She leaves a trail of honey...

You, with your Jennifer Aniston hair,
walk like skimmed milk into my coffee.

I just seem to feel better when they're out of view...

Another poem has departed from this blog, after a minor adjustment.
Why?
Well, it's being included in a broadside. In India.
Yes. India.

Not exactly certain of the title of this broadside. But it's being guest edited by the wonderful Aleathia Drehmer (also of Full of Crow).
But, at the risk of error, this broadside will be titled Graffiti Kolkata 19.
Further interest can be taken here: http://www.graffitikolkata.com/home.htm

Oh.

The most important thing, he said,
was the screen on his only window.
Because it's one thing to be hot,
it's another to be hot and bothered.

T'ain't no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones...

Contrasting messages in images
fade into the walls where love
actually means nothing despite its focus.

Poison frogs poison boldface
poison mushrooms poison symbols
and a dark cloud looms

over the western front, less dominant
than your alluring flower that
invites my wandering eyes to bed

and holds me there with illegible
written word visible through panted
breath and excited glare.

I'm a sack of broken eggs...

They say I have strange eyes
and strange sound
like a deaf-blind mute that still
still
still
still
still
still
still
still
gives his senses a tickle.

Curled up on the floor where I belong...

She searches for holes
in the sore floor beneath her;
stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp

Let them brush your rock and roll hair...

The strawberries are in season
and the trees along the road sway
sway to the beat in the car
of hungover hearts leaving a good time
in a city that already feels like mold.