My demon children.

My children are demons.
They are quiet like death.
I think of them often.
Their moment of birth apparent.
Maybe it's time for them to go to college.
Will they come back & find me boring?
Will they find a job because they're emotionless?
Will they go viral for being stylish?
The bitter-sweet moment when I say goodbye,
will I lose everything & die?
My dear demon children, I can't lie,
you were there for me & I was a mess.

A dog.

Time flies faster than the boxcar train which carries a single pupper away from its mother’s tit. The pupper, since fully grown, is now, dead. Before it succumbed a final time it accomplished three things: it crapped on a dress shoe; it caused the spill of high tea in a particular garden; and it yawned as it watched the martian sun sunk for one, final time. This is not a story anyone has to tell, but here we are, telling it as it happened to a dog who we shall call Lyttle Lytton for no reason other than that the “Lyttle Lytton Contest” is the mother who birthed little Ly and we are the clumsy fools that took Ly and put it in the before-mentioned train without contemplating the hurt a tiny little dog would inflict on life in the broad and general sense.


Jealousy's making me behaving cordially:
as a way to appreciate your youthful idiocy;
a mirror to reflect on my own supremacy-
how far I've come & what lays beneath.
Yes, it's ego.
Can you separate heart from its beats?
Of course it can be silenced but that
would mean I've made a mistake.
It takes all my strength to hold in
this silent scream.
Yet, you are the one that I pity.

I want to lick a squirrel’s butt.

I want to lick the squirrel's butt.
Follow the flickering tail to the acorn stash.
It's perky like a kids' lunchbox,
stealing food like it's the best kept secret.
Rousing turf war, no friends nor enemies.
Ok, you can linger since you're this year's kid.
Next time you better be ready for a chase.
Oh, they're gone, I wonder how a squirrel tastes?

If by your own consciousness you were deceived.

If by your own consciousness you were deceived,
don't be shocked, don't be in denial!
In the days of grief, be wild:
depression comes & goes (who am I kidding?).
The brain is made to entertain:
the past is always rosier
than the premium channels;
but those who pay, will be dearer.

Personal makeup.

I pull up the panty of shame,
splash water of "Here we go again."
No bra, no robe the weather is nice
for another day of personal makeup.

There's the silver ring of love.
Don't forget the earring of hate.
Oh, an Evil Eye for protection.
Don't mind the navel ring of invitation.

What should I add to the collection?
Maybe an X that marked the spot
of some dude that died for naught
who wore a rad personal makeup?

Need more thing to remind I exist
in a world that's totally different
than what you might have suspected.
Welcome to my personal makeup.