DYSTOPIA NE

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“HOOKER SLAIN, IN DEAD PROSTITUTES FIELD”

Slip away,

whore-

fall lifeless (again),

to the frozen,

anonymous

ground-

that was

(seeded and plowed) with

YOU’RE A STATISTIC.

‘more

than you

should be’,

L-A-S-C-I-V-I-O-U-S

bitch;

(‘…Me!

It was Me!’),

‘I made

you

famous’

(‘…Me!

It was Me!)

(“and I don’t think

I mentioned, that…’

“THIS IS GONNA

HURT,

like HELL”

fin

R.I.P.

for all the girls; friends, faces, and all the rest (that never had the chance for self worth, friendship,

love, change, hope or life).

BANG IT UP, JOE (NO ONE KNOWS)

Sitting there,

(in hovel number 362B),

assigned by The Minister of Tragedy,

Joe ransomed his

wife and children

(for one more ride),

on the Ecstacy Wagon.

 

Halfway through the

trip, he vowed

He would get them back-

tomorrow.

Tomorrow ‘Joe,

Your Wife’s At The Door!’

 

But he didn’t know

Anyone was knocking,

(so he stayed in bed).

 

Bang it up Joe,

I don’t think she knows

(you’re inside).

 

The day after that, Joe

died

skinny.

In the clutches

of

Too Much Fun

 

FIN

taken from a book of poetry (self published in 1992) The Veal Couplets

MAYBE YOU ARE

If I was a haircut,

I’d be uncut

Or even

crazy,

Poking out

your eyes when

you tried to pass (me).

If I was a dog,

lazy-

I’d be biting,

foaming and

My teeth would need

brushing.

If I was a cat,

I’d purr

when you

touched

my belly;

slide

up the warm parts

(of your body)

and

deny

that I owe

you

anything,

(but the privilege of

my company).

If I was a bowl,

I’d be full of soup;

(and afterward,

you could put me on

your head

and cut

around the rim).

If I was a balloon,

I’d be very light headed;

(until some little gamin,

named Timmy,

hit me with the

slingshot,

that he just got,

for Christmas).

And I

fell

to

my

death.

I’m glad I’m not

a

balloon.

FIN

taken from a book of poetry (self published in 1992) The Veal Couplets