Unfortunate Memory Candy
Movement the First—O, this Lake of life is Trembling Terrible
Single droplets of wet, wet moisture, rolling down my tear-soaked cheek
Making a river
Or a phoenix
Or a joaquim
Whichever you pick, it's Oscar worthy.
My might is subdued by platitudes and attitudes
Mighty though it may be.
Power rangers unite i cry to myself
But only Zordon hears me
And he's on the phone, so he can't talk right now.
Runaway horses are on my mind.
What are they running away from?
Are they running from the truth?
I think they are.
The glory-est of glorious days fast approaches,
Pulled on a golden chartiot by diamond-tipped stallions
And electric-guitar-playing dragons.
The chariot moves at the speed of Life!
Movement the Deuce—The Twinkling of Future Animal Psychosis and how it regards To My Feelings
Pile my soul on a crust of rye bread
Toast it in my heart
Justice shall be my mayonnaise
And no deli meat can tame my hunger
As well as anger can.
Give me the crackers of innocence!
And a bagel of mercy.
I will dip them in the bisque of tolerance.
If you can get the tip.
Give me a reason
And I'll send you to bed
Without your Pop-Tart dinner
Faster than cow on Friday
Grammar!
My mortal foe.
Untamed ink and flagrant vocab.
On a scale of A through F, you suck at life.
Movement the Thrice — Firestink
Thus began the age of the Firestink.
It burnt, and it smelled, and it burns still. It burns for you, the stench of ages, the stench of you and I and us all.
You cannot quench the ever-flaming flame of fire-tude, flamography. It cannot be extinguished. It will smell its flaming smelly self for all of time.
If I had one wish, it would be to warm my hands and feet by the uncontrollable inferno of odor with you.
Because baby, you are hot.
Hot like the sun or a furnace or some sort of swamp.
Little bells twinkle in the space-time continuum
Folding paper is my breakfast
Origami my lunch
And your eyes are the supper of the gods.
In a few years we'll be gone, like, forever and stuff.
I can imagine nothing more tragic
Nor more beautiful
Than the memory of the butterfly
Smushing against the windshield of my car
At somewhere close to fifty-seven miles per hour.
Kabuki frightens my madness.
Sent as a joke to PoetryAmerica
