November 1, 2011 in Poetry, Scary!
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Today
it was a Hooters girl
with your smile.
One of the guys says
She looks evil.
Horns reach
for the sky
from the corners
of her lips
and for a moment
I forget
you are lost
to me.
November 1, 2011 in Poetry, Scary!
Today
it was a Hooters girl
with your smile.
One of the guys says
She looks evil.
Horns reach
for the sky
from the corners
of her lips
and for a moment
I forget
you are lost
to me.
August 24, 2011 in Wordsmoker Poetry
Orange haired
potato sack tricepped
bullhorn mouthed
Keeper of the cafe con leche.
She calls for hellfire
on the skinny Brazilian
who trundles over
to make the toast
(with or without cheese)
(provolone, Swiss, or American)
August 24, 2011 in Wordsmoker Poetry
Orange haired
potato sack tricepped
bullhorn mouthed
Keeper of the cafe con leche.
She calls for hellfire
on the skinny Brazilian
who trundles over
to make the toast
(with or without cheese)
(provolone, Swiss, or American)
October 24, 2010 in Prose Poems, Wordsmoker Poetry
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.
October 24, 2010 in Prose Poems, Wordsmoker Poetry
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.
October 24, 2010 in Prose Poems, Wordsmoker Poetry
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.
October 24, 2010 in Prose Poems, Wordsmoker Poetry
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.
October 24, 2010 in Prose Poems, Wordsmoker Poetry
I will shower with Dove. I will meld the remaining sliver from the last bar on
the top of the new one. Some Arctic Breeze deodorant the lady picked out for me.
It’s got an orange top and it’s not the gel stuff I like. It’s that hard white
stuff that looks like powder later on, if you look, if you give a shit. But hey,
it’s better than nothing. I will sweat as soon as I get out of the shower.
Always foggy in the bathroom when I’m done because I turn the water hot enough
to make me red. The smell of cut grass and gas from the lawnmower won’t leave me
for days. Sometimes when I kill lots of ants I feel them on me as if their dying
gasp is a hundred temporary psychic ant bites. It’s the same with the grass. A
million felled blades have fired telepathic chlorophyl stabs at my brain. This
particular pair of crumpled jeans never fades from green at the bottom of the
legs, stained from the eternal yard holocaust.
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