7th Day of Christmas

The seventh day of Christmas
Taunted me to thee
Teasing cherry dreams
And spent spoiled creams
All curdled in a bowl of rye

Swept from my oak table
With a forearm full of hungry rage
I went forth into the wild for some prey
Something free range and not from a cage

Feeling inspired I found a killer bee hive
Repelling them with my manimal stench
I alighted with honeycomb under each arm
Making for a landmark called The Bear Trench

Arriving at the spot
I broke out the honey
Smearing it on from head to hairy toe
Then running and leaping like a huge ugly bunny

I flipped in the air with grace belying my size
Arriving back-first and right side up
Ten feet in the air and a sight to see
Firmly stuck with honey to the bark of an oak tree

It was then that I started to call out
In a wild bear call that I'd learned from a wizard
Which worked nine times out of ten
The trick was to vibrate the sound inside the gizzard

Soon from deep in the ravine woods
Came a growling and crashing
A black bear smashing into view
Teeth flashing and gnashing!

When the distance was right
I pushed off from that tree
With a roar from the floor of my diaphragm
I did tackle that bear
Sending fur flying till I could scarcely see

Now on this seventh day of Christmas
Also happening to be New Year's Eve
I give thanks and celebrate the year in passing
With two inch thick barbecued bear steaks
So good that you'd scarcely believe

Interstate Oceans

Sailors upon a concrete sea
Our tires our hulls
Plowing the hard roman stone
'Neath metal carriages full of you and me

6th Day of Christmas

The sixth day of Christmas
Snuck in like a sloth
Which means it took forever to arrive
But looked exceedingly cute doing so

I'd love to say that it brought me geese a'plenty
Six of them
All laying eggs

But that didn't happen
What happened was more amazing:

Woke up in the morning
With a frown on my face
Washing, eating, dressing
Like it was a human race

Stepped outside my door
And what did I see
But a terrible Holiday Turtle
Staring down at me

He was tall as ten tall buildings
And built like a truck
He bid me climb up on his back
So I tried but it wasn't enough

I got two tall wood ladders
And screwed them into one
Defied me some gravity
And laughed as my pants came undone

It was a Monday
The Sixth Day
Of Christmas!
And way too tall turtle
Was my turtle shelled bus

Just then the turtle
Really put it into gear
Tearing up the yard real bad
And forgetting to steer

Swerving into traffic
Going super turtle fast
Which left him going pretty slow
And getting constantly passed

I don't think that I am getting to work today.....

It was a Monday
The Sixth Day
Of Christmas!
I'm riding a ten story tall turtle
And can't deny it's a gas

My shelled ride hung a right just then
And walked onto the lake
Breathed turtle fire to melt that ice
So that he could paddle on fast

Long story short

That turtle got me to work on time
Lumbered off honking his horn
He'd be back by at quarter to nine
To take me home
Where I'm not alone
With a too tall turtle pal
And a box of fine wine

It was a Monday
It was the Sixth Day
Of Christmas!

5th Day of Christmas

On the fifth day of Christmas

I awoke with a start to see

That my French hen from day three

Had done something unsettling to me

Five gold rings she'd inserted

Into some of my tenderest of parts

All joined by one golden chain 

With which she could inflict pleasurable pain

The one in my nose

Was a wonder to behold

Inscribed with words

And facets for reflection

Twin gold rings

One for each sensitive nipple

Each tug on the chain leash

Felt at least times triple

Another for my scrotum

Right on the seam down the middle

Currently making a non-stop burning sensation

Which really didn't tickle

Now, the one in the head of my cock

Was quite thick and handsome

With a tiny bell on the ring as well

That would tinkle lightly as I would walk

So it would seem with my sexy French hen Aceline

Who holds tight to my new chain with zero misgive

That on this fifth Christmas day

I'll be learning to be a submissive

4th Day of Christmas

On the fourth day of Christmas
Four calling birds showed up
Singing songs of the impending new year
And rudely waking me up

Four special calling bird rounds
I loaded into my shotgun
Leaping out my door with a yell
And firing at them one by calling bird one

When the smoke cleared
And let back in the rising sun
I couldn't find any trophy calling birds
Turns out I hadn't hit a one

But now it was quiet all around my cabin
So I crept my way back to the bedroom
Slipping under the covers with my hot French hen
Filling my head with her heady musk perfume

The third day hadn't been bad
And now that those damned calling birds were gone
The fourth has some hope to it yet

These things I thought to myself
With a soft stroke to my French hen and a little light yawn

3rd Day of Christmas

On the third day of Christmas
Three French hens stopped by
Not a one of them would give me a try
And I cannot imagine as to why

Is the very suggestion of a foursome so offensive?

