If we do not come in twos, try threes. Four’s a crowd, and five’s a severed hand From a pirate ship crawling the back seat Of some perv’s Chrystler with fins, Cruising cougars in TV land.
I prefer that eight on the horizon, Lying like a Bracque, her face The color of spinach, a tortoise shell For her belly, borderline barbed-wire Circling them for all eternity.
Any variation you can think of Strings out, a painted coconut From the war in the Pacific, A parrot among apricots On a marine’s briefs, Hawaii Luau before the attack.
All younger versions of ourselves, Parallel to one another in parallel Worlds, try every option every time, Only to crack up on Krakatoa Waiting for Godzilla to melt down.
Who’s Counting the Count-Down?
ReplyDeleteIf we do not come in twos, try threes.
Four’s a crowd, and five’s a severed hand
From a pirate ship crawling the back seat
Of some perv’s Chrystler with fins,
Cruising cougars in TV land.
I prefer that eight on the horizon,
Lying like a Bracque, her face
The color of spinach, a tortoise shell
For her belly, borderline barbed-wire
Circling them for all eternity.
Any variation you can think of
Strings out, a painted coconut
From the war in the Pacific,
A parrot among apricots
On a marine’s briefs, Hawaii
Luau before the attack.
All younger versions of ourselves,
Parallel to one another in parallel
Worlds, try every option every time,
Only to crack up on Krakatoa
Waiting for Godzilla to melt down.
[Disposable Poem June 2, 2011]
Dr. Mike