Former lover From a time of younger impressions, Would we still be friends If I hadn’t had the Amazon At the theatre convention? She was tougher And that was the point of contention That lady started the mess, But I was still the dirty man with his hand On the wrong lady’s chest Former lover From a time of silent resentment, Would we still be friends If I hadn’t stuck my work of fiction Into your birthday present? We discovered All the bits of skin that were pleasant But there was no romance; I was just a dirty kid with his hand Down the wrong lady’s pants At the bed and breakfast It’s cold in the fireplace Stone through stained-glass And ghosts in the pillowcases Keeping the secret safe Former lover From a difficult time, I was wishin’ That we could still be friends But I could never seem to fit Into those pants you were stitchin’ You’re no lover And your pale sea-legs were itchin’ And though I hoped for the best I will never be the man who got you Out of that polka-dot dress At the bed and breakfast It’s cold in the fireplace Stone through stained-glass And ghosts in the pillowcases Keeping the secret safe Mycelium, I’ve had enough Cover us up in your shroud Mycelium, I’m over it now Return us to the ground

(How did I get here?) Someone stuck in need of help Could scream and screech for assistance I'd get up to fix myself some Cream cheese and biscuits And hope, Pouring cheap cream in peach tea That I'll choke On a smoke Or the last splash of cheap cream To the back of my throat (How do I get home?) If you think you can pilot this pile of shit Down the Styx, give a kick, A cadaverous punt We will sink the corpses of Captain and Corporal Then Monday have drinks and a scavenger hunt One day under the noon rays of sun On the sand we will gather for leisure and lunch To gather together A bunch of gull feathers And bottles and books In our brown leather trunk.

Laying down in your black bed of curling tongues Whispering “If-only”s in my damp head If I was younger What would I have done? Blots in the sky now. I’ll find while shifting furniture Snakes on the nightstand, in drawers And curled around the bannister Blots in the sky now, Blots And I’m dissatisfied Blots in the sky now, Blots Now aim this cannon high Blots in the sky, I’m dissatisfied Now aim this cannon high

Conflagration Water falling over the bedside With your arms bare above your head, I Feel like a child in a pre-tied bow tie Drenched and entrenched in a blood-splatter-pattern Wish I was proner to hypergraphia Though sometimes it leaves me in intimate tatters The stoner who notes every viper he sees Is destined for Waxman-Geschwind; Tangential, circumstantial speech— An eventual end within reach Consultation I believe this may be semi-serious: When lighting strikes the base of my spine I’m deeper in pieces, in reefs in my mind Drenched and entrenched in a blood-splatter-pattern Wish I was proner to hypergraphia Though sometimes it leaves me in intimate tatters The stoner who notes every viper he sees Is destined for Waxman-Geschwind; Tangential, circumstantial speech— An eventual end within reach I see a coiled-up cobra disguised as a rope Clean under the dust with green eyes to the scope Set out to sunder us, hunters encroach Suppose the snake's blunderbuss exploded our hopes Would I lie dead, doubtful I'll pull it, or cope; Rise, head full of you and mouth full of bullets? NOPE. …It's tough but it's just That I'd have to work hard for this us, right? That's what it deserves — It occurred like a blur And absurdly quick; I feel dirty and slick! Like a poacher approaching an African bird To pillage its plumage and brilliantine bill, yeah You're beautiful, bright-eyed and brilliant-er still "O, you and your B's!" I'll go on my knees And swear you're a rare bird indeed. Please, Go easy - I do believe we're doing it right I've got the will to thrill you by my skill with a quill all night And gettin' back in my slacks, I left us time for a song 'Cause I can get brash fast, but I don't last long Bedded in a shed of old guitars and speakers, Fretting in my head under the stars Do I wake 'em all with squeaks when I shake myself to sleep?? And dream of thee retrieving me in thy new car! From this ink pot You can drive me far We can think thoughts Wrap me in scarves, But we talk soft So we have to work hard In our songs I can tell what loud yellers we are.

(She wipes it away with lace) (Covers with shades her face) Don’t trip Don’t squirm Or roast, or get hotter Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water Alone, sits a lady like me In a bungalow-coffee-house-bakery Aglow with eccentricity And a nose that gives up her ethnicity Lulu, as her name would be Reaches a thin hand into her bag; Produces a pad and two pens, red and black In the farthest booth on the left in the back This is where she gets her work done, in a cubicle This is where she’d burst into song in a musical Corduroy pants are her business slacks A comfy jumper - That’s the way she likes it best, But looks better in a dress than in a sweater-vest Argyle patter stretched across her chest. And check it: Double Damn Ds, as a matter of fact; No doubt the female me would be stacked —On the real though, she’s real lanky and flat And tall in high-tops and a small knit cap. She fell for a chap with unmapped hair And a beautiful laugh - It’s his curse Yes, he’s struggled his life, had to put up a sheet of ice And when it got worse, had to take girls’ lives. He’s the kind of killer who prepares a home cooked meal So he doesn’t have to hide the knives He zjooshes your wine with a couteau to your spine Or to your throat, as he chops the chives Zut alors! He’s a Cordon-Bleu-Saboteur! And in the slums with the bums, hitting weed with ennui, Look at her. Sacrebleu! From the top of your tower A spyglass to your eye, as high-class spies might wear — But what the hell? Are you unaware of the mademoiselle, mon frère? Sie ist ein sehr, sehr optimistische Mädchen, mein herr She get her romance from France, but no discretion from the Axis Asking serious questions in impressions of accents Differing her dialect — Never sits on one And like the quill of Will, her syllable fall tripping from the tongue Except names she don’t get; She forgets most you taught her Teeters between the stay-clean and the slaughter Folks give a toast to her talking-point fodder She grips the wheel firmly and coasts through the water. Don’t trip Don’t squirm Or roast, or get hotter Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water I won’t say I’ll never get hurt again But I’m not gonna say that I’m not gonna flirt again: As long as I last on the land —with a rash on my hand And my lady abandoning me in a rocket— I’ll stand by my band with a hand on my grand gland A black and red pen in my pocket. My locket is locked full of pics of her And my socket’d twist for a fix of her And in spite of the dames I stick flags in I cry at the sight o that damn station wagon Christ! But I wipe it away with lace Cover with shades my face, okay Dry and loc’d, I will repair Take a toke and pull up a chair I’ll give you notes on stroking your dote’s hair Emote through the smoke and take it from there But if’n ya audit like rock, with a dead stare You’re gonna hurt her a lot when you get scared ‘Cause you’re easily scared ‘cause your easel is bare You’re a polka-dot smock with a tear See, for Lulu, a shiv to the gut could mean much A month on the crutch, and a week or two asking no one to lunch; Falls asleep in food, gets in weepy moods alone in her room on her phone on Youtube— Damn dude. I’d pretty much have to say that you pretty much put her in a pretty damn bad way, dude. Man. Woo. Don’t trip Don’t squirm Or roast, or get hotter Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water