Head start on a frozen night
we'll trickle slow down blighted
                                  street ways
and mix our crunching footsteps
with our ever-rougher laughs.

Grab a drink
too tired for sleeping.
Work weeks pile up, getting deep and
I don't think apartment walls
can contain us one more night.

So save a drink for me,
and meet me out on Longstaff Street

I've got all night and an axe to grind
You've got a case of cold friends
                                 and a troubled mind
so let's pace
                    this neighborhood.
Pull up my roots, we'll untangle yours
from Knowles Street, right on Marshall
                            walk and drink for hours
'til we sink
                  that slant street moon

Transplants grafted to this town
we'll spread roots in these downer
                                      regrets
and spill our gravel laughter
on the sidewalks with these beers.

South, back home,
a handful got it:
rotten nights pave paths to coffins
I don't know how many steps
it'll take to cool our heels.

So grab a drink for me
and we'll go walking Longstaff Street

We've got these drinks, we can disappear
into a slant street night
                      where no one'll hear
how ****** up
                       these days become.
I still think back on Emerson Park
that Summer night we fled from
                   the cops through the dark
when the Russell
                     Street traffic hums...

(8:20 P.M.)
I'm out my back door
and into the cities
I've got my hat, phone, wallet,
lighter and keys.
It's a short little walk,
the gas stations not far.
I see where they parked,
I enter the car.

(8:30 P.M.)
Kelsey grabs my hand
and looks me in the eye,
she ignores the centipedes
she sees,
or at least she tries,
she then calmly explains
she's out-of-bodied
the entire car ride
and how she's been
counting the stars
even though its not quite night.
She says we're swimming
through the mountains
and climbing up the seas
but from where I'm sitting
we're still in the back seat.
I ask, "Hey, what's she on?"
"I think LSD.
But don't worry, it's cool,
she's dating the guy
throwing this thing."

(8:40 P.M.)
It's a twenty minute ride,
crammed into the Taurus,
but Ashley's in the front,
getting shots poured out for us.
"To a good night!"
We laugh and proclaim,
we down the first drinks
and start the pre-game.
Hennepin then Franklin
then Grand avenue.
We've already got a buzz
now were smokin buds, too.

(9:05 P.M.)
We pull up
just as the suns going down
and as the moon peeks her face
out from under the clouds.
There's already some kid
face down in the grass
some brilliant soul's pulled his pants down
and sharpied his ***.
I guess he shouldn't have passed out
with his shoes still on;
hopefully nobody patrolling
sees him lying in the lawn.

(9:06 P.M.)
The second thing we notice
are the angels on the porch
They've already bent their halos
and lost their wings, of course.
The beautiful brunette
with half her head shaved
turns to welcome us
with a big friendly wave.
With a smile on her face she says,
"Hi! I'm Mel!
Welcome to our party;
welcome to Hell!"
"Where should we put our drinks?"
"Just leave em in your car!
We've got three kegs
and our very own bar!"
We're escorted inside,
in front of at least a hundred people,
and brought to the roof
with a sign that reads Steeple.

(9:20 P.M.)
Jon's tipping a bottle,
just waiting for Kelsey.
He asks her right away,
"Babe, will you marry me?"
She's too far gone
to know what to say,
so he wraps her in a hug
that makes everything okay.
It's clearly a cute joke,
just some little spiel,
but Kels is so high
she thinks that it's real.

(10:30 P.M.)
We all decide its best
if we leave those newly wed
because, to be frank,
there was a lot of PDA going on in their bed.
Mel starts to lead us
down the winding stairs,
by now the broken halo
escaped from her hair.
She said seeing Kels and Jon
made her feel lonely
so she needs another drink
and wants to get to know me.

(11:45 P.M.)
As it turns out
she's a good partner for pong;
but now she wants to sneak off,
to go rip up her ****.
So we take a trip down the hall
and slide through her door.
let me preface this part:
I never expect to score.

