this poem i wrote leave a message!
What if your stomach had something to say when you loved?
Heart gets to pound
Brain gets to fly
Fingers get to move in the grooves of love’s ass crack but
Your stomach feels nothing but empty trays discarded at lunchtime.
The satiation of lust is for the soul not the
Digestive center of the mentally retarded.
Acids churn as e=mc2 goes to hell and
Your tummy is still stuck on H2O H2 + O2.
Maybe that’s the problem
The Pepto Bismal prom queen is stuck with
Moving mounds of mucus membrane with
Air gasps and skin sucks tucked inside.
Eyes meet across the room and instantly your tummy says
“Oh no you cannot leave me alone again.”
She throws a tantrum just like a 17 year old girl should and
She spits out a
Powerful compacted particle of methane which
Travels so much faster than a speeding bullet to love’s
Big Jewish nose.
A nose, which says, “ oh, well… that’s interesting.”
Interesting like the smell of skunk on the highway,
Smashed into the grates of the Subaru Suburban sonofabitch S.U.V.
The hailing to Israel cartilage sniffs it’s way to your lips and
Parts them with love’s oh so not
Reform or conservative or orthodox but maybe Venetian
Tongue which makes your
Heartburn with Rolaids spells relief strength.
Your rapturously ravenous heart pumps a million time
Faster making your toes curl up in your
Fuck-me pumps.
Your brain overloads with oxygen and begins to float up up and away
But a bite on your oh so tiny little ear, tucked with
Amber Brown 112, brings it back to its
Cerebrally celebrated center.
Your fingers find love’s break between
Shirt and pant
Blouse and slack
Camisole and trouser.
Your pinky slides around to love’s minute bottom
Which nicely compliments its large Semite nose.
Your tummy is cut out of love’s will, love which is dying now
With a smile on its face as it turns
On its side to spoon with your
Not really fulfilled
Body, frisky fingers a rest. Your stomach
Cries tears of milk. Milk that made no appearance for the
Venetian tongue or the
Huge Jewish nose, which is probably Greek anyway.
The murky milk, which curdles and oozes in your intestine
Wakes you in love’s oppressive warm welcoming arms and you
Yearn for a ta ta ta ta tums.
You sneak out of love’s grasp feeling
Sheepish, you don’t even have an early
Meeting for an excuse. To the lou at 4 a.m. for a
Breath of Listerine fresh mint air desperately needed by your lungs
Weak from the competition for air.
Suddenly suffocating
Your tonsils clap together attempting to halt the
Inevitable incoming.
Your tonsils applaud and receive an encore. The
Mucus mounds slide on the
Porcelain or marble or glass
Sink and into the drain as water peaks out from your ducts.
This water is the opening band for the full live concert
Of “The Tub Weepers,” coming soon to DVD.
You sit there favoring the fetal and
Wipe the no longer flowing Visine tears from your
Dry
Red
Eyes?
“Next time,” you say “next time I won’t fall apart.”
But your tummy knows that you will find “love” again, this time with a
Spanish soccer-player bod costume or a long-haired-Latino wig.
Your tummy knows that these are the wrong places to find what
She needs. She is a mute woman who can’t sign in the right language to
Your heart, brain, and fingers that this emotional bulimia will
Continue until love, like porridge, is just right.
Heart gets to pound
Brain gets to fly
Fingers get to move in the grooves of love’s ass crack but
Your stomach feels nothing but empty trays discarded at lunchtime.
The satiation of lust is for the soul not the
Digestive center of the mentally retarded.
Acids churn as e=mc2 goes to hell and
Your tummy is still stuck on H2O H2 + O2.
Maybe that’s the problem
The Pepto Bismal prom queen is stuck with
Moving mounds of mucus membrane with
Air gasps and skin sucks tucked inside.
Eyes meet across the room and instantly your tummy says
“Oh no you cannot leave me alone again.”
She throws a tantrum just like a 17 year old girl should and
She spits out a
Powerful compacted particle of methane which
Travels so much faster than a speeding bullet to love’s
Big Jewish nose.
A nose, which says, “ oh, well… that’s interesting.”
Interesting like the smell of skunk on the highway,
Smashed into the grates of the Subaru Suburban sonofabitch S.U.V.
The hailing to Israel cartilage sniffs it’s way to your lips and
Parts them with love’s oh so not
Reform or conservative or orthodox but maybe Venetian
Tongue which makes your
Heartburn with Rolaids spells relief strength.
Your rapturously ravenous heart pumps a million time
Faster making your toes curl up in your
Fuck-me pumps.
Your brain overloads with oxygen and begins to float up up and away
But a bite on your oh so tiny little ear, tucked with
Amber Brown 112, brings it back to its
Cerebrally celebrated center.
Your fingers find love’s break between
Shirt and pant
Blouse and slack
Camisole and trouser.
Your pinky slides around to love’s minute bottom
Which nicely compliments its large Semite nose.
Your tummy is cut out of love’s will, love which is dying now
With a smile on its face as it turns
On its side to spoon with your
Not really fulfilled
Body, frisky fingers a rest. Your stomach
Cries tears of milk. Milk that made no appearance for the
Venetian tongue or the
Huge Jewish nose, which is probably Greek anyway.
The murky milk, which curdles and oozes in your intestine
Wakes you in love’s oppressive warm welcoming arms and you
Yearn for a ta ta ta ta tums.
You sneak out of love’s grasp feeling
Sheepish, you don’t even have an early
Meeting for an excuse. To the lou at 4 a.m. for a
Breath of Listerine fresh mint air desperately needed by your lungs
Weak from the competition for air.
Suddenly suffocating
Your tonsils clap together attempting to halt the
Inevitable incoming.
Your tonsils applaud and receive an encore. The
Mucus mounds slide on the
Porcelain or marble or glass
Sink and into the drain as water peaks out from your ducts.
This water is the opening band for the full live concert
Of “The Tub Weepers,” coming soon to DVD.
You sit there favoring the fetal and
Wipe the no longer flowing Visine tears from your
Dry
Red
Eyes?
“Next time,” you say “next time I won’t fall apart.”
But your tummy knows that you will find “love” again, this time with a
Spanish soccer-player bod costume or a long-haired-Latino wig.
Your tummy knows that these are the wrong places to find what
She needs. She is a mute woman who can’t sign in the right language to
Your heart, brain, and fingers that this emotional bulimia will
Continue until love, like porridge, is just right.