Eye Department

 

I have another appointment with the

Eye Department where they will

make me recite a garbled alphabet and

squirt things that sting so I

squint in sunlight, unable to read in

ill-lit corridors while I wait to

depart from my eyes.

Shy Exhibitionists

Poetry can be long-ships in deep water

full of foul-mouthed horny sailors

desperate to take continents

village by village, pillaging

words, leaving readers raped and

pregnant with strange thoughts.

 

Poetry can be paper boats floated by

shy exhibitionists, hulls packed with

love, lust, loss, lost as

paper perishes and

blood and ink become

commingled with dark sea.

Tom Cat

Some nights I want to roam like a

tom cat, prowling under the

split, moonlit clouds looking for

soft prey, girls easy to impress with a

good suit, a bit of cash, a sense of being

close to fame, that maybe being

just a bit dirty will get them closer.

 

But it’s too easy to debauch, and my

fervid fantasies spin off so many ways that I

slam the kitchen door, closing off the

night’s temptations and shutting my

tom cat behind double-glazing to

stare out at split, moonlit clouds,

silently miaowing, frustrated.

Stuck at 11

Infant voices, always stuck at 11,

let out by parents to

tire themselves, to

sleep soundly, so that there might be

parent-time in an

uncrowded bed, their

infant voices, always stuck at 11,

muffled by sheets and pillows.