(11:50 P.M.)
She gives the lighter a spark.

(11:53 P.M.)
We're making out in the dark.

(12:15 A.M.)
The silence is broken,
we hear someone scream.
We look at each other,
"What the Hell could that mean?"

(12:20 A.M.)
We're scared, so we joke
about what it could be.
The most likely reason?
Something scared the heavens out of Kelsey.
We say she's probably worried
about alien transplants
and the whole entire time
I'm not wearing my pants.

(12:21 A.M.)
"The cops are here!"
I jumped and ran from her bed.
I don't think I'll see those red skinny jeans
ever again.
I manage a quick goodbye
and then I'm into the Hall.
I find my friend Ashley
and our sober cab Paul.
"Kelsey's with the cops
and Tom left with Nancy,
our cars down the road,
lets head to the street."

(12:25 A.M.)
As we sneak out the back
we hear the cops speak:
"The first kid we found
had **** drawn on his **** cheeks."

(1:05 A.M.)
After a while
the three of us arrive,
back to my place,
though we started with five.
The drive back was extended,
even if Paul was driving well,
because in my drunken stupor
I made him stop at Taco Bell.
We head through the porch,
My roommate's still up.
He asks if we wanna drink
and then goes to grab cups.

(1:50 P.M.)
After a few rounds of Kings
Paul's on the couch, fast asleep,
and James went downstairs,
It's just me and Ashley.

(2:00 A.M.)
We turn a movie on
and we sit in my bed.
We discuss all the things
going through both of our heads.
For three straight hours
she flirted up some guy
'til his girlfriend walked in
and started to cry.
She called Ashley a *****
who swore she didn't know
while dude stared at the ground
and said, "Sorry, bro."
Ashley had enough,
she hates being called a guy,
so she winded one up
and kissed her fist to his eye.

(3:00 A.M.)
We didn't watch the movie,
we just talked some more,
until we fell asleep
keeping one another warm.
Two old friends,
two trips in different Hells
and the only thing to do afterwords
was to laugh at ourselves.
Two old friends,
who's hunt for love was a blunder,
who consoled their loneliness
by wrapping up in each other.

This is for the residents who remember
And for the transplants who
Have yet to be informed
But have got an inkling

Burque has gone from
Bustling to busted
And back again

Growing up in the 80’s
I learned about the
Varying degrees of “sick”
As my dad pointed out
The pekid pachucos perusing
Pharmacy isles
Attempting to purchase
Cough syrup with codeine

In the evenings
Driving home down Central
I would ceremoniously
Count hookers

My parents would
Precariously pack heat
In the trunk of our car
Or even in my mom’s special ***** pack
With the hidden compartment
For her .38 snub nose
Because you never know
Who will be in your home
When you arrive

That’s a given
When flop houses are
Interwoven with prime real estate
And barrio boundaries
Border the bourgeois’ bungalows
And Huning’s Castles

And residents rarely recognize
Or realize
That aside from the locals
The European Jews
Was the only group gutsy enough
To settle here
And create commerce
Despite risks of being raided
By Apaches

And they reaped the benefits
Off Roma and Marquette
Because the rewards
Turned out to be greater than
The risks

And up North
Where Sephardic turned Crypto
Conversions to Catholicism
Kept the Messiah’s spirit alive
But in basements
They still did Chi fives!

