Cell Level
Your home. . .
is in the curve of my hip
and between my thighs
and in the dip of my collarbone
and behind my 5th and 6th left ribs
and when you go (because they all go)
you will be imprinted in my cells
Fat Bottom Girl Said What
When my ass talks, people listen.
Peggy Gets a New Kelvinator
If that son-of-a-bitch thinks he can buy me off with a new refrigerator, he’s got another think coming. I know he’s been doing the hanky panky with his secretary because he comes home every night smelling faintly of Shalimar, which I’m sure he bought her, and “Love That Red” lipstick on his collar, which I don’t wear, because that’s only for whores. That cad will get his tonight when I serve him up a little bit of rat poison in his pre-dinner martini, while I’m putting the finishing fluorishes on that new Wieneroni Casserole I’ve loaded down with strychnine. That asshole will never know what hit him.
Malnourished
The crumbs you gave me
weren’t enough to sate the hunger of my orphan soul
Too long without proper sustenance
I gorged myself on the tidbits you dispersed
But my stomach turned in on itself
your lies burning holes in the lining
Starving to death is better
than trying to digest someone’s insincerities
A Wake
I am too rough around the edges and would cut your soft heart
leaving you to bleed out among the detritus
empty bottles
plastic shopping bags
in the road side ditch
But my heart is kind so I would feel bad
and run back to apply pressure to your wound
but it would be too late because my words are too sharp and piercing
So I have no choice but to walk away
and leave your carrion for the vultures
who will feast on the tenderness of your kindness and respect
which my self-hatred would not allow me to stomach
An Aperture to Love
if you died today
my eulogy for you would merely be me listing all the reasons I loved your lips
the way the spoke with kindness and respect
the way they curved up at the edges with laughter
the way they kissed with passion
the way they emitted sighs of contentment
but your lips were merely a figment of my imagination and the stuff dreams are made of
Incendiary Devices
I piled your platitudes in the middle of the floor
and set fire to them
It’s surprising how well words burn
when laced with lies
Incendiary devices meant to ignite passion
burnt to ash with the strike of a match
You were merely another flash in the pan
and I’m left scalded
Bored Games
you think you’re hiding from the world
but in reality you’re hiding from yourself
self-deception is the worst kind of deceit
sleight of hand as you try to trick me with your cups and your balls
don’t you know that secrets keep you sick
but the Romantics said they hear your secrets when you’re talking in your sleep
and liars gonna lie down with dogs
and get up with blood sucking fleas
and a case of the gonorrhea guilts
and keep a low profile when you’re sipping suds
because loose liquored up lips sink ships
and now everyone knows it was you in the conservatory fucking over Mrs. Peacock
so be careful to never make promises you can’t keep
and falsely think this means no disappointment can be had
just because there were no expectations
or supposition or presumption or conjecture
because I can surmise that you’ve done this before and you’ll do it again
and it will still be someone else’s fault
because you’re proficient at the blame game
and since the arrow never lands on your number
and because I know how to keep my mouth shut
you will come out smelling like a rose in the middle of a shit sandwich
and you think you’re #winning at this game called Life
and I’m left holding the crusts I cut off for you
because I’m always proficient at Sorry, and not the game, but the apologizing
and I should learn that you’ll never learn
and that I just need to stick with men who only play board games
and not bored games
because I was merely a pawn who filled your time
Necrosis
My heart is gathering dust
and my lips are gathering cobwebs
and I need you to come and sweep them away
with your kiss
My fingers have become stiff with rigor mortis
as love always dies a slow death
and I no longer recall how it feels
to intertwine hands with another
Have I relegated myself to a mausoleum of my own making
or has the universe decided I am not worthy
of things which come so easily to others
Return me to the earth
and let the dirt quell my heart of what it seems
are otherworldly longings
Wilma
Wilma knew exactly what to do with that GD toilet her lazy ass husband Harold still hadn’t hauled out of the back yard. “When life gives you lemons. . .”, she thought, as she dumped the potting soil in the tank and bowl, and proceeded to plant the flowers she’d bought at the Piggly Wiggly earlier. She was so pleased with her idea, she hadn’t even bothered to take the curlers out of her hair that morning before running to the market, and just tied a scarf over her head, and slapped on a little coral lipstick. She couldn’t wait to be sitting in the lawn chair with a cold beer in her hand when Harold pulled up after work, so she could see the look on his face when he saw her new planter.
Edna
The name’s Edna. I smoke Pall Malls and I love to play the bingo. Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons I play the bingo at the Catholic Church hall. Their pots are okay, but they never serve alcoholic beverages, and bingo just isn’t as fun without my beverages. That’s why I play at the VFW on Thursday and Friday evenings, so I can suck down a few cold ones while using my lucky dobber and puffing on a Pall Mall. Last year I took one of those bus tour things to Nashville with my winnings. I got to see the Grand Ole Opry, and not that new-fangled one, but the original one at the Ryman. I got to sit my butt on a bench and look up at the stage where it all started. Because there’s nothing I love more than country music. Except an ice cold PBR. And a Pall Mall. And bingo.
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 