Mine mean Lothario days left me in a confused daze
Mine mean Lothario days left me in a confused daze...
as if being a crash test dummy survivor
after a led zeppelin collided with yours truly,
a foo fighting beastie boy (George) talking head
found me in a comatose state
subsequently wishing I joined the grateful dead
upon suffering severe godsmack,
but thankfully rescued courtesy barenaked lady.
Weeks and months later
following intense physical therapy
being released from intensive care
and just on the cusp of resuming
I received my walking papers
as chief garbage taster,
which found me down in the dumps.
Fast forward (analogous to fast cars
believe me you, I espied a Fleetwood mac
racing on the information superhighway)
to the present, where I count my lucky stars
no police pulled me over
most likely because this defensive driver
went airborne as wings
(at the speed of sound),
where reo speedwagon avoided traffic
but unexpectedly needed
to dodge b-52's flying helter skelter.
Upon waking up early
on an September Autumn like day
serenity prevailed here
within the one bedroom apartment
cramped with the eight years worth
of cumulative belongings
mostly furnished courtesy
fellow tenants possessions
(the wife owns a reputation
any and all various and sundry
unwanted property from residents
who move out of this joint
here at Highland Manor Apartments,
or surviving family members
of a recently deceased occupant
automatically bequeathed
to her majesty
she will lug unwanted items
to Goodwill, Liberty,
or Worthwhile thrift store -
keeping for herself
whatever strikes her fancy),
or actually retrieving
functional material goods
dumped at the corral,
and ofttimes atop
a pile of rubbish inside the dumpster.
Though amiable dynamics,
the wife and yours truly
get along swimmingly
(in this dive - ha),
which rapport of former antagonism -
about equal to the half-life
of being legally wedded
once analogous to a war zone),
whereat even peacekeepers
linkedin to the United Nations
abandoned hope mainly
on account of one philanderer -
meaning the author of these words
spent an inordinate number of hours
posting and/or answering
personal classified advertisements
catering to the unflagging libidinal longings
of yours truly unsuspected by the wife,
who believed my terse explanation
that Mister Harris meeting -
actually a blind date,
you go figure -
merely to take a spot of tea
or coffee with a veritable stranger
of the female persuasion,
which thy spouse eventually discovered
visa vis lie videre licet licentious libertine
the *hit hit the fan
after the figurative lid got blown
subsequently consentaneously, instantaneously
simultaneously liaisons with other women
fomented rupture, that after countless years
left an indelible impact on the psyches
of me mate and two daughters,
who long since flew the coop
relegating estrangement
to foreign corners of soul asylum
never witnessing repair.
Though once upon a time
I winced with tears for fears
at the first born considered "daddy's girl"
propelling either offspring on the swing
(their hands tightly
clutched on the chains),
I never tired heaving them
into a soundcloud
watching them disappear
into wuthering heights
losing their religion
and investing their trust in me
NOT to push them with such force
they would end up
on the dark side of the moon
thus now those then little girls
likened to goo goo dolls,
whereat infrequent reunions
finds their papa (me)
feeling like a foreigner
analogous to how Dorothy,
a resident of the prairies of Kansas
before the tornado
swept her away to the Land of Oz.
Copyright © Matthew Harris | Year Posted 2025
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