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Odet

from the dark of the marsh
the cygnet sings a plaintive melody
climbing to one thousand stars
it loves but will never reach,
an intergalactic song of dreamy static,
to leave distant lovers flabbergasted,
oh, what a tune.
and i sit, convinced, on the banks,
that somewhere some love
saturated in post-coital perspiration
is tensed and waiting,
for a painless prince to take her away,
to a place where she doesn't need her body.
then the horizon cracks, orange fills the sky,
illuminating the trampled dandelions,
where my frail and fragile form once filled the grass,
the fallout from another night come and passed,
and the music dies, and i kiss an empty dream goodbye.
i've heard my swan song, and i know where i belong.



Untitled

Tiny beads of perspiration glide down my body as
we sit in this grassy meadow littered with dandelions here and there.
In all the commotion my naked foot bumps an orange
causing it to roll off the red 'n white checkered blanket.

To be honest, I'm quite flabbergasted to
have made it this far with her. She's a
beautiful cygnet. I'm convinced I'm an
ugly troll in comparison. Perhaps she pities me.

She and I have had an intergalactic journey like
no other, but everything has been waiting for
this coital moment. She dines at the
restaurant at the end of the universe;
the bomb goes off.
Sticky fallout covers her.



Untitled

"Sorry sir, you need to leave
Only employee's allowed here."
Spoken with false authority
I'm convinced this kid thinks he's impressive
A flock of cygnets served
With dill would scare me more
You might think the dandelion bouquets
Would clue him in to change
Stupid kid
"Sir I have better things to
be doing right now."
Ha, I could flabbergast this punk
With tales of my coital endeavors
Or put him out of his misery
It’d be the right thing to do
“Look pal, don’t make this harder
then it needs to be.”
Oh, I can’t help but smirk
As his orange teeth clench tighter
While he dabs away perspiration
I’m guessing intergalactic Armageddon
Will ensue if I sit here any longer
“You know what, I just don’t
have time for this.”
It seems like the only people today
Who can maintain their patience
Are doctors
Maybe when I fire the boy
He’ll get a degree in medicine
Even meet a nice girl in the ER
Should’ve fired him months ago
“Maybe my boss will know
how to handle you.”
As he turns heel to the phone
His shoes glint quite brilliantly
I wonder if they’ll survive
The fallout sure to ensue
When my cell phone rings
And I pick it up
Saying
“Thank god for plastic surgery”



Untitled

our matchstick dreams will eventually lead
to an intergalactic fallout.
unless that red fades to orange
and we become content for some adaptation
of coitus interruptus,
our lives will one day be extinguished
beneath the trembling finger of a balding,
flabbergasted army field marshal
with perspiration dripping from his moustachioed face.
convince me otherwise;
i’ll beat my chest too
and proffer my own diplomatic stringency,
my cheeks flushed with blood
and my teeth brittle with rage.
but the plaintive grace of a pale cygnet
or the wistful decay of a dandelion
makes me wonder of what silent,
pleading innocence i would have to ignore.
i can only hope that those ninety-nine balloons
don’t float too soon or too late.