50 Shades of Hay

Returned from our ride,

Carl, Catherine and I’d,

Always find ourselves in disarray.

 Ο

Two little girls,

Penny loafers and curls,

‘Top a mud-smattered Clydesdale valet.

 Ο

Bedraggled with crud,

Would we scrub, soap and sud

At the comely colt’s calico coat.

Ο

Stood he seventeen hands,

Of a thoroughbred strand

(And of Flemish decent, I might note).

Ο

One day it was so,

As we buffed from below,

A gargantuan phallus unsheathed.

Ο

A portentous projection,

The equine erection,

“Clean the penis!” my friend brusquely breathed.

Ο

So we lathered and gripped,

But we slipped as it whipped.

Washing horse hog, it seemed, was a feat.

 Ο

When we mustered our might,

Firmly latching on tight,

The steed’s staff swept us clean off of our feet.

Ο

“Don’t let go!” Catherine cried,

And for dear life, we tried

To hold on to the renegade rod.

Ο

To the cock, did we cling,

To and fro, would we swing,

Our foray, we feared fatally flawed.

Ο

Abrupt came the spasm,

Sheer stallion orgasm.

Like two little dolls, were we tossed.

 Ο

Unawares of the scope,

And presuming ‘twas soap

In which suddenly then we’d been glossed.

Ο

Now Forty years gone,

Fully grown and moved on,

Since that cosmically curious day.

Ο

Only just twenty-eight

Since sweet Cat met her fate,

Crushed to death ‘neath a large Cleveland Bay.

 Ο

By her grave I reflect,

As I pay my respect,

And I lay down a wreath of bay laurel.

 Ο

Every now and again,

Do I think of my friend,

And a calico Clydesdale called Carl.

lookatmyhorse

2 Comments

The Moth and the Podiatrist

Foreword: This poem is formally dedicated to Norm MacDonald, the funniest guy I [don't] know.

−

“Good day to you, moth, I pray, how are you feeling?”

“Bozhe moi, doctor, where to begin?

Nausea, migraines, cold chills slowly sealing

My fevered fate, fast, wearing thin.

•

Year upon year, have I toiled away

For my boss, Mr. Gregor Alinovich.

Do I dream, will I wake? I watch night bleed to day

In dejected malaise, rarely caring which.

•

Weary, I wake in the night, nearly numb,

To a woman, from cruel, restless sleep,

Whom once called I wife, though now what has become

Of that life, I know not, and I weep.

•

Aleksendria, doctor, my youngest, she fell,

As so many, e’er wintertide draws,

Unforgiving, the frostbitten beckoning knell

Tolled her claim into icicled claws.

•

In the eyes of my son, Yuri, doctor, I fear,

This the most painful pill I’ve to swallow,

Rots the cowardice, daily, I meet in my mirror,

Now the love I once bore him rings hollow.

•

Had I one kernel of courage, I might

Find within me the strength for to draw

The cocked, loaded gun by my bedside this night,

And escape from this hellish façade.

•

Doctor, sometimes I won’t feel, at all, like a moth,

But a spider who’s spun his last thread,

As a hungry inferno of flames dance and froth,

Everlasting, ablaze, ‘neath my web.”

•

“Heavens to Betsy! Mayhap a psychiatrist,

Moth, would be where to have gone.

Just what on earth brought you to see a podiatrist?”

“Well, doc, you left the light on.”

Leave a comment

Discordant Duet

You give to me purpose,

Your touch brings me life,

And with trebly crescendo I cry.

♥

I trill at your tickle,

I fit as you finger me,

Practiced with prowess most spry.

♥

Inside of me, trembling,

You hammer away

On my heartstrings, as gently you croon,

♥

In my belly, vibrations

Of bass tones so sharp,

With my tenor you’re always in tune.

♥

Glistening black

Upon delicate white,

Baby, grand is our tender vignette.

♥

I love when you use me,

I lust to be played,

Like a lover’s discordant duet.

Leave a comment

Pissin’ In The Wind Up A Mountain

As Sisyphus took a piss into the wind

‘Neath the boulder, eternal his place,

His decision, at once, did he wish to rescind,

When the warm assault seasoned his face.

Ω

Dejected, defeated, and dripping with pee,

Compounded belabored humility.

His abysmal existence doomed always to be

But a sick exercise in futility.

Ω

Ineffectual, vain, unavailing, at that,

Was this feckless, ill-fated Olympian.

But the way that shit just seemed to roll for this cat

Was decidedly duly Sisyphean.

Leave a comment

Dear Valerie

In the poorly lit waiting room, Valerie dear,

Of the 9th precinct, down in the basement,

The last words you’d spoken still ring in my ear,

As I give the policeman my statement.

♥

If only you’d played a bit harder to get,

This fell tragedy, we’d have averted.

Waxing appetites whet, we’d not had dinner yet,

And “Go down on me. Now.” you asserted.

♥

Ah, yodeling deep in your gully, my mind

Drifted back to the last time I’d eaten.

That stale Peanut Chew in the ashtray defined,

For me, such a delectable treat then.

♥

Then ‘round my head, feeling your quaking thighs tighten,

Twixt nethers so gently, I pulsed.

“So far, so good,” thought I, my sense of pride heightened,

I loved how you thrashed and convulsed.

♥

But when next I glanced up, I was puzzled to see you

Assailing yourself with an Epi-Pen.

‘Twas precisely that instance, beloved, I knew

How the both of us teemed with adrenaline.

♥

Resolute, I returned to the task I had started,

Urged on by your whooping and wailing,

“Don’t stop!” the choked, swollen command you imparted,

Deciphered though seizing and flailing.

♥

Wearied, I watched as your windpipe constricted.

