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aayoung

Poetry, Prose, Art, Photography, Curiosities

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Urban Legends

city confidential

i’m guilty
of compartmentalizing
my life
no one will know each other
at my funeral
Robert Stack will narrate
the unsolved mysteries
there will be several unknown
oddly distraught
handsome gentlemen
friends from all over
and family
who will conduct it
like a senate hearing

war by candlelight

amidst the curiosities

of my yet to be packed up

roll top desk

i found a diamond bracelet

you had given me

hiding in one of

the apothecary drawers

it reminded me immediately

how you waged

war by candlelight

instinctively i pulled the pin

on that gauche grenade

lobbing the tacky bauble

into the goose shit encircled pond

behind the house

your weaponry

is not welcome here

anymore

sarin

he was a nerve gas attack

on the japanese subway system

of my soul

nothing flat

let’s run away

to a city

where no one knows us

where we don’t speak the language

rent a little nothing flat

live on scribbled paper and

dreams turned cold in their cups

writing love songs

between our legs

i will burn your fucking bonsai trees

he could not hide

his twisted psychology

behind his volunteering

his social networking

his name dropping

his poorly translated

banal Japanese poetry

his social work

and his damned bonsai trees

that he was a control freak

with a volatile temper

and a duplicitous nature

that he is the man in the bar rubbing his

chino covered cock on your thigh

condescending

manipulative

overly solicitous and hell bent

on getting his penis

into your vagina

anyone’s vagina

perceiving female poets

as emotionally compromised

easy targets

and if his unfortunate victim muse

was able to see his monstrous nature

through his kabuki mask

she was condemned by him publicly

as a crazy woman

of course

 

 

traveling salesman

commit these words

to memory

when the devil comes for you

and believe me

he will come for you

he will not be cloven hoofed

horned scaly

red fleshed fork tongued

with a pointed tail

he will appear on a sunny morning

as the answer

to your prayers

speaking words

you’ve been waiting to hear

all your life

with a loving manner about him

possessing

in his manicured hands

a perfectly packed picnic basket

a bottle of wine

a box of jewels

and two plane tickets

to Antigua

murakami-o-rama

This piece will only appeal to avid readers of Haruki Murakami. If you don’t read him, you should. The following poem, written for his fans, will act much like Jeffrey Lebowski’s rug, it will tie the whole room together.

 

coffee

tea

tofu

someone bearing the name

of a food or a spice

elephants

cats

vanishing elephants and cats

spouses

vanishing spouses

empty wells

vacant houses

tokyo at night

prostitutes

suicide

strangulation

coffee houses

motorcycles

inheritance

ironing

world war II

earthquakes

faceless men

mysterious women

creepy psychics

train stations

abandonment

noisy birds

alternate realities

parallel universes

massage

coming in your pants

rape

dowagers

groceries

bad dreams

creepy investigators

all knowing uncles

erections

whiskey

scotch

beer

NHK television

someone who wants to have sex you

for a mystical reason

water

rain

verandas

brothels

odd teenagers

chaotic jazz

depressing classical music

vinyl records

dormitories

letter writing

ear fetish

cooking

sofa naps

contemplating death

still more contemplating death

clothing

footwear

sitting on benches

stars

moon

unexpected phone calls

sleep

my enduring love for fishnet stockings

Siren Song

the only logical explanation

to my query rests somewhere

within evolution

.

how to explain the behaviors

of my youth

.

single celled amoeba

causation

division into

organ systems

due to

lightning striking

mossy rocks

primordial chemistry

.

pangea with a side of tea

.

to become an eel

shark

murky creature swimming

with unforgiving teeth

.

finally to manifest

a mermaid

my beautiful

mother’s daughter

certainly

willing pirates lured

by my siren song

plucking their heart strings

until boredom set in

only to drown them

in the sea

.

it explains

my enduring love

for fishnet stockings

St. John the Divine

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