Tag Archive: Rhyme


Lost/Found

two lovers diverge in a yellow wood

and I get down to the business

of hunting mushrooms and kismet

all underneath the rusted out hood

of an abandoned Cadillac’s bent grimace

 

then strip off all my fraying clothes

and toss them creasing over tree branches

bend down and crawl among the rooted trenches

spiking holes for new planting in the wake of toes

while squeezing dirt until each finger blanches

 

my love will call for me but I am too far gone

to hear an idling engine buzz like bees–

that could be voice cascading through the trees

yet if that were her it’s sure that I’d have known

it was not just the crickets’ theremin on the breeze

 

my love will search for me and find just rags

like the Caddy cast aside I am out of place but home

inside a cave where I will turn to bones

this is my face imprinted on the crags

I am not lost although I am alone

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The ballad of Leroy the Morose

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

 

They tell me life is but a dream

since precious plans came true–

 

That Doo-Wop radiation scene

in Disco World War II–

 

Wellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

 

Yesterday I tried to cry,

my tear ducts coughed up dust–

 

The loving ain’t the nasty part

it’s all that fucking lust–

 

They tell me life is but a dream,

they tell ya what they must–

 

Am I the great neurotic king

or idiot distrust–

 

Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

 

They call me Leroy the Morose

I cut my fingers off–

 

I tried to shout: Hey, adios!

but christened with a cough–

 

My hair is thin, my sallow skin,

my scalp I grin and doff–

 

You call this sick? Well what the hell,

I ain’t the one worst off–

 

Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

 

They call me Leroy the Morose

my teeth have turned to glue–

 

They tell me life is but a dream

since precious plans came true–

 

Let’s put the bodies by the road,

I’ll stack ’em two by two–

 

I think I’ll pluck my eyes out next,

that last one looked like–

 

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

 

I think I’ll pluck my eyes out next,

I’ve nothing else to do.

Spiders rhyme

Your stilted free verse tribulations

have never had the legs to explain

all the tactile, tender titillations

in the eight-step pizzicato quatrain

that shivers down your spine. Tear

out the pages trying to fit it all in time,

but I’ve watched their legs echo near

and far, and somehow spiders rhyme

no matter what poet tries to watch

their motion. A consensus is achieved

no matter how you must abuse and add syllables to your line to vaguely match

this desire of those few who still believe

that words so consciously arranged,

oh so coyly planned with preternatural pep,

might dance a darkly sensual, deranged

step step step step step step step step