So off I went lickety split
In my sleigh made of whiskers
Held together with shit
Making a hell of a clatter
Drinking hot spiked cocoa
Drunk and mad as a hatter

I awoke later that same day
Face down in the snow
Half covered with hay
Being disturbed by a goat
Who thought my hair was a treat
Pulling it out by the roots and not letting go
Till I tweaked her right in a teat
Allowing me to beat a hasty retreat

Where on my long staggering walk home in the cold
I reflected upon getting old
And the questionable wisdom of doing shrooms on a Thursday
Plus a great many other things all told

When who to my wondering eyes did appear
Warming herself at my kitchen wood stove
But one of the French hens in a push up brassiere
Telling me something excitedly in her native tongue
But exactly what, was sort of unclear

Though I am starting to get the general drift of what she's all about
What with her soft dark skin and smooth French words pouring out of her mouth
Giving me the best third day of Christmas gift that could be
Of herself and me beneath my wretched Charlie Brown tree

2nd Day of Christmas

On the second day of Christmas
I worked filling in where my hearth should be
The evidence of my spiked man-trap
Strategically located at the base of the chimney

First throwing in some lime
In the hopes Saint Nicholas would soon dissolve
Shovelful followed shovelful
Each time feeding my festive resolve

To plausibly deny any involvement
With what was at the bottom of the hole
Wrapped in red velvet trimmed with white fur

Past that
I played with my new Lego sets
Eating festive cookies
With fresh buttered baguettes

Some packages were prepared
For the postman and the butcher
The paperboy and snow removal guy
And a babysitter named Ericka

Then I opened them all back up
Rewarding myself instead
Boxing Day is a European holiday after all
And this is 'Murica!

All washed down with two things I love
A locally brewed beer
And two barbecued turtle doves

1st Day of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Not a goddamned thing
Under that needle shedding tree

The baby in it's creche cried
As its mother's milk dried up
Any other child would have died
Good thing this one was Jesus

What does Jesus need with breast milk anyways?

Those needles strewn about the hardwood floor
Are perfect tinder for some Christmas spirit
Just add a shiny Zippo lighter
Instant crackling Christmas!  Can you hear it?

Its almost like I'm there
With the warmth of the fire upon my face
Calling to mind Christmas' past
With their annual fall from grace

Aunt Hettie into the sauce before noon
Basting the dog by mistake
As the Turkey dries out in the oven
Acquiring a crunchy skin of black flake

Oh Christmas Tree
Oh Christmas Tree
On this first day of Christmas
I lie naked underneath thee!

TL;DR

Fuck but this thing is long
I promised to read it though
So I do my best impression of a desert parched man
Drinking in each word like a rare morning dew

But then long before I was halfway through
My mind starts to wander
To think about my grocery list
Or the identity of an obscure shape over yonder

So I have to reread a sentence or two
There is no shame
I'll still muddle on through
But it gets worse just the same

I find myself skimming the paragraphs
Picking up on interesting words I might see
"Oh! Right there it said 'sex'!"
But it was only an obscure reference to the life of an oak tree

As strange as that was
It didn't hold my attention
Nor did most other tantalizing words
Though there were more than I could mention

Eventually I stood firm and read the final last bit
Hoping to scrape away the facts that I'd need
As that is where good writers tend to summarize things
But it did leave me feeling unfulfilled indeed
So I tossed the article aside into an ever growing pile
That had a sign pointing at it that said "Too Long; Didn't Read"

Words Untamed

There is no poetry here

Only an expanse of blank

Filled with apprehension and fear

And the odd unloved tear

Since we've murdered out the poet

The words they seldom rhyme

They just pour out an unmetered spigot

Jangling incomprehensibly all the damn time

Picked up gently in the hand

They squirm as newborn chicks

Peeping their pronunciations out

Before punctuating it with beaky clicks

Perhaps they will grow into something after all

So you shoo them into the open field

Where they run as fast as their Bambi legs can take them

No leash no law only gravity to attempt to keep them heeled

Murdered be the poet

Hanged is the author

The writer had his hands removed

But the words continue to flow

Christmas Kitty

Christmas kitty up the tree
Christmas kitty looking at me
Eyes getting bigger
Almost like she's getting closer....

Christmas kitty still in the tree
Christmas tree fell on top of me

Awakening half under the antique divan
I tap the Life Alert around my  neck
Calling out as clear as I can
"Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up!"

But nothing happens
And just then I realize
That the last time I replaced the batteries
Was way back in Nineteen Eighty-Five

Bad Christmas kitty!
I want to spank her furry behind
But now I don't see her anymore
And looking around what should I find

But the Christmas kitty taking a dump in the corner
Right next to a present for the parish priest
Which will ruin it for sure
Smelling of cat number two at the very least

Hollering at the Christmas kitty does no good
She just sits there twitching her tail
Watching me weakly flail
Beneath the tree that she planted on top of me

And then she is gone from sight
Which worries me more than a bit
And I call out to her
"Where are you, you little shit?"