Oh, would that I could have been, Valerie,

More considerate of (just a lick) those afflicted

With clearly severe peanut allergies.

1 Comment

‘Twas Midday Before Christmas

‘Twas midday before Christmas and Lachlan MacLinner,

Was out hunting game for his family’s dinner.

Plaid stockings clung tight to his legs with great care,

Whilst ‘neath the man’s kilt, swung an unfettered pair.

♥

The winter wind callously cut him with meanness,

It chapped at his chops and made prune of his penis.

All around him tall grass gave a veil to his prey,

But onward he trudged; He could spare no delay.

♥

For his wife, Osla Jean, was an ill-tempered shrew,

Like a banshee she’d shriek till her face would turn blue,

So a-hunting he’d go if it took him all night,

If he brought home no supper, his name would be shite.

♥

When at once in the brush there arose a slight stirring,

His heart skipped a beat and his throat began burning.

For his eyes had befallen a gentle young ewe,

“Why, this cloven hoofed beauty will certainly do!”

 ♥

Then clutching his favorite bludgeoning cudgel,

He fondled the handle and gleefully chuckled

And gently knelt down in a Bonnie Bloom bed,

As visions of lamb chops danced ‘round in his head.

♥

But then something happened he couldn’t explain:

Synapses fired and popped in his brain.

Where once stood his family’s holiday supper,

Transformed right before him, disrupting his scupper.

♥

He chanced a step closer; His hands became clammy,

His eyes, cartoon hearts, as he ogled the lammy.

With another step toward her, their eyes met at last,

And the both of them knew what would pass in the grass.

♥

Well, the sheep barely noticed his Billy club clatter,

To the ground with a pound, matting flowers much flatter.

And hungrily eyeing the beast from above,

Whispered he, “Bless me bagpipes, I think I’m in love.”

♥

So he lifted his kilt, and he rosined his tool,

Grabbed a fistful and pulled on the delicate wool.

And much more, did they share, than a roll in the hay,

The phrase “rack of lamb” took new meaning that day.

♥

Then he shivered and grunted, and sighed and he coughed,

And he loosened his grip on her coat ever soft.

Readjusting his hair underneath his two hats,

Lachlan laughed, “Jaysus Christ, I ‘bout soiled me spats!”

 ♥

Then he struck up a match on a thick Birnam Oak,

Drawing in a deep breath for to light up his smoke.

But his lighthearted mood quickly faded to dark,

And he swung at the oak landing blows in the bark.

♥

Wincing, he cradled his bloodied left hand,

His tortured lament echoed out through the land,

“I have never known love like I’ve felt for this flower,”

“I cannae go home, I just dooon’t have the power!”

♥

A Scotsman divided was Lachlan MacLinner,

Go home empty-handed or stay there a sinner.

Whichever decision he chose to pursue,

Would be equally wretched a hullabaloo.

 ♥

So famished and frozen, he stood as it stormed,

When he felt a soft tickling brush tender and warm.

At his hand lapped the lamb, and ‘twas then Lachlan knew,

Precisely just that which he needed to do.

♥

The townsfolk flocked ‘round as he made his return,

“Lachlan’s braved through the storm!” the mob audibly churned.

“Were it cold old enough fer ye?” dogged Dougal Dundeather.

“Oh, shut it, ye bawbag,‘tis fine Scottish weather.”

♥

Then from over his shoulder he hoisted his prize,

And brought it down softly before widened eyes.

“Ye doss lucky bas.” Hamish Henderson said,

“Tha’s a foin piece o’ mutton there, Lachy m’lad.”

 ♥

“But tell me, MacLinner, just how did ye foind,

Such a right, bonnie beast in the snow?” Hamish pined.

Then Lachlan MacLinner grinned sheepishly, sighing,

And shrugging he answered “Oh, quite satisfying.”

Leave a comment

Alice

Now, Webster’s defines Phallophilia as

“A neurosis (one, often erotic)

Characterized by compulsions,” it says,

“Which enrapture the smitten psychotic.”

♣

Evidently, those stricken are apt to display

(As established in case study “Alice”)

“A proclivity toward,” the text goes on to say,

“That which holds or pertains to the phallus.”

♣

When our “Alice” watched space shuttles launch on TV,

There would pool in her panties a puddle.

Burning fever befell her, and weak in the knee,

Would her freckled, fair skin flush and ruddle.

 ♣

‘Neath her pillow went pickles and cold cobs of corn,

She’d take Twinkies down box by the box,

Then, wild-eyed, randy and breathless, one morn,

Chased the Wienermobile fifteen blocks.

♣

The Washington Monument made her toes curl,

Pisa’s Tower, too, long, Lean and powerful,

“Had only these structures but arms”, gushed the girl,

As she dreamed how they might Eifel Tower her.

 ♣

So although the cigar on which Freud’s claim was based,

Was oftentimes just a cigar,

It would seem that we deem this, in Alice’s case,

A fallacious notion thus far.

♣

Leave a comment

Boners on Busses

↑

I awoke with a start, when ahead the bus forged

Down the street when I noticed, aghast,

That my member, with blood, was now fully engorged,

And a raging hard-on had amassed.

↑

Try as I might to diminish the tent

In my trousers with unsexy thoughts,

The recalcitrant ‘rection refused to relent,

And the bus had gone well past my stop.

↑

Sighing surrender, I leered at my lap,

“It appears that you’ve won this round, mate.”

Defeated, I drifted back into my nap,

Distant throbbings began to abate.

↑

When again I awoke to my bus seat ensconced,

Though my pork sword was now in remission,

Other patrons had moved far away in response

To the diesel [nocturnal] emissions.

↑

3 Comments