Mixology
I mix metaphors on purpose
because they bleed better
when theyre 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
thats 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,
Ive 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 wont be written
because silence dies hard.
This is a poem
thats been aborted,
and aint 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.