Poetry
from Petrarchan Ditties
He is like a schwa
Or lilac at dawn
Interposed by fawn
Pied magenta.
He is like Florida:
Full of neon brawn,
Toxic lawn
Makes duh of every the.
He is not like a tug
Boat or freshly squeezed,
Neither flamingo
Nor snug as a rug for a bug;
He has never teased
“Look, palmettos playing bingo.”
:::
He made sweet of his
Meat, metonym
For goodly whim
Or physis.
It would be bliss
Returning to him,
Bubbles wrinkling the brim,
And he gives me a kiss.
I have not used my tongue
In so damn long
But my lips are
Like rips off a bong—
Bojack—bee has stung—
Circuited heart’s scar.
:::
With a little shelter, with
A little kin, or
Some full store,
We counter that myth:
It lacks pith
And makes more
Trouble for our core—
Zenith and width
Some lace for laceration
Like asters stir, whose stirrings start
The youth to masturbation—
Elentic persuasion
His average heart
Can’t beat, nor tattoo diapason.
:::
One, two, dell and spew
Forth ragged ere rears caught
In a catch-all of naught
Mortices blink plumbs blue.
And then there interposes rue
With its dainty green wave, its hot
Bitters bite erotically wrought
Or telos tells on you.
I am dizzy in the sweeps
Fill the pipes past full—
Full of hope, hopeful haptic
Means time still keeps
Breaking unto days: mazy pull
pushes sweetly, lets me be geriatric.
:::
I take one piece, and call
It too large, but
Really it’s just
A bit too small:
Nonetheless I fall
Down unto lust
Abolishes any slut
Till I’m ten feet tall.
With my shadow
I act, and you
Praise my lack of tact.
With what I don’t know
You yelp, turn blue
And green till reds react.
:::
There is no excuse, until
There is, and mine
Is that I needed the brine
Called rhyme, and fill—
Like sun caps a hill—
This frosty stein
Winks like sparkling wine,
Like Jack but missing Jill.
Thou art not soused
Nor thy
Lips crisp crimson,
But I am aroused.
Dear I: don’t go home and cry,
Crawl weed, scrawl jimson.
:::
The time has come
For me to be
Like a sea
Silvers glum
Photo or some
Letters flirt, flit pretty:
Therefore, we
Order us shot at phylum;
Not one cell
Turns inebriate, nor
Can we stay sober;
I and I, citizens spell
Country dredges ocean floor
Like a dancing boot, a roper.
:::
I read it in a book—
Bounds, and bound
Unto tabor’s sound—
But was not shook.
On closer look
I slam ground
Like lost refuses found
Or green spells its hook.
Today, all I want
To do is sleep—
Slumber not almost weep;
My feelings lie gaunt
Like unfelt affects haunt
Scree lines this steep.
