Accompanying music.

You’ve been passing round my ears

since I was in kindergarten,

always growling soothing cheers

in your warblin’ Martian garblin’.

What’s the song you sing today?

Not the same as years ago,

though all share the calming waves,

many single-showing shows.

Who are you under those hoods?

On to work or buying goods?

Stay as shady as you should.

Accompanying music.

Is it gray or is it blue?

Leaves between both black & green.

Sunny’s shift is ending soon.

Zephyrs scurry up my sleeve.

Feel a tingling in my chest.

Minutes pass without a thing.

Papers lying with the rest.

I just want to catch the seas.

Now I see some purple there.

Still I feel the still chill air.

Stare @ shades o’ midnight wares.

I can’t hate your flapping mouth,

iron pelican; I care

nothing ‘bout their slander, ‘bout

stereotypes: I’ll scrub you fair.

¡But I did clean your bathroom! ¡How rude!

(Laugh track’s stabbed your back, my man.)

«You can’t scrub the rust from rust;

dust shall always stick to dust.»

Gray-brown seaweed clings my hands &

drags them drain-down, drowning ‘neath

water will not drain @ random.

Now this nightmare ne’er comes clean.

Till toilet flushes wake us, & we drown

in boiling tubs o’ fresh blood with a frown.

Don’t those vacuums suck, ¿‘mirite?

But a’least I’m clean this time.

Accompanying music

Feeding thirsty leaves, the grapes

paint the concrete oily yellow;

& they keep unique pastel glow

e’en when wrinkled by dry age.

Get’n to business pecks the crow,

front & back, that beaky drummer;

no concern that e’en in summer

faded mountains still smell like snow.

But that sun was far too distance;

now there’s shade. The fact, though, is that

still these crows get down to business.

Accompanying music.

I can taste the bloody iron

in your sticky spinach clinging

to the rocks, your simple sirens,

though its your leaves that are singing.

There is safety in remains,

memories o’ wine-sweet bliss;

ride on waves, on ships, on chains,

green all that is colorless.

Still you cling to my gray shoes;

though I love your ugly fruit,

progress says you get the boot.

What a waste. Without a taste,

stretching out for help, but found

none in suns on yellow days,

frowning drowning pastel clown.

Nothing’s sweat in salty tears,

only smeared & only itchy

make up made up of those years—

dark, & yet they still bewitch me.

Dump you down my creaky drain,

please remind me of the rain—

Please! I promise to behave…

Accompanying music.

Blues wash boughs but black still keeps

in the kitchen ‘spite the lights

toasting coffee donut creams;

when bird portraits lost come ‘live,

when the slumber cinemas

play still, till they’re suddenly

breached by scents o’ cinnamon

& the neon digit 3.

Walk across the sweating grass,

through the chilly wind o’ glass—

soon skies take off beauty masks.

Accompanying music.

Though I wrench you off your tree,

‘least I get to feel your flesh…?

No, that’s not the way to treat

sauce that grows right off the stem.

Itch my nose with pepper smells,

spread your veins all over me.

I need sap mo’ than all elms

—I’m the 1 who’s looking green.

Rain just gives you free refreshments,

zephyrs make you dance so festive

—tastes will linger like a fresh mint.

‘Twas lovely wandering summer evening parks.

‘Twas in Gelat’nousboulder¹ where I saw

trash all scattered ‘long the vomit lawn, accomp’nied by

globs o’ doggie shit & feel-good posters taped on tree

boughs. ¡How nice o’ nature, serving such important needs!

Surely tacky clip-art betters boring orchids. ¡Phhh!

Luckily I saw the man whose dog improved the park

with its priceless art. Enraptured, I went up to him,

carrying the excrement in question, & I said,

I said to him,

& he’s all like,

—¿You like it? I just whipped them up this morning in FrontPage. I think the kitten in the box saying, «Cat in winter box. Pondering meaning of life. ¿What’s it all mean, cat?» is the funniest part—.

I jammed them down the man’s esophagus;

& that’s why I’m in jail for 60 months.

Footnotes

• [1] Slogan: “Supports iambicish pentameter.”

Ripples in my glass o’ tea,

how I could forever gaze

& forget society,

live my perfect holidays,

breed my perfect memories,

just to laugh into my face

‘bout the myth eternity.

O, tart tea, give me a break.

I try gathering all your rings,

but they just slip down the sink,

followed soon by mo’ ear rings.