Friday, August 20, 2010

Blind Review Friday

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed.

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.

This week's offering is from a Clevelandpoetics the Blog contributor.

Love is a nail in eternity's coffin
love is a box of rusty needles
love is rotten fruit and a malignant smile
love sweetens and wheedles

la la la, Kathy, will you marry me

Love always ends with somebody dying first
love is a crack of the whip, a jagged tooth

Not today, not ever, Brian.

Love is the giant bass lurking in the shallows
love is a trick God plays on those he hates
Marry me, marry me, Kathy, marry me.

Never, Brian. Go away.

Love is the subway to the hidden message
love eats your heart and spits out the stones

Kathy, will you marry me.

Love is the cat that won't come when you call her.
Love crushes your moral vision like a road-killed rat.


Love is the wilderness behind the horse's eyes
love floats in a palanquin of violets.

We will be so happy, yes, Brian, love, I will be happy forever.

Can I be the bridesmaid who trips on your train?
Can I be the Elvis impersonator in purple vestments?
Can I be the usher who gets drunk and steals your car?
Can we get married in a submarine?
Can we get married on the space shuttle?
Can we get married on the Goodyear Blimp?
Can I carry the ring in my hot little paw?
Can I be the best man with a mosquito bite on his ass?
Can I be the flower girl who cries because she got jam on her dress?
Can I catch the garter and sell it to aliens?
Can I be the late-comer who yells "Stop! I know why they should not be joined"?
Can I wear my vest made of Sillyputty and string beans?
Can I catch the bouquet in my teeth?

Love is a mess of spare parts and elusive perfume
Love is the nail in eternity's coffin.

1 comment:

Johnny Cashless said...

I can't help it. I love this.


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau