Fallen Skies

Fallen skies, dream me gray
My lord, my soul to pray
Fall leaves, straining sunbeams, holding fast
Honeymoon moments, seeming too good to last

Woodsmoke, football and graveyard’s bounce
Windswept darkness, character building drills
Holiday specials, prettily poised to pounce
Summer she long gone, no hot weather thrills

Seasons change for their reason
Enveloping fog as cold dead breath
Hard headed shorts wearing heathen
We rhyme away time for winter’s death

All hail the stinging hail!
Swirling leaves with lightning pepper
The morning dog walk would try a leper
Remember us spring and do not fail!

In the Pink

Pulling the feeder with dogged determination
Deliberately wrenching wretched restraints
Tail a headless sweeping serpent

Head aloft sampling the wondrous wafts of wind
Of dogshit, shine-ola and stagnant sleeping souls
Wise-eyed quivering with nasal anticipation

Teeth to sharpen, splintering furniture wood and bone
Running crazy circuits, with muscles to hone
Waiting watchfully for the excess success

Monitoring miniscule mice-like movements
Day dreaming with canine cunning
Of squeaks, sirens and stars shinning silently

Brown-eyed-baby lusting for snacks
Glass reflections strangely startle
Boastful barking black, hair raised attacks

Hark! Jingling jangling keys of free!
Bark! Bouncing of the beckoning bye-bye
Wriggling, peeing thrills to be!!

Machine Gun Girl

Does the names of all the pierceable parts
Roll off your pin-tamed tongue
Machine-gun girl?

Blood running down your face,
your desirous rush,
your spattered pearls?

Desiring difference so disco desperately
Whirling,
writhing ,
sameness of sight
The flailing arms and lipstick legs of love
Gnashing gnarly whinnying whites

Hopeful still, slightly shocking, the wanton laddy,
fodder for gawking?
Lurid lace, two girls kissing, MySpace
The Spanish Mohawk weirdly foo-foo fluff?

Should your baited breath, sing dirges of death?

Are you riding to battle, in downtown Seattle,
outlaw-biker gang colors enough?
The tribal tattoo, a Halloween fool

A child’s dream, of being rough, tuff and sure enough, tattered stuff

Thorny mast, past full bloom
A 24-7 bastion of ball-busting fusion
A cacophony cart wheeling confusion
Too much trying, too tragically hip

With pouty ,poor, little punctured-ass lips