I was saddened in middle school
When I realized
That many of our parents
Were too ashamed of our roots
To teach us Spanish
And our
Schools ****** so severely
That most of us
Didn’t learn English either

But hey –
All you need to
Communicate while cruising
Are cat calls
And the thumping boom
Of the bass in the tubes
And the hydraulic drop
When they hit
The hot spots
From Tingley, Kit Carson and
Central to Copper
Each kid dreams that
His ride
Will be the show stopper

I could rant and rave
And rattle off for days
But bottom line –
We have the most
Curious state
With mysterious qualities
And in-depth histories
But most of us are
More concerned with
Bud Light
And Biscochitos
Con Manteca
Because it just tastes great!

professional thieves and lunatic royalty
rule the alleys and burned out geniuses collecting cans
to earn the morning's medicine
fighting off last night's tremors
vampyre women that eat men alive
and live in darkness and
nobody's ever seen the forest
central park predators
Mad Hatter transplants
and eternal sages who stay drunk by being interesting
and getting good at giving tourists a smooth line of *******
(you can always spot the tourists in new york.  they are the only ones wearing bright colors.  in portland, they can be spotted by similar means, but the eye must be trained.  the city abounds with sprouts)
always looking up

eternal chatter of madness from corners,
doorways, windows, liquor stores
*** barrels floating on tears
with a police state terror squad
2 floors above
killing justice and truth
black ties jumping out windows of Wall St.
cracked by pressure and greed and ego
street hustlers retiring at 35- or dead at 13
the street musician dying from apathy
he is a withering poppy flower
cut and bleeding

2 years of separation
leads to reunions & dissections
of the shared heart we once betrayed
split symmetric down the chamber veins
& drained into a vacant maze
of muscle-coated misdirection:
from a gory war of self-destruction
to a boring morning-long discussion
on the proper functions of affection,
a lecture on the subtle pressure
of stitching missing years together.

so we descended through the memories
of manipulation tendencies
& our blended lungs breathed in relief
at our splendid self-discovery:
you're a different you & i'm no longer me;
thick skin grafts & habit transplants
transformed us to an image abstract
from a former siamese attachment,
our blurry split from commitment
carried independence infinite
& we soared more weightless through the clouds
with our orphaned organs on the ground

I
snowfalls
an epic battle
boom
crashsmack
the white blanket
here
never covers that city
we fled this place for
more mistakes than fingers
and toes
avalanche!
car wheels can
not
navigate
the areas the
4, 5, 6 barrels through
what a problem for
exposed skin
a nose red
ice in your hair
wet.
why didn’t you just
wait

II
for the express train
the local makes me
sick
you know closeness gives me
hives
even if
everyone is
the son
(or daughter)
of someone
each birth celebrated
if only for a moment
the white haired mowhawk man
bald girl
the dreadlocked boy
standing
so close
his exhale
is my next breath
in

III
to the same routine
of forgetfulness
even you
and me
deeming ourselves
the lost children
rust-belt transplants
we too had
futures planned for
but
not
this
living on nicotine
secondhand books
and
pin-up girls on the walls
there’s cat food
but nothing in the cupboard
except

IV
a wooden rosary
wrapped around
too-thin wrists
for a good luck charm
anti-drug shirts
for irony
and combat boots
so there is no mistake
you are not your father’s
child
sprung like Athena
from a thought
already formed
armed and ready

V
to rage against the idea
that we are the products of
an upbringing
less than ideal
and we oscillate
back
and
forth
between a sense
of pity and belonging
because long ago
we lost track of what
was the truth
and what were the
things we manufactured
to make life more
interesting
and
god I love you but
you trouble me
I texted while you

VI
can’t seem to hold
down
a job
coffee and camels
don’t pay for themselves
maybe this attention
deficit
is real
not just something
made to
keep
us
still
during classes I won’t
show up for
except when I want
attention and you’re already
spent
falling all over
yourself
and then me
because

VII
we stopped pretending
months ago
this was anything
other than a practice
in dating each other’s
mothers
but I can’t be the only one
who knows how to roll
our cigarettes
while you shower
with no curtain
and I lean back
letting steam mask
the smoke that’s not allowed
in an apartment with no heat
and no door ****
less fighting
more complaining since

VIII
the mattress is
on the floor
who can afford a bed frame
these days
but it’s probably for the best
the windows won’t close
all the way
anyway
it’s snowing inside again
and you note
men leading lives
of quiet desperation
it isn’t nearly as poetic
as it sounds
so your mother argues
but fights to say:
oh how I love you

