Mixology
I mix metaphors on purpose
because they bleed better
when they’re damaged
like a smeared carcass
on hot asphalt
under the desert blitzkrieg sun
where liquid sunshine drains heavy
to rot the fallen flesh
of roadside horror afflictions
I drink martinis shaken
with black ice
stolen from the melting arctic
like a hint of burnt blubber
bashed and beaten from a baby seal
that’s allergic to the taste
of toxic freedom
and only gains health
when drowning in the acid
of a stink pit tar trap
in the bloated guts of hallelujah
Cheap Date
O Bay Bridge,
I’ve crossed your path before…
you cheap little…shhh…
no need to get nasty…
I do like
how you dirty up my mind.
Two glasses of your soured grapes
has me focused
on wishing
I was fucking
instead of holed up
here
playing this
three dollar and fifteen cent game again.
Snip, Snip
This is a poem
that won’t be written
because silence dies hard.
This is a poem
that’s been aborted,
and ain’t that a shame?
This is a poem
that never stood a fighting chance,
but it would have been amazing.
This is a poem
that has no metaphor…
and suffers an aversion to scissors.
This is a poem
that has no grave
because its plot got all scattered and splattered.
