Dame Poetry wants me strictly for her own,
But cares less if my heart throbs in pain.
She only lusts for that lobe in my brain
Which thinks in rhyme; she’s most pleased when I come alone.
No matter the number of lovers I take,
She insists in a whisper she’ll stay true.
She dismisses my dates who one night screw,
Then disappear. She claims their orgasms are fake.
On cue, she comments that my latest might be worse,
Even less engaging than the one before,
Though I wonder, each time she latches the door,
If she’s referring to the girl or my verse.
Two times in my sleep I cursed your father
And woke as your lips kissed my foul mouth clean.
Discreetly like some maniac lodger,
My anger idled till a wishful dream
Conjured my chance to put him in his place.
Now calmed by your touch and voice, I recall
Him revealing his own real life’s rage,
Chasing me from our bed down a hall,
Refusing us his blessing.
Out of spite,
My tongue flicked back like a party favor,
But recoiled behind my teeth out of sight
When the codger flashed his straight-edged razor.
My lips repeated your name to his face,
Damning him twice, arousing your embrace.
MIDDLE CLASS FUNERAL
The chiseled letters match a name.
The body underground complains.
There's no insurance left to claim.
More bills than tears mark death's domain.
"We're gathered here," the priest explains,
“Because our goals are sought in vain.”
Even this warm spring wind and rain
Won't cleanse a heart from loss and pain.
The mourners wear each other's blame.
One checks the time to catch her plane.
The cemetery swells and strains,
Accommodates the new remains.
Worms eat out the dead man's brains.
All of these gravestones look the same.