Magnetic Poetry Kit: Verse No. 1

Just a muse with magnets.

Please lick the luscious peach

in blue spring mist. Yet,

the delicate man could never scream

    after love.

 

Dream not

of frantic lust in the produce garden,

under a lazy summer moon.

But always sleep next to the rusted

    iron sausage apparatus,

and chant at mother’s gorgeous

    thousand pound

chain of love.

 

Above, a drunk pink fluffy goddess,

in hot wax

trudges through moments of

    delirious whispers,

essential to raw egg water.

As the tiny woman behind the symphony,

lathers in boiled milk chocolate

with visions

 

of repulsive puppy drool,

she stands beneath

enormous pictures of cool bare breasts,

recalling

elaborate sweet petals with the power

to worship winter’s bitter,

purple tongue.

Author's Note

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