.

Gravity

when you’re feeling good
something will
come to crush your flame,

count on it,

it’s happened to me
time after time,

as soon as you
leap into the air
over the open arms of
humanity

someone,
somewhere
has launched a missile
to take you
out

brightlightsloudnoises

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Ritual Sacrifices from the She-wolf

I hate her you said
she is awkward

you were licking off the disdain
from your dainty ringed fingers

“you’ve a lovely home miss…
may I address you by your real name?”

my husband you said,
will be here momentarily,
with a rub of the lamp

it’s all ritual animal slaughters with you
(rabbits, pigs, giraffes)

oh god it’s the lady or the tiger with you
always
(I wish I could keep both doors
shut, and you’d be both and neither;
Schrodinger’s fanged kitten)

Chivalry and Kitchen Appliances

though his armor is unmistakably cardboard,
glue dripping out from the
hasty assemblageThis is my assignment for poetry class:
Write a poem in the surrealist mode. Your poem should include genuinely strange, startling, vivid and specific language, images, details, and insights. Don’t confuse surrealism with formula fantasy or sci fi;
you want to draw on archetypal and unconscious (not conventional or cliche) associations as bizarre as anything you’ve dreamed. Be weird. Be unpredictable. Allow genuine randomness into your work

So here goes
____________
___________
Chivalry and kitchen appliances

She is a brown recluse spider
with a lidless blender

a very large blender
ominous in a vague
I’m-not-quite-sure-but-this-
crab-salad-might-have-fangs
way

she resides in a yellow house
in the middle of a maze

a very large maze
laced with auditory hallucinations and
fun-house mirrors

an enormous crowd of people mill about
clutching hedge clippers and
poorly crafted love potions

they are all searching for the correct path
they are all trying to be the first
through her labyrinth,
past the flytrap garden she’s cultivated,
to open the padlocked door

this latest is
traipsing along daintily
fancying himself a knight

 
he’s picked her flowers (daisies)
he’s written her sonnets (cliche ones)
he’s doused in Armani cologne (Devoted Infatuation No. Five)
 
the door swings open
 
our hero enters, offering his gifts up,
a blood sacrifice to Parvati
 
Into The Blender!
His carefully chosen words mangled up
and hurled back in a puppy-love stenched tornado of
floral sentence fragments
 
he stands bemused, awestruck,
covered in aftermath
 
an insect enamored by bright lights
he will stay
and she will weave her web,
she can’t help it.
 
(she never can)