
especially below the waist,/
I never once wonder/
how do they taste?/
For after tulips meet/
wurst meat,/
they always taste/
sweat sweet!/
Repeat!
smallish auto farts
we beg and ask for riders
stop pollution now
Hello?/
I’m guessing today is a no go-/
no show?/
Just let me know/
so I can prepare 2 go/
with or without yo,/
ya know?/
I’ll just go/
with the ebb and flow/
some mo!
On a bed unmade/is a grape tootsie pop laid!
I think
a lot of great thinks,
I think.
And some thoughts even
come close to the brink
of being more
than just thinks.
But they don’t.
And they won’t.
And then the think
I think
becomes a thunk,
and goes kerplunk.
And nothing I ever do or say
Will make it be more, nor make it be okay.
My ability to cook depends on which room I’m in.
Four burners? Or a king, queen, or twin?
A twin is like stir fry: quick, steamy and hot;
King or queen like slow basted barbeque, simmering, not
rapidly slammed down,
nor overly steamy;
but tender, warm, comfortable,
tasty and dreamy.
So, in the end,
you have to decide
what type of meal
down your palate will glide!
What enjoyment you’ll feel;
which temperment you’ll reveal.
Wenn ein schlechter Tag/
Dich schlagt,/
will ich doch Dein/
ernsthaft Freund sein!/
Bitte! Lass mich ‘rein!
Revolucíion/
all around!/
Che on walls,/
seeds in the ground./
Which brings more change?/
Kind, hopeful hearts?/
Or souls filled with rage?/
Maybe both;/
I vote growth!
I want to tell you a story
of late night glory,
and dew,
and me
and you.
It was an experience
wonderful and strange!
I did it more than once:
Returning again
to where you’d lain.
I could scarcely contain
my curiousity
to see if I could tell
where the fruits of our amourosity
fell.
And, once I did,
could not contain, again,
myself, and on I sped;
would not refrain,
but exploded in memoric,
meteoric
delight!
By myself,
in my room,
where you’d lain
at night.