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Copyright: Fred Robel, and Fritz365 2010-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog's author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fred Robel and Fritz365 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Friday, February 28, 2014

Sunrise To Sunset

The rising sun is glaring in my eye as I drive South
The little gaps that seem to be built into such assemblies
Between visor and the A pillar
And from one visor to the next across the front
With the lame rear view mirror in between
Itself a shameful excuse for a sun shade
A tear comes unbidden to my one eye
As it is bowed to squinting through the light

The sun rises though
And is past it's annoying phase of blinding drivers on the roads
Grown up if you will
And shining down as it rightly should
Lighting my way to where I was going

A church on a hill in a county far away
Where colored streaks of the mature sun shine in through stained glass
Illuminating a simple casket
Getting inevitably in my eyes again
Or so I theorize
For tears have come to my eyes once again

It must be the sun

Following a service
And a hearty luncheon
I find myself driving North
With a wizened old sun picking its way through poorly designed car accessories
Drawing unbidden tears to one eye again
Until obediently ducking below the horizon once again
Filling the sky with a proper sunset
Orange and scarlet draping the base blue

Allowing me to wipe my eye
And get with my trip


Thursday, February 27, 2014

Cockpit Baby

Step into my cockpit, baby
Sit down by my side
Strap yourself in my love
Let's go for a ride

On the ground she's a flapper
Rushing round on wheels
But when we go dancing
She's a killer in heels

Oh she's my cockpit baby
In the copilot's seat
Just you try to outfly her
Her skills can't be beat

Always warm in her arms
Though it's cold outside
Grab onto the stick, baby
Pull back till I see the sky

I love my cockpit baby
She flies by my side
Hands firm on controls
An in flight blushing bride


Monday, February 24, 2014

Processed

In we came
Resplendent in our many colors
With countless voices
A sea of change

Out the other end we popped
One by silent one
Bodies stripped of everything
Sailing sameness in the setting sun

Sunday, February 23, 2014

"Blue Porky" Is My New Safe Word

Baby blue porcupine shoots his quills to kill
Just like all good cartoon porky pines do
Across chasms great and small
Or hitting targets just down the hall

Blue quills quivering in the targets now
And none upon the porky's person
Looking like an overgrown guinea pig
Rigged up in an undersized BDSM rig

With no quills to protect or menace the society
Porky is put into the gimp suit then into the trunk
Located as you know just below the pawn shop in the alley
On the set of a rip off Pulp Fiction filmed in the LA valley

Porky will get his revenge though
For his quills will grow back
And when they do
I wouldn't want to be you


Thursday, February 20, 2014

This Is The Shape of Our Love

You've got the key to my heart
Hung around your neck
Nestled between your breasts
Leaving me locked up and much the wreck

Your fingertips rest upon the thermostat of my brain
Able to dial me up or turn me down
With the slightest twitch and touch
To which I respond instantly lest you should frown

You carry the suitcase of my soul
Lugging it from airport to train station
Never letting it go despite the baggage it contains
Though it's clearly marked as "Danger: Radiation"

The spiked heels embedded in my chest are strapped to your feet
Which is just where I like them to be
Weighted down as you are with that suitcase and thermostat
Along with that all important key

To say that I love you isn't quite enough
To say I've submitted would be a more accurate descriptive
And that the hold you have over me is complete
As I find your presence blindingly addictive

Mistress you are my world
Turn that key
Crank up that thermostat
Lug my suitcase around
While walking all over me
In every way both real and figuratively

This is the shape of our love


Cookie Farts & Poop Pancakes

Odor elimination sprays have the best of intentions
The advertisements promise miracles
Of causing that stinky dog of yours to smell like a rose
Or the kitty litter room to be a curiously strong mint

But the truth is less than that
As you might expect
Especially with the more food based scents
Which have started making their appearance en masse

Just like their floral or fruity cousins
These sprays don't so much transform the bad smell
As just give it a bit of a crunchy candy coating for your nose to enjoy
Which gives us our title
Because all you can smell seems to be:

Cookie Farts & Poop Pancakes


Monday, February 17, 2014

Midnight

Meet me at midnight
It's when we'll make our plans
For escaping this existence
To travel far off lands

We'll hold each other's hands so tight
As we step off into the unknown
Flapping our wings with all our might
Over strange terrain in fading light

Gliding with no resistance
Seeing with second sight
All because you took a leap of faith
And met me that last time at midnight