IX
so
love,
find the bright
in the gray
dinginess
rings loud
you’ve been
hearing
colors
again
smelling sounds
olfactory hallucinations
brought on by a lack of
overhead lighting

They say the grass is greener
On the other side
Which makes me wonder what color grass they see
When they look at mine

People are never satisfied
with their token hue,
gardens perceive many views 'neath blue moons
yet still seek to plant their own rose colored seeds


But with the hand of seed comes a heart in need
To plant where they will thrive
And when we look at our lives deep
We see a parched land much too dry


Upgrading new playgrounds 'tween picket transplants
only proves to drain emotional fence posts,
there's no satisfaction in elevation's turf ventures
proof grows amuck the dark sod of every plot perused

My chihuahua barks with such enthusiasm as to relieve the weight from his front legs. As a lactose-intolerant Molokan I apply flea-treatment mercilessly. After hours of pawing the scratching phase commences that extends tail-ward. The Walter Cronkite, whom Mrs. Walter Cronkite rutted with (in absentia), was a kindly whack-job with ****** wens and a slob's outlook on all news newsworthy. Some day, as one day of our modern era (mod earn ear ah), I will win the decaffeinated-coffee challenge by grinding into grounds grounds for divorcement from the A.C. current what's grounded to Earth in properly-grounded buildings without lightning rods.

vanished...the body's limitless wealth of holes, how some are never emptied...intimidating to consider a lifetime of losses stripping awareness from my heart like demons pit-falling complacently from the apex of a carnivorous plant...

ruined...the body's limitless wealth of worries, how some are never conquered...my heart and my brain aren't speaking to each other anymore...

broken...the heart cannot really be scarred, it just heals back the same way it was before...this is why heart transplants are so successful...

broken fingers, happens sometimes between lovers...there is no treatment, you can stabilize the finger, to shore up the pain, but it isn't the finger that hurts....

I'm old enough to remember
**** Tracy's watch,
Kirk's communicator,
Needless injections,
Landlines, TV,
Head transplants,
And meeting for coffee.
You're young enough
To remember simpler times
Of virtual friends
Twelve thousand miles away,
3D transportation,
And clouds that don't rain.
The good ole days.

it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby? - yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.

i don’t know why i’m still here, honestly.
i mean, my rooms not clean,
there’s a stain on my jeans
and i barely know how to work the washing machine.
i’m fifteen. i’m a teenager.
in a few years, i’ll be choosing a major
at a college i’m not completely sure i want to attend,
like upenn, columbia, yale, or brown…?
thinking about it makes me want to drown.

but only figuratively, not actually.
because nobody really means what they say anymore,
like “of course i got your text,”
or “yes! i definitely remembered your birthday was tomorrow”
or “yeah, i’m only five minutes away,”
or “i love you.”

i don’t know why i’m still here, honestly.
i mean, i’m an academic burnout.
in ballet, i didn’t have the best turnout.
i was never even a girl scout.
my mom said when in doubt, always tell the truth.
okay. sure.
i can do that, at least i thought i could.
i did, up until the point where i couldn’t tell where the truth ended and the lies began.
i said the tears in my eyes were just allergies.
i began to realize i was running out of energy.
everything i did, i did haphazardly.
looking back, i wonder if it was even reality.

low battery, my phone continues to tell me.
and honestly, i don’t know why i’m still here
because i lose everything.
i still can’t find my charger.
my classes are getting harder,
and at this point, i’m highly considering just becoming a farmer.
but i already know that’s out.
i mean, lets be honest
no amount of plants can get me the money that scholarship grants can.
maybe...maybe i should just become a doctor.
you know, perform transplants, give implants.
with all that money,
i could take a trip to france!
sometimes, i’d rather be there than here.
other times, i feel like i should just...disappear.

but it’s not even that serious,
i mean for the most part,
me being quiet is just me being mysterious.
other people might even call me delirious
due to my lack of experience in this
brand new job that
goes by the name of ‘life’.
i said it already. i’m a teenager.
i don’t even know why i’m still here.
and if i’m being honest,
i don’t think any of us do.

