Roy Street Coffee Phone Poem

 

I hate it when I start to compose
and the pen runs dry.
It makes me wonder, sometimes
if this universe speaks
in conspiratorial metaphors,
but I could just be paranoid.
You see, I was just trying to write a sestina.
The title was going to be Mr. Happy's Fly Swatter.
It was going to utilize six prompt words
I scavenged out of my favorite Big Poppa E poem.
The girl, she had a big nose.
She was engrossed in a conversation
with a kinky haired guy at the bar.
They were drinking red wine
from fat snooty glasses.
Coke bottle lenses covered her eyes.
Her smiles were magnified across the room.
He said that there was no normal.
She agreed.
I was just standing there eavesdropping
while I waited for my coffee to finish its drip.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I broke in like an unwanted car fart.
I said, “I was the icon of normalcy in America.”
My name is Mr. Happy.
I have a fly swatter.
I love the sound maggots make
when they swim through a tub of honey.
I got a hot water bottle.
I screwed the hose
into to a wet-dry vibrator I found in the laundry room.
It worked great on Ms. Honey’s hole.
She liked it more than the cat did.
So, I dug a shallow grave.
I buried the cat
along with the cat food
I didn’t need anymore
in the back yard.
I threw in the flyswatter
and that empty tub of honey
and smoothed the hole over
with ink that exploded
into my hand from a worthless pen
I bought at super Wal-Mart mega-store.

 

---William James, 12/31/2011

 
 
 
 
 

A Disasterpiece Found Between Pages In A Book II

 

I live

Breathe

Through the we

A single plop drops into the sea

This body lives

Vicariously

Through the we

Liquefy

Illusions of

The day to day grime

Breathe

Through the I

Live

Vividly

Become a single drop of water

Raining into the sea

Experience

The meaning of we

I feel you so intensely

I could swear

You must encounter me

There

Too

---William James 3/30/2008

 
 
 
 
 

A Disasterpiece Found Between Pages In A Book

 

...Odd Bark

Shep sprints---

up hill,

'cross streets,

'round bend,

down again,

---after a bus.

Little legs pump,

feral hair thrashes,

nostrils flare,

breath catches fire

blood ruptures his veins.

Shep,

bites at tires,

howls,

scratches at the door.

Metro number seven halts.

On all two's,

Shep crawls

aboard.

---William James, 3/2/2008

 
 
 
 
 

An Unseen Friendship by Purple Mark

 

“If you’d like, you can start your transmission

after the high-pitched squeal that will be your cue

to make a statement about yourself.”

After this announcement, I was at a loss as to how

I should answer this query. It seemed that an enigmatic

or Surrealistic response was required from me.

Since I had The Song Of Roland on my person, I answered,

“Then comes at speed, Margaris of Seville, who holds his land

as far as Cazmarin, ladies all love him, so beautiful he is.”

“Squeal,” came the message’s endnote. What he would

make of it was hard to know. I had no clue as to what

his work entailed, but I had been told to be bold in my query.

Just when I was about to ring off his equally odd response

came back: “Her skin is white cloth and she’s all sewn apart

and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart.”

So began our strange friendship with neither of us seen

and it was only our words which we relayed that connected us

in a Stream-of-Consciousness sort of give and take away.

---Purple Mark 122311

 
 

Friday Prompts:                                                                         

1. “If you’d like, you can start your transmission after the high-pitched squeel (sic) that will be your cue to make a statement about yourself...” Antero Alli. The Akashic Record Player. (Falcon Press, 1988) page 40.
2. “Her skin is white cloth, and she’s all sewn apart and she has many colored pins sticking out of her heart.” Tim Burton. Voodoo Girl: The Melancholy Death Of Oyster Boy And Other Stories (Rob Weisbach Books, 1997) page 51.
3. “Then comes at speed, Margaris of Seville, who holds his land as far as Cazmarin, Ladies all love him, so beautiful he is.” Translated by by Dorothy L. Sayers. The Song Of Roland. (Penguin Classics, 1964) page 89.

 
 
 
 
 
 

Perihelion Blinks (A Video Poem)