May Day

Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Crown a spring queen and drench her

In chains, the masters treasure chest

Is full of gold and spider whispers.

 

Grab your maypole and lets dig

Butcher a spring fowl and drench it

In butter, the people deserve to jig

While blind men sing holy writ.

 

Grab your maypole and let’s stay,

Plant a picket fence and drink liqueur

Each morning. We need to decay

As proper mademoiselle and monsieur.

 

Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Take the nepotist’s boat to the seaway

And swim in tropical waters, all soaked Sunday’s best

And sunken stolen pay.

 

Round and round,

We must be faster,

Hands in the ground

Digging graves for the master.

 

 

War Song (Sonnet)

I cried into the petals of a flower

On the bank of Echo’s lake.

The debris of my tower,

sundered by sour drake,

 

line my burial mound

and, how I long to lay down.

Please select the serpent you crowned

Gurgled the jester’s nervous breakdown

 

So I grabbed the incarnadine blade

Of the patron saint of drunk vomit,

A True renegade aimed for the stockade

Where children sing of the burning sodomite

 

And I began the trek to dragon’s lair

Curious about winning a intellectual post-mortem Croix de Guerre

Road Head

Road Head

Rigor mortis hit the carcass like the car.

Escapism encapsulated his pupils

Her fingers tightened around his belt loopholes

It had been thirteen minutes, since the bar

Twenty four minutes since, “you look just like [insert movie star]”

In the passenger seat, she swallowed her scruples

The chicken crossing the road swallowed the futile,

Rigor mortis hit the carcass like the car.

 

No heaven for road kill,

Heads bob with the bass lines tunk-tunk,

He punches the roof, punches the gas

Greed’s lupine eyes drink their fill,

She rotates so passing headlights may see her ass,

He bursts, animal blood trickles out behind the trunk.