9 Years

Blood dripping from the walls,
getting nothing but crank calls.
Doors squeaking like never before,
not a chance, you could ignore.
Doors locked, windows won't break,
the house is now beginning to shake.
Moans coming from the attic,
nothing has ever been this dramatic.
Hearing noises from the basement,
dead bodies rising from the cement.
All the food is covered with maggots,
what is causing all this madness.
Hiding in the bedroom closet,
my body they want as a deposit.
Are they zombies or vampires,
maybe ghosts creating empires.
So scared, I **** my pants,
my body parts will become transplants.
This is the night of the living dead,
house built on a cemetery, so the demons said.
They tore the closet door wide open,
I stood there without a single motion.
They start to eat me piece by piece,
I could see my soul release.
The blood from the walls was mine,
the years I've been dead is nine.
For nine years, I've hid from hell,
I always wondered why I always had a bad smell.

the plural of grief is grief,

in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped

if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable

And yet,
the plural of grief is grief

and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances

I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper

my own chosen grief,

unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place

Assume the role of groundskeeper
entirely and entitledly. This is
your destiny: as a human
being your role is to care for
every plant, animal, and
fungus as your kin, for they
are the material that breeds us.
Permaculture is a simple tale:
Listen, and you will be told;
Ask, and you will be answered;
Play and you will be happy :)
Your propagations, transplants,
and seeds will grow,
flower, and reseed...

And it came to pass
in a foggy clime by the North Coast sea
far from city lights
a man became a tree.

And the seeds of life fell on good ground
and in a thoughtful way took hold
and in this sea salt air
breathed a clearer vision.

This would be no beach blanket vision
or pina colada trade wind tanning oil dream
It would be a dream of driftwood and broken shells
that once had life, where sand pipers and gulls
feed and peck away at what the tide brings in

Nightlife and nightclubs, parking spaces were memories
gaining rust on backboards and rims that sent missed shots
rebounding off into some other court and game

His daily devotion would be the ground he was planted in
and the filtered sun beaming passages of hope and inspiration

It was the simple dog walk routines of life
and pleasures found in a backyard with ball and stick
that caused his heart to bounce

Guided by the filtered sun his path was green and light
until he found himself tall and stout
as well as any of the fine trees around him

Cedar cowboys, Redwood indians, Pine tree pilgrims and pioneers,
transplants and strays in need of space and time
and unfettered vision

All because the Lord sought us out and grafted us in like new sprigs
that take hold and prosper like the blue figs of summer
and the sweet sugar pines with ends better than their beginnings

It didn't matter fog or sun all the same to him he strengthened

And after many days the bread cast upon the waters returned
in a dream where where you planted your heart
was what that mattered .

©  charlie brannick  2016

There are things remaining that I won't do as I'm physically unable to &/or philosophically opposed to: (10) race the great Czech Velká Pardubická, (11) eat a moth, (12) sell plasma.

“I am at home with Kentuckians.” ~ “What do you have against Syrians?” ~ “Syrians?” ~ “Yes. You said that you can't **** Syrians!” ~ “No, I was talking about Kentuckians.” ["***** you" isn't as friendly as "hello"? Says who? ******* Syrians?]

City of flickering dust crusted lights
along homeless haven'd stained shaking sidewalks,
where lampposts tell twisted tall tales
seen in the reflections of shop window views
of the stalking capitalist machine.

Billboards bellowing lucid interpretations
smile over split milky-way highways
launching battery driven cars on candied clouds
nine miles high while dandruff snowflakes
fall from salon-styled stands of thin grey hair
onto executive shoulder-padded suits
into plastic snow globe promises of a white Christmas
for kids on the streets in Little Haiti
and Old North Sacremento.