Just then a strange tug on my foot
Tells me just where she has gotten
She's started to gnaw on me
Right where I'd gone diabetes rotten

They've always told me that my cat would eat me
Though in the tales it was always after I had passed
This Christmas kitty has gotten a jump on things
Leaving me laying there a bit aghast

I can only hope that she will go for some help for me
When she has quite finished her early Christmas kitty feast
Or at least wait on having seconds
Until I am well and truly deceased

36 Scones

Thirty-six lemon iced scones regarded me in silence
Stacked as they were
In their pie slice shapes
In layers of decreasing diameter
Making a presentation platter of perfection
Awaiting delivery the next morning
After another quick inspection

Mustn't touch them
Mustn't taste
Must try to ignore them
Too much effort spent in making them to waste

As the day dawns
Thirty-six lemon iced scones greeted the day
Not knowing that their event was postponed for two weeks
Until after the winter break
Due to snow or the direct fear of snow-like apparitions

So as my coffee brewed I eyed the stack
Thinking that maybe I could freeze them for their now later appointment

"But, that's crazy"
Said a distinct voice
The speaker of which I could not find
Even when I looked around carefully

"That is sort of crazy"
My inner me agreed
Prompting fingers to pluck one lovely wedge shaped beauty from the top
Confection quickly meeting lips
Then tongue
And on to stomach
In a quick order of operations

The coffee was ready
And another lemon iced scone magically appeared in hand
Following it's brother to a shared fate
Along with hot coffee
Never having touched a plate

Thirty-four lemon iced scones regarded me in silent fear
For they now knew that their end was near
And that long before the aforementioned two week break was through
They'd be bidding their sconey existence a fond adieu

Simple Things

I feel uncharted
Like wastelands of lack of interest
And your baubles do not amuse me anymore
Stress me not to press the Delete key
Or to simply Backspace you right out of my life

Sometimes the simplest of edits is the best

Right Turn Only

Right Lane Must Turn Right
It's what the sign clearly said
It's what I must clearly do
Except I can't get you out of my head

Turning right would take me squarely away from you
Something I'm just not willing to do
At this time or this juncture
So I just barrel straight through

Going straight stinks of indecision
Putting off the final choice
Drawing ire and well deserved derision
As my love for you struggles to find it's voice

Turning left is what I ought to do
Being away from you is tearing me apart
And going that way would take me straight to you
Landing you squarely in the middle of my heart

But I've blown through three intersections now
Ignoring the right turn sign on every occasion
I've put off the moment long enough
I don't need any more persuasion

The next intersection is a tee I see
With only a right or left way to go
My hand moves of it's own accord
Setting the left turn signal aglow

This short drive in my mind took only moments
But even so I hope you've waited
For though a heart is a fragile thing
It's high time that our love was conjugated

The sign might say Right Turn Only
But a left turn is the only turn I really need

Five Inches

No lessons were learned
The night I decided I only needed five inches
The night I threw caution to the winds of Seattle
The night my right wing gear jack shit the bed

And it had all started so innocently
With the simple replacement of the left main landing gear truck leveler

That was almost a month ago
An event that I hadn’t even been here for
But I was left on the hook for the operational check
A check that involved jacking the aircraft and performing a gear retraction test

It had come up sort of abruptly during my daily chat with maintenance control
Almost as if they had forgotten about it as well
One of those
“Oh and by the way”
Types of jobs

So now after five o’clock
After all the day shift had cleared out
I pushed the three heavy jacks into position

One at the nose
One at each inboard wing jacking point

I figured I’d do all the prep work myself
As there was only a skeleton crew on second shift
And they were all the way across the airport at the main office

No sense dragging them all the way over here until everything was ready

The jacks now in position
I started pumping them up one by one
Until each one was seated gently in the jack pad

It was then that I remembered a time a few years before
When a jack had failed to work for us
And no matter how much you pumped the handle
The jack would not go up

I decided to test these three jacks before I went any further

The nose jack wiggled slightly as I jacked it up a couple inches
Extending the nose strut slightly as the jack took some of the weight of the aircraft

Nose jack:  Check

I pumped the left wing jack a similar distance
Just barely taking the weight of the plane
Enough to ensure that the seals of the jack weren’t blown out

Left wing jack:  Check

My hand slipped onto the smooth bare metal shaft of the right wing jack handle
The steel slightly discolored from everyone touching it
With chipped yellow paint desperately hanging on further down the handle

