swirls around my
finds my
bottom right incisor.
jagged
pulls away
[bite down]
finds my
bottom right incisor.
bloodied
bottom right incisor.
[swirl, swirl, swirl, swirl, swirl, sw
Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt.
Blink razors carve her iris script.
Rib stars ovulate in feral grates,
mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath.
Keystroke ruin writes in collapse,
a waveform lodged in sternum glass.
Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim
Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts.
Tree-call through copper root systems.
Wire-pluck storm,
vapor chews the stock market
Cancer caught in molar hush,
brined in citrine static.
She opens her throat like a coin purse.
Spine bows in semaphore.
We dismount the edge—
An incisor cusp,
the confession still blistering
beneath the flesh of no language.
I sat on the edge of the roof, studying the horizon
Waiting for the do-gooder, who makes me wretch
He will not be ho-ho-ho-ing after I get finished here.
I feel something protruding from my left incisor.
Remnants of last year’s Santa.
The night is still, the ambiance makes me giddy.
There is an evilness afoot that delights my black heart.
I imagine what I will be doing to this year’s cheerful idiot.
My teeth gnash hard, practically breaking.
I am ready for the fool who dares approach.
“It is Krampus!” I hear someone yell.
Three midnight friendly humans begin throwing hard things up on the roof.
I will return fire later. Right now there is only one victim.
I watch for him, hoping he will be nauseously joyful.
Those are the kinds of Santas whom I enjoy slicing and devouring the best.
A wolf howls, feeling my excitement.
I lie in wait, sitting on the chimney now.
I can practically taste salty blood.
I salivate in readiness.
My teeth walked down the stairs today
Molar stepped on aluminum and I yelled “hey!”
They were rioting to protest the new floss.
I rolled my eyes; after all, I am the boss!
My mouth tried to speak but nothing came out
Not whisper, a gurgle, a cough or a shout.
My teeth snickered; a sassy incisor cheered.
They were gaining momentum as I had feared!
My tongue gave me a wagging; I heard not a word.
Those damn teeth had made my face feel absurd.
My teeth began dancing, in the night, in the street.
To a crazy, happy, sensual reggae beat.
How to get them back? What would I have to do?
I promised them the moon, and new floss too….
Canine, incisor, molar to.
What are all three? I’m looking at you.
One hundred thousand dollars up for grabs
Ellen is waiting showing her abs
Dogs teeth, teeth dogs, dogs the woman guesses.
Man gets a chance to steal. Dogs? He professes.
That’s great! His wife yells, happy as a lark.
Great in what world? All three in the dark.
It is teeth, Ellen announces. The audience laughs.
Everyone else there sees both contestants are daft.
THE BRIDIE PRICE OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY
Quietly her love fathomed
The glittering incisor,
A puissant one unravished,
An aesthete affirmed.
Wide in comb of friend
A pilot stood aghast
In rapt marvel of a portrait.
With no joy of dislike he lust:
“I cheer a bride that loves my name;
Such that beckons cheerio in flight,
Behold her chuckling cheek
That calls a carcass alive.
Sir, mind me her love
And I shall yield gold for your care
This portrait moved me
I ogle her a wife”
In shambled voice of remorse
Thundered the hoary pa:
“This trophy of demise,
Here I pore over a piece of virtue and mourn.”
An artless astronaut sigh!
“I cherish her to the core!
And pay for such comeliness
And bids no wife alive.
An artist shall depict a jewel
And hang on my neck
In spirited honour and mourn;
I have her a myth than alive.”
At 27,123 pounds, Gertrude was at her finest, and friskiest weight.
She said to everyone she met, “Hey, I weigh over a ton, isn’t this terrifically great?”
The other dragons were jealous, as weight in their kingdom is the best thing to have.
She ate two good-looking, Texas cowboys for breakfast, the ones who used to calve.
One of them, Jim, grabbed ahold of her masticating incisor, and pulled himself through,
The hole she had between a molar, but her sloppy green saliva was as sticky as glue.
The other cowboy grabbed onto a wisdom tooth in the very back that had a bit of decay.
As far as I know they stayed there, for a week or two, and they might still be there today!
Beauty beheld by a devil
Would fury and lust incite
Taunting him to revel
At things lovely and bright
And only annoy and dishevel
The beast like a collar too tight.
Ugliness happened upon,
Say, a carcass that lay in the road,
By a being much wiser prompts parallels drawn
Between dead dog incisor and silver and gold
For to only a saint would it ever dawn
On the saint as a thing to behold.
Far be it for us to decide
If the tendency, blessing or bane,
Gives the zealot convenient places to hide
Like a judge too lenient on those who bring pain
Or the serial killer a lovable side
Excused for his natural drive to disdain
Or the servant, content to serve,
Feeling blessed for being alive
While the privileged scoff as they take an hors d'oeuvre
As he earns just enough for his child to survive
And never once thinks of the nerve
Of his master, blinded by drive.
If neither side can be dissuaded
To yield this same elective,
Their perusal, predicated
By stubborn refusal to wax objective,
Leave both cherished and hated
Victims of perspective.
ya can't recite a sonnet
without a union card
we got rules here ya know
now move along,
you're not da bard
ya can't be a narrated narrative
neither an alliterative comparative
voiced onomatopoeia sounds like a panacea
but the aesthetics don't fit the phonetics
ya can't be a couple-a-couplets
droppin' duo doubles as doublets
ya can't be a Limerick either
now ya don't look Irish neither
so, authentic you ain't
don't make no complaint
got no chew but yer one last incisor
ya can't get on the open-mic
an' recite jus' anything ya like
it takes rules and forms
to fit into da norms
without causin' a riot or strike
so jus' be aware, we got rules here
acrostics will get cha put down
Iambic pentameter - is the wroong parameter,
and the villanelle - don't go over so well
your calligraphy don't mean nutin' ta dem - or me
so jus' know, how we blow...
'cause, youse ain't da bard
© Goode Guy 2012-11-15