I hate pickles
neon green colored cubes of sweet bitter vinegar fermented cucumbers that have lost their identity in green no. 3
and dealing with oblivion seems like
it makes me lose my identity.
so please give me adrenaline for
whenever my heart sinks
so I don't fall into oblivion
needing refreshment in oswestry,
later rather than sooner,
crept up the chalk painted
staircase, seems to work
well, in this case.
i note the dstressed nature
of the furniture.
having regular coffee,
a fruit scone will
i listen to the server, who
clasping the china teapot,
tells us revelations
of those who live, who divorce
and warm the pot.
i have to say that
the scone was lovely.
later i bought a potting bench.
Salty with a tang
My Great Aunt Nita’s little gift
To make us happy…
I worry like a mother about her child
She’s gone again
Dead to the world
No matter how much shaking and calling I do
Another breaded miracle in my mouth
Momentary bliss, a high
Then the crash
Fried pickles distract, but
Once reality returns
I’m still worried
She’s still gone
You are like sweet pickles.
I prefer dill,
Always have and always will
And your taste will never be enough.
But I choose you
Because you are the
Only thing on the table
That looks familiar.
Your skin is just as
Pleasing as a dill pickle,
But this little similarity will only
Sour my smile,
And my disappointment in your taste
Will become quite apparent
As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my
Lips and eyes.
But I’ve passed up cheeses
And wines for you
(The cheeses are unfamiliar,
Smelly, and fattening; the
Wines turn me red
Yes, I have chosen you.
I hope your eyes dilate at that
And the growing and enveloping blackness
Takes over your vision and your will,
Rendering me invisible
But twice as lovely and
Four times as dangerous.
With you blinded now, sweet pickles,
Let me tie you up in my fingers
And kill you.
When I asked you for the naked truth,
It was not an invitation,
To strip bald at Starbucks,
And opera sing the national anthem.
Although I’m sure the ovation and applause was exhilarating,
And my god, I was certain you were going to fall off our table,
In fact, I now think a birthday suit should be mandatory,
For everybody when they sing the nation's song.
Never the less,
In future I will choose my clichés more carefully.
God knows what you’d have done
Had I asked you to bare your soul.
It was an unsettling first date, yet I am intrigued.
Text me if this Friday works for you.
Dance for me this one last time,
Tease me naked, sweet pantomime,
Slip-slide your dress but stay your shoes,
Swing-sway your hips, my gorgeous muse.
Wrap round your arms, a prisoner’s chains,
Make me confess and make me strain,
Offer, tempt me, tease me, sting,
Dance for me and my nomad queen.
Twitter tongues, all kiss no tell,
Secrets, whispers, rumours swell ,
Lies ignite, sparks lust to fire,
Dance for me til death conspires.
We chase a thing all our lives,
Hopes and dreams like butterflies,
Elusive thing we're not quite sure,
We're often close and then demure.
Sometimes we think this thing's gone by
We turn around and soft a sigh,
Send me back, we plead and cry,
Life laughs and whispers, wave goodbye.
So what to do when lost again,
A lover lies, a friend unfriends,
The gift of us by all ignored,
Our love becomes a thing we hoard.
When everything is upside down,
You feel about to quit and drown,
It helps to know we're much the same,
You're not alone, all hold this pain.
She oft praises the strokes of my pen
Yet when her image comes into mind
The words in my head run thin
And my ink runs prematurely dry
I have not written a thing worth mentioning
For the girl with the cute button nose
The hand clasped ‘round my pen begins fidgeting
As my mind remembers her toes
I stare blankly at pages of paper
When my mind’s eye conjures her smile
My cerebral wells start to taper
Though my love for her flows as the Nile
The beauty of her body is not justified in text
So I will spare you the reading: her beauty is best
commonly in a brine
may be pigs feet or beets
whereas where she may be
they are called gherkins
bread and butter
or caught between
second and third
if it but was
a children's game,
Take a hit with my pipe
there might my predicament
resolve how my pickle will ever
reach all the way ,
I wonder my lips pursed,
to the old country.
It just might.
her single shot pistol is smoking as you walk in
her blushing bride smile is a dead give away
that something is amiss
he left a ballroom waltz
worth of footprints all over her smile
she persuades you to rent a buick '
and take the pursuit on the road
so the three of us head south on the us-1
to some strange beachside town
where all the girls are bubble gum machines
and the boys are paint by number boxing fans
but we finally catch the thin fatman
sitting on a beach-chair
and lookie-louing yachts from nantucket
she kisses and makes up with him
and you know that your romantic days are over
and she gives no reason but she got a soft spot
for his three piece suit lifestyle
brooks brothers got nothing on him
he gets his threads form the five and dime
pockets full of pickles
bread in his thinning hair
would you say, if
on your very last day
they got your order wrong, at McDonald’s
and when you told the pimpled faced nihilist
you asked for no pickles on your Big Mac (!)
he stared at you through two gray sockets
that floated on his face, like the eyes
would you think, if
on your very last day
conjoined twins were born in Siberia
and one would be deaf , the other left
to listen for both for eternity, and feel
the black swell of loneliness,
even with blood of a brother
coursing through his veins
would you do, if
on your very last day
you could buy more time
to create useless rhyme
and it would only cost…
would you know, if
during the veil of night, your heart
skipped a few beats, then thumped
a final time, while you were still dreaming
of a dance, under a gleaming sun,
and cherished daylight
never to come