Mephistopheles in Retrograde

My finances are screwed,
Not just covered in boils and scabs,
But coated with plague – my idea,
Because if we’re gonna get it on,
We’re gonna get it on hardcore,
Like you’ve never seen,
You posture your chastity,
Barely seen through skeins hung
In an open window frame,
Framed there,
Parakeet sings sweet in the darkness behind you,
First, I’m a-gonna strangle that winged rat,
Then it’s gonna go up the darkness behind you.

 

Produce Shopping (as it were).

Some sort of juicy and delicious,
I watch you walking, walking by,
And I am beside myself,
I am walking up to you,
Look at me sway, ‘cause the train
Is swaying,
You are swaying,
And your ass is as sweet,
Juicy like a pair of melons,
Ass melons, baby,
That’s what I’m thinking about.

 

The kisses I misses

There you were,
Lounging,
Soft white hair bleached by sun and bleach and peroxide,
Your smooth skin looks soft from only yards away,
It glows with health and sun,
And I am only yards away,
You yawn, and stretch,
And languidly turn the pages of a sunscreen-smeared Cosmopolitan magazine,
I’m reading Cosmo too,
And I’m rereading,
And taking notes, and
One day we’ll meet and chat;
I’ll already have something to talk about,
Thanks to my Cosmo,
I can tell you all about,
“75 Crazy-Hot Sex Moves”,
I hope I don’t forget any.

 

Mr. Giggles and his Mellifluous Needs.

Attention-Seeking Behavior

I was playing with my blocks,
A-B-Cs and Lego,
“Go-go-go away!”
Called mommy through the door,
Lots of bumping while they play,
My mom and Uncle Paul,
I built up towers with my blocks,
Then I toppled them all,
Bored, and they don’t come outside,
Mommy’s locked bedroom door,
My belly’s rumbling,
Eat peanut butter and cheese,
Then play with blocks some more,
I wonder what my mommy does,
When I hear her moan and bounce,
Mr. Kittens throws up red,
When I defrost him in the microwave.

 

because what about the children?

It’s been a long time. Sometimes those “great” ideas you have peter out after writing poem after poem day after day. You have to step back. Recharge. And that’s what I did.

So, I was showering this morning, thinking about the Psychotic Love Poetry readings I have coming up this weekend (Friday and Saturday at The Dark Room, 8pm), and I realized I have nothing new to read. And then I thought about the children.

Children are a a revitalizing influence. How better to make an old franchise seem new? Take a page from the Muppet Babies handbook.

Until I get sick of it, I present Psychotic Love Poetry 3.0, “Lil’ Psychotic Love Poetry and Friends”.

Enjoy.

 

It’s sore and a little scabby.

My rear brake failed on my bicycle last Monday when I was traveling down Potrero hill toward my home. With ingenuity and a modicum of verve, I slowed and ultimately stopped my forward/downward progress with my face-brake. Otherwise, I could’ve gotten seriously hurt, you know?    

 

Hell is other people.

My work shares a bathroom with a bank. So when I need to go potty, I do so in a public bathroom. And you all think you know how gross that is. I’ve seen a man washing his face from the urinal. I’ve heard the most disgusting sounds emanating from the toilet stall. I’ve seen things that I cannot describe, for I know not where they come from. I’ve heard a man coaching himself through the process of vomiting – over and over – into the toilet. I’ve heard someone poop in the urinal when I was in the toilet stall and seen the huge load of doody therein. And then today happened.

I pushed open the door to the bathroom, and there was a gentleman in the way. With his face in line with his shins. And his pants down around his ankles. Muttering to himself. With his bare ass gaping up at me. Reaching up to the auto-feed paper towel dispenser, grabbing paper towels a handful at a time, cleaning the shit from his ass and undies. Right inside the bathroom door. As if because he was doing this disgusting deed in the bathroom, no one else would conceivably need to use the bathroom, right? Did I mention he was muttering to himself? “They’re gonna kill me, babatty bee boo bah, grumble grumble, motherfuckers,” and on and on. As far as I can tell, this is an accurate representation of what he was saying. He was definitely riffing on sounds more than he was spitting out coherent words, but that’s not necessarily because he was crazy. It could have been due to a combination of shit-in-pants-related stress combined with head-near-bathroom-floor-related increased blood flow to the brain.

And he was wearing a suit, did I mention that? I didn’t. Not an incredibly nice suit, but no less nice than any of my suits.

So as I open the door, he goes waddle/scuttling into the toilet stall, which some kind individual ripped the door off of several weeks ago. Because who wants to take a dump in privacy? But, you know, he damn well should have been in there in the first place. Door or no door. He never picks his head up, nor does he stop muttering to himself while he awkwardly waddle/scuttles into the stall. And he continues muttering while I pee out two very large cups of coffee, very quickly, so I can get out of there as fast as possible.

Today I was just over a foot away from naked, staring-me-right-in-the-face hairy man-ass. Shitty, shitty man-ass. The day has nowhere to go but up from here.

 

Proving Pulled Privileged Pundits Powerfully Preserve Pressurized Pedialyte

Missing Melanin Melanie

Your skin glows like lightbulbs,
Your hair’s white and fair,
Eyes pink-rimmed just like a bunny rabbit,
Pale tongue like a calf,
I hobbled you, so you couldn’t flee,
Force-fed you milk soaked grain,
Made sure you had all the cable TV
You would ever want to watch,
And did I love you? Sure I did …
I tended to you daily, cleaned up
Your milky messes, and treated you
Like you were still my girlfriend,
Sexually,
But you’re not my girlfriend anymore,
You shut the door on that shit, honey,
And I’m having a dinner party
Tomorrow night, yesiree-bob I am,
And you’re not going to slaughter yourself.

 

Car versus Bicycle.

Car wins!

 

Riding my bike, living my life, there’s a prostitute before me!

Three Dollar Handjob

There’s a hooker with one arm standing on Polk Street,
Misty Thursday morning and you’re standing on Polk Street,
Spitting bargain rates while you’re standing on Polk Street,
You’re a hooker with one arm and you’re standing on Polk Street,
Your heels are large and tattered; I think you may be a dude.