Chinese manufactured diseased dreams
spreads through third-world African cities
malfunctioning tribe cultures into
building blocks for fly-by-night
phony hip hop street scene
high-tops of American *******
rip-off Beijing based monopolies.  

Cutting out native tongues
and fitting botched back street
plastic surgery transplants of jail-yard gang slang
false identities of cultural misappropriation
and heritage suicide by displaced majorities
who hope for bread crumb paths home
along folktale story guiding epiphanies
of ghost kings of the past bellowing from the sky

"REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE".

also known as
noteworthy Trader Joe's patrons
bass sic lee did treble themselves
conducting taping jam session
assembling (boxing), compiling,
and hermetically sealing tight as a drum so,
a razor sharp machete blade got dull
trying to open in vain said holiday cheer
of awesome delicious goodies,
(especially the yummy

stuffed vine leaves with rice),
which holiday care package
received without fanfare
for this common man,
whose younger sister
(vibrant as Appalachian Spring),
nevertheless wiser sibling
Shari Harris-Dunning
a **** (hard) at work
tantalizing, teasing, titillating
as a lead wrapper from home grown

organic foodstuffs, she and her bandmates
helped fit perfectly, meticulously,
and snugly together
analogous to outsize constituent components
of intricate jumbo puzzle pieces
amazingly, mathematically,
and thematically linkedin
bearing gifts subsequently mailed
(courtesy the United States Postal Service)
from Bend, Oregon
to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.

Lemme amplify how creative, innovative,
and opinionative yours truly (me)
a humble wordsmith,
who exhibits his freestyle trademark
Scottish matted style avante-garde,
one run of the mill (by the Floss) bard
wannabe wants to rave about your card,
he presumes unbridled
posthumous fame will ensue
after his lovely bones disintegrate
courtesy cremation, which cremains
symbolically distributed across

all four points across the globe,
cuz the earth will solely serve him
as eternal terrestrial graveyard
ashes repurposed hard
to believe buzzfeeding, jump/
kick starting seeds of life
and white lily obliterating ill-starred
legacy which afflicted one mortal
named Matthew Scott Harris,
whose chronic assault
with mental health issues
undermined realizing his potential.

Into the void of cosmic oblivion
eventually goeth as masterly cell bait,
the once unique human
(cited above) as scripted inevitable fate
of all creatures great and small
death promises to liberate
uniting one garden variety,
and generic soul
linkedin among Spiritus Mundi
a never ending tête-à-tête.

I like being ***-******* in Houston with the cellar door bolted shut
'cause it makes me feel something inside like a pure-breed in a mutt
'cause it makes me feel something inside like a pure-breed in a mutt
or like 1 of Robert Joseph White's headless monkeys clapping a nut

The punk rocker
Brought his
New found love
To his run down Bronx apartment
After his rose’s
Karate lesson
He was sick of
Making out
In a ***** alley
Though those times were
Magical
He wanted to express his love
For her
They kissed
While ******* eachother.
The sight of his tattoos
And the feel of his priecings
Against her face
Excited her
The spent the night with eachother
Sharing
And making love
While hearing the transplants
The martial artist not
Knowing how tender she could be.

Your thighs are chubby
& your fingers are stubby
You sprained your neck
in a recent car wreck
You suffer angina
down to your ******
On your breast sits
2 cherry-red *******

You beat me with a rusty crow bar
after running me over with your car
I sustained horrific injuries to my face
before you sprayed my eyes with mace

Your beautiful smile really got me
before you pulled a gun and shot me

Our passion-charged love begins in the **** line of your crack,
extending north from your lard *** to the middle of your back

Your really stupid life is so miserable and I know that I shouldn't
blame you for committing suicide now because I really couldn't

No scalpels below the belly button or above the chin,
because with surgeons, that's the only way you can win