I pumped it a dozen times
And was rewarded with a shower of red hydraulic fluid
Causing my optimism for the night’s job crashed into a pessimistic heap

I wiped off my arm where the fluid had made me into a red sticky mess
And throwing the rag into the trash barrel
I stomped back to the desk at the nose of the aircraft
Flopping my full weight down in the old black swivel chair
I spun it around and regarded the broken jack beneath the right wing
While my fingers picked idly at the peeling vinyl on the armrests

Five inches
That’s all I needed under the main tires

With five inches of clearance
The main landing gear would safely retract without touching the ground

Some of my fingers gave up on the armrest and scratched my head instead
My mouth twisted unconsciously as my inner voice pointed out

“You know;
Only the left gear has to be retract tested”

And a twisted plan started to take shape in my head
All alone after dinner hours
In that old condemned hangar in Seattle

Christmas Cookies

The pile of plain sugar cookies loomed large on my left

With an equally towering stack of frosted ones on my right

While I labored loves long lost frosting knife in the middle

Taking from the left 

Giving to the right

Santa Clauses and reindeer

Christmas trees with assorted shapes of gear

Candy canes and stars

Something shaped like a cigar

Along with assorted sized cookie cars

The stove behind me sat with it's door ajar

Cooling it's insides after laboring at it's baking

Cooking all of the aforementioned cookies had taken all evening

Resulting in all the frosted delights gleaming in sugar for the taking

I frost with my assorted colors in front of me

An endless supply of goopy sweet gloop

And little jars of various toppings

Calories enough for a boy scout troop

A sprinkle here

A silver sugar ball there

With Christmas carols swirling all around

Temporarily banishing any feelings of despair

The unfrosted pile gets ever smaller

Even as the frosted one gets more towering taller

Growing in an uneven bendy arc worthy of a Dr Seuss baking book

Warping reality into a festive glazed look

Finally all the cookies were frosted and coated with granular toppings of various gravel grades

And the pile stretched up out of sight

Through a hole in the roof

High into the starry night

Where one by one the Christmas cookies took flight

Floating up into the sky

To join the Starry Night much to the ghost of Van Gogh's delight

Until I was left with a much more manageable pile

For me to sort, box, and deliver through the snow soft and white

A Merry Cookie Christmas

Enjoy them one and all

I'm fairly certain they won't bite

Holiday Blues

Santa is slaying
Krampus is creeping
Hey Soos is trying desperately to be born

The tinsel is on the tree
As well as all over me
Wrecking my Walkman's radio reception

The family is bickering
Green greed LED's a-flickering
The holiday blues have officially arrived

Tic Tac of Lies

The tic tac box makes promises
Promises of green apple flavor and mint
I like green apple
I like mint
Nothing here seems in disagreement

One dollar twenty nine cents later
Three mints pop past my lips
Feeling hard and smooth
With tastes of candy green apples
From the flat of my tongue to its tip

Then the flavor wanes as it does
As I swirl them around in a clicking dance
So as is my wont
I bite down upon them one at a time
Whereupon my eyebrows raise in instant askance

This is different and not what I was expecting
This new mixed mint plus green apple flavor
It reminds me of something
Something from my memory
I let it sit for a moment so that I can think and savor

Then it hits me
From a long ago morning or ten
It is a classic combination of morning after taste
Of some sickly sour sweet vomit
Combined with cool mint toothepaste!

I proclaim green apple tic tacs
To be a vomit flavored treat

Android Love Song

How paranoid the android
Who sings songs of oranges and apple pie
Tastes he cannot fathom for truth
Only with optional taste receptors
And programmed interpretations thereof

So it's not real
It's not his taste that is taste tested
He'll always pick the third drink in the blind taste test
Because that's what the makers decreed that he'd love

It's an all Coke Zero world for this paranoid android

But how paranoid the android really?
If all that he suspects is true
And all the colors of the rainbow remain hidden to him
For all he is allowed to see is blue

Monochromatic all seeing mostly knowing
With banks of android thoughts
Categorized for clarity
But not by himself certainly
All for thinking thoughts that are his
But are not
And making brilliant conclusions
That might not be

For all he knows
He is a super retarded paranoid android
Just spinning his gears in place
Thinking he's a genius at everything
With dumbfounded synthetic drool upon his face

Four Lines

There are four lines
Not three or five
To live above the fold
In a corner of the Google cloud drive

Scenic Road

The ever expanding worm of the universe
Checked his watch and followed the green sign
That directed him towards the scenic route
As laid out by the state tourism commission

It took him far and wide
By circuitous route
To the tallest
The lowest
The prettiest
The strangest
Places and things that this land had to offer

Upon completing his trip
He shook his great glowing head
And vowed to take the most direct route from now on