Orphic Loaf of Luck

She dreams the aroma
Sweet potato bread baking in the oven
Awaiting the illustrious instant, the full bloom of her beauty
Sugar
Flour
Crust
To be munched by thirsted tongue and cheek

Taste buds groping every privy pillowed pocket
Porous soft sponge fills
And ecstatic crevice of pure cut cold hunger
Each molared morsel of baked batter is swallowed

Slowly to be sure

Every last drop of her enjoyed extremity is
Ravished Consumed

Loaded libido since
Potato peeled
Buttermilk boiled
Spoon stirred
Yeast yell in euphoric enthusiasm
S t r e t c h i n g sWELLing
Into her calescent curvaceous contour

Slow slips of steam sing her seductive siren song
Summoning only those under ravenous sensation's spell
To hear her whispering earful of erogenous exploitation

Untitled as of yet...

In Greek mythology, they speak of the House of Rumour. This house has no walls, only sound waves that are carried throughout the world and end at Rumour's house because she hears everything. The following quote by Bill Cosby and the Greek story combined have led to this poem, which is currently untitled.

"End the name of your child with a vowel, so that when you yell the name will carry." - B.C.




"Where are you goin'?"

She asked her curious and curled apple dumpling,
Wandering far into thicket and field
Away from mother's buzzing house of tall tales
And dying fact.

Hands beaten by tall grass curtains
Short ottomans of thigh high bushes.

She runs too fast for mother's sweeping ears.

Wind whipped and watered eye trail decamp to
Mist leaf and blade with the soaking sonnet of privy.

The tear drop turned dew drop chorus
Fills Rumour's ears of chaotic commotion.

Sounds settling, leave no soft murmurs of
Ambition's mud soaked footsteps.

A Sip for a Nibble, a Jab for a Stab

The cannablistic comportment of stars
Likes their food
Hot
Both in toothsome touch and taste.
Gravity holds his tongue
As the last noodle is sucked dry.
Cue the brown dwarf.

I am
Syrup smog of black tar underneath the fifteen car pileup you
So carefully caused
Suffocating you
With a reminding force of why we stop at red lights.
Laugh.
It's the only way you'll get past that six digit figure.

You enjoy the commemoration which I enjoy
Of wine
Of whine
And of wane.

I am
Nicked magnifying glass
Slow churning weapon of choice for your countless ant massacres.
They pass the gasoline torch that is their arm.
Recall
Igniting the revolution that is their colonial independence.

I am
The earache your mother's affectionate astral vocal chords can never absolve.
Leaving your ear canal with the strangled burn no q-tip can itch.

You are
The crack in my waffle cone letting the dreams of my mudslide delight drip away
And you've misplaced me in the Black Rock Desert.

I am
Desolate dog that has found his one pound of joy for the day.
You are
Delectable rat that has given me rabies.

A life for a life is suitable.

You
Are the snore that continues to rock the coffin of my composure while
I
Am the vexatious burn that hugs your now flaccid neck
As we swing to the tune of end's song.

Gypsy in the Mirror

Gypsy in the Mirror

The first time I saw you that blonde hair shook like
a brook down your back. You held the grin of Huck Finn and I'd wondered where
you'd been. Teen of the jungle.
You had a tantalizing cottonmouth
tongue that could seduce any snapeing speculation, situation, or
stretch. Irresistable irie ire Irish broad.
Filled to the chimney's brim
with emotion, you tap danced on the lid in slow motion.
Staring at yourself in
a cherry wood mirror. I have never seen
Aphrodite any clearer.

In our first townhouse we lived.
Alcoholic dealers dancin' on squealers.
Nights of five star puppet shows none
can remember happening.
Of eyes smoked red, stomachs drank long
necks and you stole me for a captain's round.
Many manana our heads cried pound.
Open toothed laughs, squinty eyed smiles.
Worshiped Kerouac, wore a bowl's hair style.
You stared at yourself
in a clouded mud puddle.
Fizzled out your thought
with a Liggett light lacuna.

The first time I saw it, I denied I saw it. I hadn't seen you.
I sat atop my porcelian privy
Bellyaching about Jenkin's newest diddly.
While you stared at yourself
in my dirty bathroom mirror.
Hit me while you hit your crack jack glass.
Chased the white dragon into ice euphoria.
All you said was"Veen of the yungle."

The first time I saw it, I denied I saw it
four months.
Your operatic Valkyrie curves had dissolved to
clothed coat rack.
You stood like a broom still in the air, swept
like cobweb and dust dancer.
Cheekbones of soaked blanket over stone.
I'm no match for your slips of silky suave lingo.
I stare at you in your slick metallic mirror.
A bavarian gyspy slowly dancing next to me,
asks me, if I see her.