My mother dearest,
the ice queen chiseled from perfection,
Long legs, long nose, short hair, and golden cheeks
Stroking my hair
through the fog of incense and her ashen cigarette
Slender fingers twisting
my knots and tangles into obedient braids,
Arabic words litter the air
flowing from her ruby lips
to the desperate cackles rupturing from the bellies
of my toothless grandmothers
Red mouth smiling, but her eyes scream
Trapped between my birth and my marriage
Her lovingly cold reign halted to tame my mane
over a candlelit quilt and a roasted lamb
For more of my work, check out my gallery!
No One Wants to Screw the Fry-CookWondering why is all
The grease in her hair shines at least
And her hairnets come in 6 designer colors
And what of the mischievous glare in her eyes
As she checks her texts behind the pancake-flipping manager's back
What a sultry thrill she must feel
And when her warm glance meets yours
Her bubbly giggles chime above the popping fries
And is it not enthralling?!
She leaves you with a wink
... Or perhaps grease just got in her eye.
The Penny JesterHere we see, the king of fools,
the champion of minimum wage,
His jester's hat defeated twinkles
echo in his greasy cage
A smile of 99 cent sequins
is pasted on his cross-stitched lips;
Dancing gaily with eviction slips
and a silken pouch of pennied tips.
Mad Man with a WeaponWith a bible in one hand, a gun in the other,
The vagabond sought a red devil to smother.
Sipping moonlight like moonshine, and drunk out of his mind,
He stunk of reality, redefined and refined.
With good scotch on his tongue, and the good book in his blood,
He ripped at the skies and clawed through the mud
O'er many a hill and a corpse of good men
He found only sin in each quick second spent.
With a bible in one hand, a gun in the other,
The madman could tell not the devil from brother.
The Puppeteer's WifeThe Puppet Master of the woods
Who births his dolls of bark and leaves
And sits among the robins' nests
And giggles madly at the trees,
Had grown 'longside his godly lust
To shape faces of redwood skin,
The need to touch and pull the strings
Of carven hands so feminine.
He lifts her weight up by his hairs
Her scarlet flesh still warm with sap,
Stroking the feathers o'er her ears
He places her upon his lap
And rears and clangs his bamboo boots
As as he cackles to the moon,
Whilst lost within her empty eyes,
He swears he hears her laughing, too.