Maybe I’d have red hair,
And ears down to my toes,
And glasses big as basketballs that balance on my nose.
Maybe I’d have giant feet,
But still could do ballet
And when I’d do a pirouette, my ears would swoop and sway.
And maybe I’d have rocket farts
To boost me way up high,
‘Cause then I could say “howdy-do” to eagles in the sky.
And maybe I’d have snake arms,
But friendly ones, with bows,
That way I could give extra hugs to people that I know.
And maybe I would have a tail
Of blue and orange and gold,
That I could wrap around my neck to warm me when I’m cold.
And maybe I would wear a hat,
Like Lincoln, really tall,
And it’d be full of hotel rooms for squirrels and mice and all.
And magic pockets in my pants
Where all my friends could stay,
With snow machines and arcade games and penguins that could play.
But maybe I don’t need all that,
And I am fine like this,
‘Cause really all I want in life is someone nice to kiss.
Oh to be a flower
And not know when petals wither
Falling to the ground
When plucked by Cupid’s count.
Or water flowing
Never caring for direction,
simply taking shape
To evaporate and transform into a warm breeze.
Or the brush of an artist
To bend and crinkle
Dips and dancing on the canvas
Leaving marks to smear and smudge.
Or a sound that fills the air
And does not care
Where echos bounce and jingle
Until on ear it lands and turns to melody.
Pin stripe figure.
One. Two. Three.
Marking the way.
Blue green with yellow mixed.
The sky above.
The concrete beneath.
Let it go.
The heaves of boulders on my chest
Arise to pierce my cheeks.
The curls of strawberry echo in the dusk.
And she is gone.
I sit my voluptuous, bulbous ass on the rack.
The hot pink light-weight to my right is always getting felt up.
Same with the turquoise hussy on my left.
I presume it’s their tight holes,
And the gloss they always wear.
But, give me a break.
I’m always up for a good spin.
So what if I’ve got a few dents and dings
And my name’s worn off my chest,
My holes can still handle anything.
Just looking for the right guy, I guess.
I keep getting picked up by every hairy Tom and Dick over 275lbs,
With stubby, fat nubs that reek of cigars and last night’s pizza.
I suppose it’s something.
The grease does always lube me up nicely.
But, c’est la vie.
The life of a 45-year old,
16 lb grey bowling ball.
Slowly with the
Finesse of silk
Easing first the tip
Followed to the knuckle
Until it buckles
release the rushing
tension built as fibers
woven, knit to hold,
slip open, teasing
Sliding ever towards the rear,
The creases bellow soft
The burst. The tear
And quivered crinkle
Reveal the delicate
It’s just an electric bill.