Sunday, March 21, 2010

Fateful Missy’s Golden Slumber

It’s just one goddamn poem after another
This guy sends her; he must think
His every word, like drops of piss, is golden.
Maybe his shit doesn’t stink, either?
Will no one ever wake him
And put him wise before he wets his pants
Or will we have to dance him here like one of Missy’s dolls
Until we break him in lieu of any first intended consequence
Of kindness or any understanding we might conceive,
Like puppet masters anywhere?

[Around and round you go and stumble,
Over and over tumble in the same jerky two-step dreams
Of filmy fushia crinolines and girlish lipstick grins and
Awkward boys who slightly bow in tightly fitted formal pants.]


Current draft: 3/20/2010
Created on 3/18/2010 9:28 PM

1 comment:

  1. If it's hard to grasp any perspective of this poem, think: "Twilight Zone" jumble.


Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)