If you're buying....

If you're buying,
make me one with a little
 surprise at the end, a
strong finish, with a sour
       twist, and
something ordinary but not
        too dull,you know
             what I like.
         

        give it to me in a cup
 of monumental proportions,maybe
        that would not have seemed
out of place in the hand of
          a pirate king, no
wait, maybe a crystal glass all
        light and sparkles
 oh, i know just
         the thing...a
  garish plastic pineapple or
        a skull with sparklers
     that lights up the room and
      says
            "Hey, lookit me, it's
                    my birthday!"


   Life is just too short
          to drink Mickeys malt liquor
         from a red plastic cup
or pretend to like the taste
            of raw gin

     Don't give it to me straight
          either,
I want to dress it up and
           sashay

Truth Rises Under Mighty Presence....

There isn't enough brass
to make the horns
to sound the uproarious
 hoot
of your self satisfaction
as though
  the world could
 bear
another messiah
   who doesn't bleed
   a hero to the palace
         born
that still has the grasping
      eke to chintz on
the toilet paper and stiff
     the working stiffs
 that built your shit

   Maybe you can strut\
                 your stuff
in a bath robe far
         too short
while the rest of us just
        look away
and act like everything is
         normal,
 your sharp little nub
     making your tighty whities
 into the world's tiniest
       shrine

Maybe our gaping
    disbelief
our cringe
 at your latest little
          bon mot
a T shirt that basically
      says....
"FUCK LIKE A NIGGER,
       THINK LIKE A JEW"
will distract us from the fact
  that you are
   robbing us of even
       the sense to know
  that we have been robbed....
   

Pallas Athena

There you are, the navel of the world
  oh with your Etruscan face
      facing the sun,
ordinary to all
     brown eyes only not grey, just
 hiding your fire
         a lamp in the well

  will we roll you
        up a character, how
      do you want it?
not fair that you have all the strength,
       dexterity, and charisma

i make a saving throw
   against your dark archery
         eyebrows,
  and precious lips

          your laughter is a
special attack
      your clever hands with
             red nails
have the dweomer of goddess
               light

you are
       the adventure

I do solemnly swear to never text you again...from the poetry slam

There are days and then there are
   hot, dirty curbstones that wait for
bare feet and confusion
oh perform a patter poetically
  puddles of piss,
jump up and down , and
     pitch a bitch all the way uptown
Fine flashy fingers, pale legs in high heels
talking about pussy and giving us the feels
don't stop till the hammer drops
we try to finesse it
 drop in a cuss so we can express it
   meanwhile there are formless thoughts and memories
   looking for a place to land , needing light and the sophistry
of a willing ear to bend
   and some time to spend
  you are my cowboy made of clouds i say
and i am but a stray
     waiting for your rope'
to choke me out or bring me home
   the front of you is steel and smoke
      and you sleep inside my bones
i scream at the walls of my cell
        i scream in the prison of my shiny life
my love is warm and clean
         and shiny,so
 i look like tortillas and beans
        at this point in the performance,
I can't keep up with the barrage
      I just have to say
 i am trying to limit
  the numbers
of people that I
  disappoint
and so that makes me fearful
     that makes me late
  and keeps me quiet

Apologia

There was asphalt
 and a stream of metal cages
   my mind was on
a thousand shiny songs
  a million darkened outcomes
 and in my shirt pocket was
     a poem you wrote
     about bluebirds,
something quiet and  simple
      elegant, but without
 giving a damn about feng shui
       and it is somewhere
by the door or sleeping next to
         a candy wrapper.
I hope it doesn't take this the
      wrong way.
I'll get to it tomorrow
   i promise

The Pleasures of Love

your doll face , your doll hands
your heart beats inside a cage
and you love him
       the others leave you
in between boredom and
         annoyance
his falcon eyes and
  smooth body
      so strong and filled
  with secrets

     but i must tell you
that we men are made cruel by
       this world and
brought to it honestly
      it is the throne
 of all the things
          that we are
and we will hurt you
    in ways you cannot
understand
       or be ready for

he will want more and more of you
 until it burns your world
     and you are vanished
       You will be a rabbit in
         a wildfire

will turn from you when you
       give him everything

 will only be with you
  when he is with you
 until he is with another
       in a few days
 you will be a punchline
      to a throw away joke.

         you may hear it
           a dozen times
            but believe
          it only once.
don't say I didn't warn you.

In this Land

Beneath my feet
is the only land I own
and that feels as true
as the handle of a good hammer
  or my favorite pen.

Why is it, then, that
  my tongue is bitter
dust and something  does
 not thread smoothly,
  when i hear my neighbor's grief?

  This morning, I heard children
       sing "This land is your land
         this land is my land..."
  and I began to cry
           was sputtering,choking.

     My eyes were blizzard blind
         salt flooded, my breath betrayed
    my classroom whiteboard, unwilling and blank
       old glory in the corner, hanging from the wall
          making me feel alone.

Copyright © Paul Love | Year Posted 2019

Mud-larking 153

If he lights upon the mossy stone
this grey fragment of sky as if to kiss
his beak will pry and feet will comb
our feathered dandy seeks not to hide in mist
but still, in wet amongst the muck he strives
hopping about reflecting the gold rings of his eyes

 clay pipes, broken patent bottles
blue inkwells and brass buttons
the dull conspiracy of rubbish turned
 to secret doors to the naked life
 of those gone by
       and were we to tell
the secrets that we could sell
  I push history up hill
      and the birds will not even notice
 unless a little splash or swirl
            brings the present out
            of the past

   We watched for
       the sun and he did not
           forge a mighty wheel
 To the Medford and Thames
       over all and to the Tiber with him
       like a forgetful emperor
                sleeping on
             a park bench
                                     -- Reynard Crigg

via albioni

I went to see a monument
went to see aunt Margaret

whose house was next to a cornfield
  with a white porch full of pinwheels

She knew just what to do, her heart was true
We went to the bright white, city
    by a lake, which was actually the sea

  Margaret is part of the secret world
  one of parties behind hidden doors
          puddles on the bricks
 and ivy falling down the brows of houses

        I saw her with a man so handsome
            you could swear he was a statue
         so lovely you could swoon
                     with an aquiline nose so
             straight and true you
                   could carve a statue
                 with it

            I saw it all on that floor covered
                with the candid glacial glare of
                        sheets thrown on cushions
                 what a pagan show, mysterious,
                     suffused with incense and
                          the leafy smell of spoons
                                 and candles

              I had to climb up the fire escape to
                 get to our room
standing on the balcony,
          the city was making love to me
                 I have a pocket full
                        of miracles
           kiss me kiss me kiss me