Full of Posies

Manky mood’s been ballyhooed

The mouth of Jubilee sends sons to noose

Bone tanning on a moon-shakey landing 

Whoever crusades the passing of day must bury sun rays

If not disaster, is that the password?

The cliffhanger doesn’t decide my satisfaction


For the Unbecoming

Polychromatic undergirding, do you understand the chain of a hurting? 

Urethra composites, the idling utmost underbedding, undermining the host.

  1. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  2. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  3. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  4. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  5. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  6. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  7. Don’t you want to be soaked up?
  8. Don’t you want to be soaked up?

Don’t you want to be letdown like a holdup? 

By the urge of an ear to be upturned, I adhere to nocturnal nocturns.

When I’m born again I’d like a novel nomenclature. 


She’s the sort. Her plate is a perpetual cutting. Pulverizing her swish of even water with her tongue-tied broom. So cautious, preserving, wasting time ‘stead of chew. Clasped hands become I in my precluding observation. Napkin, napkin, shovel, fork. She hasn’t touched her peas, I have to go to work. Angelic limbs unable to quite touch, the slow-cooked table, supporting brunch. Kettle’s smoking withstands the weight of a steam-kite. I yank the fork and stuff her, one gnashing bite. Her eyes widen, I’m all feet-I’m out the door, “Eat.”

Man of Word (Real Conversation) 

Bridal bouquet caught by Nick of Time.

Wedding cake washed down with wine.

Flower girling to skip o’er the “do.”

Grasses are hurling their whistles on you.

What could have invented such fest? 

Was the dragon skirting it’s scaly vest?

Do rings of fire expire attire? 

Green shut eyes, the well-groomed man states atop a quivering “and,”

“I’m going to marry you.”

She sits upright like jittery height,

“You are my soulmate.”

“That’s right.”


Mural smothering that cranial wall,

I had it query, Curling doll.

Something of Rivera, in Mexico’s awe.

I am no picture, zygomatic jaw.

OH MAXILLARY, orgasmic artillery wanders those halls.

By the sounding of nodding bells, moaning calls.

I will retire here, under Newton’s law.

Nothing you pity can heal the gall.