Bite your lip, bitch;
You’ve got 13 lonely storeys,
Wind rushing through your hair
You’re homebound towards the ground.
Reduced to a sound
All your years of living
In a messy little mound. .
Since long, long, long before
The existence of remember
The trees had fought a might war
Until they all were timber.
The Pines trees dropped their needles
Into the woods of the Birch,
The Birch trees replied with beetles
That made the Pines’ bark lurch
The Sweetgums hid behind a hill
While a lone pioneer made sure
There numbers would outweigh the skill
Of the resilient Douglas Fir
The Cotton trees shook a great, big cloud
To taint the water of the warden Oak;
While it dried to death, bustling loud
The Cotton trees just wretched it choke.
Out West, rebellious brotherhoods
Allied and formed The Front of Ferns
To overthrow the Redwoods:
Trivial, for in the end
Every tree still burns.
When Jealousy creeps
And probably sleeps
With every word that’s ever been said;
Tis then, from the deeps
That Distance leaps
And annotates what you’ve read
About great White Whales,
Of captains mad with fervor;
Searching holy grails
Or unmapped trails,
In order to get further
Away, away, so far away
From romantic ropes which fray
And fail to rise the heat;
And on that day,
When your blood turns gray:
That’s when Jealousy has you beat.
When once sweet smiles
Lose their luster,
To be smudged,
– Tarnished –
And heartless filibuster
They’re forlorn to be re-varnished.
It’s a cold cut, machine carbon copy
Of a body
But it’s not your own.
It’s a nice, warm, time-killing hobby,
But the trace job is sloppy
Like you’ve never known.
A pair of black and white striped booty shorts, and three million potential sons.
The great, and deeply beloved Queen Dido
Of ancient Carthage grand in cultured wealth
Had felt as if she already died, so
She wrote a letter to her future self.
A lone prose line, little riddle saying,
Engraved with haste in massive slabs of stone
That could withstand the weather’s long fading:
Remind her future self she’s not alone.
Alas, reborn as Cleopatra queen
When Romans had returned, her royal bed
Was shrouded, lustful fog, and thus not seen
Was Dido’s tablet that she should have read.
She too was lost, and thus age never sings
Her warning words: “We’re not the things of Kings”.
Now hush, my sweet sorrow sparrow –
And hark, my lovely lark;
In a cave of rocks,
There is a fox
With a bite-worse-bark
And strange pleasures in the dark.
Be very wary, humming hen –
Yet don’t be shy, dear darling dove;
Though he often bites,
After a few nights
He may fall in love.
Then you’ll have (almost) noting to be afraid of.
My mind is clouded blank
When I read these lines of yours.
And how my heart has sank
Knowing that you once held hers.
And off the page, your words leapt;
Thus, I do not wonder why
This book of your poems she kept –
You are a better poet than I.
It’s blunt and bludgeoning
Like a concrete boot,
When it trips you down
And kicks you.
It’s a half-hearted mad
Hand that’s bundled up in apathy.
But believe me, kid,
When it hits you –
Doesn’t matter what words you
Try to stutter in short lines you
Wrote, or hidden little tricks you
Have tucked up in your sleeve
Where, by your liar sweat, it sticks to
Your pale skin when she says
But I can’t fix you”