Diss Hurts

You are

Fro•Yo,

and me?

Well, I suppose I’m

i Scream

(in meltdown mode)

(all that sun)

and still I

think we

can

gel

—ato

hell, we’ve been

pre-packaged,

single-served

swirled,

and waffled

a long time

(at room temp)

–and still neither of us

split

(altogether)

it’s bananas!

b-a-n-a-n-a-s

nuts!

and I know nuts, it’s

anything but whipped,

s’let’s both stop being

.drip

..drip,

…drips

and put a cherry

on it, already

huh?

Cherry Stirrup

drunk-owlI may be a

James Bond

and then some

–both shaken and stirred…

 

And I might be

a Salty Dog, too

–mixed and edges

that bite

 

Hell, I could even

be a Bloody Mary

–with too much going on

and too much going in

as far as unnecessary garbage goes…

 

But I am no Margarita.

Neither

blended,

–nor frozen.

 

 

 

 

Enter Title Here

like a

superstore

I had so many words

baskets and bins

and basements

full of ‘em

full of something—

and I tried so many of them

on you

some suited

–grandly—

some hurt

ill-fitting—

some flattered

skinny jeans, and shoulder pads, pleats and ruffles, too—

and none of them mattered,

because there was always another version to try

to get write…

another shipment coming

but sometimes shipments

pass in the night

darkness swallows Good Ship Lollipop, and Andria’s Dory, alike—

and now the store is bare

stripped and naked—

no sentences left

–no words!

Not even a fleeting greeting

I might have called:

hell-low.