Like burning marshmallow,
the clouds this Monday.
Thumb over the phone
& the words to you pop
& sway like gin pink
with bitters. Lily lady,

O my lily lady,
kiss me marshmallow -
sticky and tinted pink
with lip on a rainy Monday.
Green window pops
arrive on my phone,

this sweet black phone
that brings you, my lady,
over Atlantic's salt pop
& volted marshmallow.
So on this Monday
when the sky draws pink,

& clouds too are toasted pink,
I take this thin phone
and find you. On this Monday,
my Dublin lady,
under a melting marshmallow
sky, I seek out your hot pop,

that flame that's popping
in the twilight, red and pink.
Sweet as marshmallow,
you burn through my phone,
my smiling lily lady,
even on a Monday.

& so this Monday
like a soap bubble pops.
I'm inspired, my lady,
by the silken pink
thing. On your phone,
a swan's wing of marshmallow.

Yes - Monday's poem comes pink,
& pops with phone messages
from my lady, soft as marshmallows.

The Doctor named Seuss was such a great man.
He wrote words so deftly like few others can.
In fact, to this day we honor his rhyme,
Or, I do, at least, to waste all my time.

It's odd how with frequence I get up the urge
To write tiny ditties: a poetry surge.
I'm volted to pen any number of things,
Shocking, to me, like a staticky sting.

Whenever I am s'posed to be working,
I notice that my duties I'm shirking.
Perhaps without pressure my mind is more fun,
But by the same token, I get nothing done.

Maybe I study so well that it spills
Onto my other thinking-type skills.
My mind works so hard that it often requires
More wood to fuel my thinking cap's fires.

Anyways, I'm probably ******* for my test.
I wish I could say that I studied my best,
But honesty stabs me for truth til I'm ******:
The truth is that I fail when I "study."

What tis?... dear demented little buttery fat cloak
Logres egress resting black volted up limbs and junk
Swirl inside friends ewes stocked by harangue harmony... it's requiem 86 first conceived of in the sixties
Then a later yeast fluffed slapped slapped how much garlic can one nosey drake terse sweeney Italian flavors in the  back bake in the alley crack
In the old presences flaunted by simple styles killed by the fire that stood for in the dreams... and at the beach goers flying their kites emblems from Asian deniers as dutiful as prancing trash scuttles
Like a highway on the once pristine views of trillions of drops of Earths timed evidenced gold
Yet when fools cry out and truths be told

Only the next day as monotonous as the past one life is on the run Sketching the torrents of confusion and skirting the target of what must be done