Petals unfolded in her field
where budding tongue
licked giraffe's neck.
she liked stripes
I told her of a zebra
who lived to smell flowers in public gardens
and neighed in my black and white suit.
FEBRUARY 15TH AUBADE
Arise, my chocolate-tongued cherub,
And shed your rosy wreath.
Our window frames the rooster.
Its crosshairs we must beat.
As dawn rises within his throat,
He sights not the window's aim.
And if not for our greedy wish,
He'd not have to feel one ounce of pain.
Daily, night eternal is ushered out
By the hands of morning clocks.
But could you have this night immortal
At the cost of that poor cock?
Hardly greedy can we be
And let that shot be fired.
For even if he falls this night,
That lights his funeral pyre.
So rise, rise, my chocolate-tongued cherub
Before his blood be shed.
For with the fourteenth being gone,
I need you not in bed.
ONE LINE OF B.S. AND SEVEN OF SIMILAR TRUTHS
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Nor do they steal hues from mighty oceans.
They hold not heaven for dead nor living alike
Nor its dazzling array of twinkling satellites.
They have no muscles to lift nor features to smile
And seldom stare lovingly but regularly beguile.
And O how they blink, winking a half second apart,
Well-oiled by cold, mechanical lids; deception from the start!
She stands atop her bed
in chain maille nighty,
banishes me to creases behind doors,
bowels of closets,
shadows beneath toys
warming in summer sun.
I am the boogeyman,
dreams howling beneath her squeaky mattress
poking her back
with the edge of our ceremonial blade -
her secret prisoner
enthralled to the shadows I loathe
the scarlet secret who swallows her nightlight
Ink has ruined the mood at many an open mic and delighted strangers between subway stations. He is the EIC of Stanza Cannon, a literary quarterly dedicated to oral poetry, and has collections published by Piscataway House Publications and Finishing Line Press. He tweets from @ink_just_ink.