Oscar

If God were merciful,

it would be me in your stead.

Your GED study book lays

unopened on your bed.

Your mother prays over

your body,

Your beautiful mind and soul

part from earth evermore.

Thirty-four, you won’t grow old;

It’s not fair, but life seldom is.

Comforting you gave me some

purpose, now I’m empty.

You were so close to turning your

life around from the cliff that

you strayed too close.

Say hello to my mother for me.

Why?

Why was I born this way,

to be society’s burden?

To be a blight on life,

and a disappointment

to everyone’s path I cross.

To feel like a human,

though just barely.

To love meaning well,

but it all becomes hell.

Amy Klobuchar and Joe Biden: My Dick was Made for Ridin’by Lisa B.

It was after the debate,

and Joe Biden needed

to masturbate.

The urge was just too strong

to whip out and stroke his dong.

Known as the ‘hands on candidate,’

Senator Biden was a huge reprobate.

Frottering the ladies and sniffing hair,

Joe’s wayward touching was everywhere.

He just had to find a room quick and soon

to drop his pants lest he become a buffoon.

Where was a bathroom, a closet, a trash bin?

Somewhere to commit his secret sin

.

Suddenly the senator’s ears were as alert as his dick.

A kerfuffle was going on in the thick.

A midwestern squealing, 

shrill and unappealing, 

wafted through a closed door.

“I said I wanted Perrier, not La Croix,

you thoughtless, dim-witted whore!”

The sound of a can hitting a wall,

frantic apologies, and a voice saying ‘damn  ’em all.’

Out spilled an intern and an aide,

running away like their boss was the plague.

Red faced with hands on her hips,

it was Senator Amy Klobuchar in a fit.

The eyes of Satan flashing firey hell,

suddenly, on Joe Biden her glance fell.

“Senator Biden, what a nice surprise!” 

Amy’s voice,  saccharine sweet,

declared without missing a beat.

‘Oh, Amy, you were so great!

You caused Senator Sanders’

socialist ideals to deflate…

And looking  so beautiful too. 

Let me give you a congratulatory hug 

and a little kiss. Hold still, I won’ t miss.

Mmm..Is that Pert Plus?”

“Well, you know me,

I don’t like to make a fuss,”

said Amy,  patting her hair.

.

Mr. Biden reached subtly her derriere.

“You’d make a great VP, Amy.”

“Joe, do you have a VD?”

“Nope, not me.”

“Then close the door; let me see.

I’ve always wanted to fuck you,

Senator Biden.”

“Well, Amy, my dick was made for ridin’.”

And ride is what she did,

frantic liver spotted hands

clawing against her soft skin.

“I’m not getting off,” moaned Klobuchar,

Bouncing up and down on his cock.

“You better make me come, mother fucker,”

she said, in threat and demand.

She perched on the dressing room table, 

Joe went down with his mouth,

on a vagina that smelled like cheese

but tasted like stale ale.

“Wait, I know what I need.

Get up and get me my purse.”

She dug to the bottom of her bag,

And pulled out a plastic fork.

“Fuck me by that wall;

I want to look in the mirror

and see it all.”

“Ma’am, I aim to please, 

Joe decreed,

But what Amy did next

nearly brought 

the geriatric man to his knees.

Amy shoved the fork’s handle,

without much preamble,

up Biden’s behind.

” Why-why-why-why?”

stuttered Joe,

who was about to 

shoot his load.

“It’s my kink,

plus I shudder to think

of ever being without

adequate cutlery.”

Maybe

Maybe,

In a parallel world,

I’d tell you.

But not here.

Maybe,

Were I accomplished

at anything,

You might forgive

the deficits:

in appearance,

in charm,

in intellect.

I might tell you then.

Maybe,

She will tell you.

She is deserving

and superior

in every way.

I wish I could

make her feel an ounce

of the  regard I feel

for you.

SMaybe,

she would tell you

while I’d only fail you.

Clown

It came to me this morning:

The only reason God

spared me into this decade

is He revels in my suffering.

Not because I am someone,

but because I am a clown.

God likes clowns and freaks

-No one else does.

Family

I thought my family found me,

the other day.

Nothing too dramatic,

just another friend request.

I have a thousand friends,

none who know me.

But this request.

This request had my bizarre surname:

“Son of the Butler” in old English.

“Son of a Bitch” it might as well mean.

Why after nine years,

a computer literate one looked me up?

Second cousin had an adult son die,

but they still have that other one.

No need for their dead cousin’s kid.

I used to think their anger at my dead mom

could only last so long.

I thought one Sunday

sitting in a righteous pew,

their pure minds would hit on me.

The request was a fake profile.

I deleted it almost in relief.

No need to suppress my politics,

or pretend to be normal.

Appalachian cousins don’t forget.

But maybe someday.

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2019/03/thursday-thursday-poets-rally-week-90.html

The Holidays

I didn’t even know they did this anymore, Poetry Rallies. I haven’t wrote a poem in years. Maybe 2011? Be afraid. Be very afraid. In fact, if you think this is really bad, tell me, please!

Holidays

Back before everyone died;

Mama made turkey breast, boiled then baked.

Stuffing made of sausage and cornbread.

Cranberry sauce fresh from the can.

Discord from Grandma; Grandpa can’t see his plate.

New gifts and wrapping paper on the floor.

A feeling of home I don’t have anymore.

Now I go out to eat.

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2018/12/poets-rally-week-88-christmas.html?m=1