yet I (Stuart Little)

attest tubby powerhouse
as one athletic creature
among mice and men
able to leap over tall blocks of cheese
in a single bound, ease
zee as...app pull pie by jeeves,

or prayerfully taking wing
yup...even within the uber jungle of Belize
ideally on heels of strong breeze
even on command staying stock still
if asked to freeze
for a selfie while juggling...please

do not distract, no...no..no...
without question do not dangle keys
and if shivering with cold
avoid knocking knees

so me and nest of pestiferous pals
can earn opportunity to earn fame
and fortune nothing to sneeze
at...at...at...chew, and
contract deadly disease.
ENOONMAI Aug 2020
Dig it--
Midnight
Clap-board border town

Myopic cameras zooms in
Like crosshair eye

Skin like weathered saddlebags
A belch of crows overhead
Murderous wing
Tilting and lilting
In random unison
Shifting in a pale
Parched sky

Time passes like horses
Pulling a Black Maria

Dig it--
Midnight
Saloon lights
Sounds of the cathouse
Beautiful thieves
   In attendance

Twelve hours to showdown
"Bring your guns Johnny Boy
There's gonna be trouble
Whole town will be watching "

Rudimentary gunslinger
In a cardboard hotel
Gideon bible
Opened to Mark 5:9

Fast forward

Catacombs
Nursing homes
She rises like curdled sunshine
Ivory ribs rip
   At her side

Outdoor cinema
Pageant of crosswalks
And the commune of sewers
Subway platforms
And infinity of rusty rails

Dig it--
Bangkok bordello
And the stink of ****
***** daydreams
Yellow fever nightmares
Blood dawn ascending
Upon lurid fingers
And the still breeze
Hanging like conjugal sweat

Never to awake
In my own skin again

Only as strong
As the drugs I'm on.

— The End —