Delusional Love Poem
If this is a commercial.
You rankled like mythological things: the hydra, Kraken, the Fates, bisexuals...
I would like a Just Jews edition.
To wage war against your fey Nazi manners.
This ends with the longest money shot in world history.
Delusional Love Poem
I rearrange the Schmoos and stare.
I was asked in an email to pray for Vietnam yesterday.
This is a desultory sort of votive.
You are rumored to have made candles from the fat of your cock.
My frugal isms are burning me backwards.
I can limbo under the lowest guy (sigh).
Some Trolls are hardcore.
Are you going to keep making love to gay blazing Disneyana?
Your learning curve is a jump rope.
I refuse to psychoanalyze any more impenitent Confederate rebels for you.
Take my hand or make love to horror homophobes.
Don't think I'm above that silver apple trick.
Delusional Love Poem
Sing time and I'll buy it.
In a kimono, you are shady history.
Your condensed historical scary eyes.
Will you be ripe at eighty?
Will I be weird schtick glint in your eye?
Maybe this implying pull will work.
Gravitational, undrunk fifty days, trying a Greek crowbar here.
When I made love to you in a dream I kept pulling these keys and rings from your mouth.
Tiny planet machinations!
Oh make me a plaster-of-paris version, cock dinosaur.
The excruciatingly steady paycheck of desire.
You are the worst sort of Welfare queen.
Delusional Love Poem
Delphic limited edition!
Kitsch-hound Secret Service!
Poeiana of anxiety attacks!
Just out of short pants!
OOP oddity to die!
Blackburn cold feet.
Snickering dustbin some days.
Oh, American justice looks just like Mr. Peanut.
The heart the same.
Who cares.
Delusional Love Poem
Poor old Looking for History.
Fifty spurious narratives.
What would Rimbaud do?
An awkward figure eight.
Prescient outlandish empire junkies.
Lay your head on this creepy cool couple I found for you.
I wanted to son-story their assholes, tailor-made for head playing the world's wickedness.
I'll give you a magic apple, magic mice and magic socks.
This way you can thwart the dragon and the metamorphoses.
This is our escape plan for you.
I will secretly call you "Little Chew on Tea Light."
This is your secret mouse name.
You will need to make it through America of the Progressive Reformers (a.k.a. head cheese artisans).
You go to the magic Mushroom Temple and kill Abraham Lincoln on level 7.
Then we meet in Cyberia, inside the game.
Then we are on TRU TV looking very dazed and angelic.
Delusional Love Poem
Gramma was just these gay surreal commercials like Eva Zeisel conversing with a crackhead in a documentary.
Gramma got Strep A from reading the Decameron.
Gramma take me home.
Gramma was the only one who understood the talking asshole routine.
Gramma was a dinosaur but she knew how to spend money.
Gramma's version of Grey Gardens was a Goth hard-on at Gold's Gym.
Gramma was rich in African heritage but she gave me none.
Gramma was a selfish, eurotrash-magnetic bitch.
Gramma could sing "India Song" while changing crack babies and putting on makeup.
Gramma lived to be 289 years old and died of an untreated s.t.d. she called "the vapors."
Gramma had style, but that style was like a Coinstar machine.
Delusional Love Poem
You are smooth but what if I am into Sholom Aleichem rock?
A bidding war.
Your father reminds me of Gwar on eerie old postcards.
I think I could take him.
I found Goethe in mint condition at my gay bookstore.
Dr. Seuss was mauled by a plastic Garfield in there on Thursday.
The blood on G.'s fangs gave me hope.
The blood on your fangs is slightly discouraging.
Pointer: Take them to bookstores to ferret out the petty criminals.
This is an era of our dwindling reflexiveness.
No, I don't look like Kurt Vonnegut naked.
Do you look like Geraldo?
I am having these N.D.E.s and R.I.S.Ds a lot lately.
Can you help me with my polar Norn fetish?
Jay DeFeo did so not witness the "Amityville Horror."
When a Greek Twittering Museum meets an African Safari Hound...
You make me feel like a gay Yiddish shipwreck.
Delusional Love Poem
I bought this waspy book...
Neurotic Art for Dummies.
Erotic facsimile, your beautiful translucency.
Like a lil Mondrian tree.
I will ten clip you in the mirth stores.
I mean if you are into dolphin expansionist tendencies.
Delusional Love Poem
What century?
Either home was dark poet else!
Orchid strings indulged, world perfect demonic visions!
Painting: Baudelaire amid the Housewife Novels.
Take oblivion.
Dude! Wrestle me nekkid on the bright green Goldblum astro-turf.
Just kiddin.
(tealight fits)
The Pyrex dust mites wash up a hundred years later.
I would like to teach Very Antique Strange Forest Keeping and Goldsmithing 101.
The beautiful is always longish like a cock.
Sorry that was smale.
Mr. Weiss Angel is a dead butcher who lives in my washing machine.
Sometimes I tell him stories, or vice versa.
You are fucking Jeff Goldblum, aren't you? That silly big humor jimmy.
Not a quirky feast, but the silhouette of a quirky feast.
I'm gonna nut right now.
All over the frolicsome ikebana of your verse.
No if ands or Buddhas.
Delusional Love Poem
Your pretty conversation
Your Buddha
Your filth
Your Truman strings
Your country prestige
Your Balzac off track!
Your dreamcoat of amazing hollers
Your Density's Child routine
Your awkward tombstone writing
Your deer nuzzling lips
Your Anne Boleyn nape
Your arduous innocence
Your boyish Ardennes
Your Dr. Seuss rape
Your frank Carolingian stand-up
Your false Pope installed God knows where
Your eyelashes around your cock
Your funny middle of the night antebellum koffee tawk
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