April 26th, 2014


Tonight's poem


Her life is boxes that will work one day
but do not yet. Switched on, they do not start.
She checks connections, then takes them apart
component at a time put in a tray

safe for next time. My words that don't ring true
I'll never trust again. Will press erase
do something different. She'll kiss my face
in passing. Moments later she'll kiss you.

No verse will change that. And I am content
to try again turn poems upside down
throw pieces on the floor. I share her frown
at what's not working yet. Say what I meant

next iteration in new language that I've found.
Her last box gives us clear crisp truthful sound.

Tonight's second poem


I do not hope to talk you into bed
nor want your love. Affection touch of hand.
Oddly the troubadours would understand
love poetry is written for the head

not for the cock or cunt. I twist in pain
but choose frustration as the price of verse.
Love's been a bitch to me but bored is worse.
When out of love I soon fall in again.

Food for my heart blood poured upon the page
my best good hope that I shall never die.
That some young girl will read me, sit, and cry
then flirt her lover into jealous rage

dance with my words crisp bubbles on her tongue.
Tease me, torment me, spark me into song.

Response to a random correct prompt on someone else's i-phone


My heart's a clockwork whore. It goes tick-tock.
Predictable that things you drop will fall
that heart will break and mend. Give it a call
it will come round, undone. Its every lock

responding to your key. Give it a turn
its gears will whir and hum, its parts will move
jerk into action, we can call it love.
Paid with attention it will dance to earn

each kiss. Bang tiny cymbal in its dance
of creaking pirouettes, slow curving arm.
Precious antique but not without some charm
will offer a slow afternoon's romance

and then wind down and stop. Put it away
it rusts, until you oil it with some pay.