Sunday, February 16, 2014

Walking The Line

The thing about walking on composite structures
Is all in the foot placement
Where one foot after the other finds it's place
Firmly upon fastener lines
Which indicate supporting structure underneath

It's really quite important
For one misstep in this delicate dance across the wing
Will result in crashing through a panel
Through the clearly labeled "No Step" areas

Definitely that will happen in front of the owner of the company
Because if you are going to get fired for being stupid
Then the big man might as well be the one to do it

Lap Splice

I am the humble lap splice
Seen far and wide
Overlapping and underpinning
Covering what I need to side to side


Friday, February 14, 2014

St Valentine's Home for Wayward Hearts

At the end of a road
In a town that has every name
There sits a red brick edifice
Filled with those who've danced with flame

Burned they are
But not by fire
They're scorched on the inside
Hearts having touched a live wire

So here they huddle
Both together and all alone
Young old and in between
This sort of thing isn't outgrown

Some just got here
Others have been awhile
Some days only a few arrive
While on others there is a line in single file

Most harbor hope
All would like to be elsewhere
And we do for them what we can
With proper feeding and care

This is but a mending waystation
Where we help repair the broken parts
With the old peeling sign out front spelling out
St. Valentine's Home for Wayward Hearts


Thursday, February 13, 2014

Fireman

A cold firebox awaited me in the stark light of the predawn full moon
Giving me just enough light as I unrolled the water hose
Climbed the side of the locomotive and started the slow process of topping up the boiler
While I waited I gathered some tinder and starter trash together
Setting it close by as I opened the access in the side of the twenty yard long engine
Scraping the long handled grate cleaner along the iron bars
A pile of fire leavings slowly grew at my feet
Until the interior was as clean as it would get in this lifetime

Using my torch
I stuck my head inside and had a look around
Looking for broken staybolts
Or the telltales of leaking flue pipes
Finding nothing that cried out to be fixed
Then picking through my pile of combustibles I'd brought along
Piling it carefully in just the right way in the center of the firebox grate
Then surrounding that small pile with pebble sized pieces of coal
With some chunks of larger coal outside of those

A blaze of light illuminated my face briefly
Before I tossed the lit oil soaked rag onto the kindling
Where the flame caught quickly
Spreading to a merry little campfire
Beginning to roast the nearby pebbles of coal
As they released a bit of smoke before catching fire themselves
Slowly progressing to the bigger pieces
Until there was a small bed of glowing coals

A sound of water switched my attention to the shut off cock
Then pulling the hose off the boiler and closing the fill port
Rolling up the hose tidily again for the next time
Gathering up another bucket of coal
Which I carefully added to my small hot fire
I moved them around a bit with a poker until they all caught
And were spread out nice and evenly
Then closed the access hatch
Feeling the growing warmth in the metal
Leaning in and pressing my cool cheek to it
As a babe to it's warm mother's breast
Heating up my very soul
Upon the steel hide of this steam powered beast
Awakening once again for the day

Breaking the embrace suddenly
For that is the only way to do it I've learned
I stow my starter kit away
Climb into the cab to really get things started
As the sliver of the sun peeks just above the horizon
Glinting through the edge of the lake
Giving me a rare blue flash
A bit of luck
For this bit of a man
Clambering about his complex machine


Wednesday, February 12, 2014

A Hobby For Cupid

You plucked out my heart
And put it in your pack
It might be just a metaphor
But I'd really like it back

The blood doesn't seem to pump
Quite the way it did before
It just runs out the hole in front
Down my chest and drips onto the floor

So maybe it wasn't a metaphor after all
Maybe you literally took my heart and kept it
Placed upon pristine white butcher's paper
Folded up and firmly wrapped it

You are a monster after all I see
Love is the real metaphor here
A word you use when you take someone's breath away
Your knife at work as you grin from ear to ear

Another heart for your collection
For what is the biggest mystery
Placed in clear bell jars upon your wall
The largest collection in recorded history

In your house of polished floors
And walls of shelves
Glinting now in the setting sun
The hearts of a thousand lovers
Not able to take the place of even one

One real kiss to end the day
Just another ghost half seen out of sight
Another empty bell jar to fill
As you go out to prowl again tonight


Monday, February 10, 2014

I Dreamed of Vladimir Putin, In a Totally Gay Way

At night I dream of Vladimir Putin
Dressed only in skin tight leather pants
Riding his white stallion to save me
Because that is the image he loves
In which he poses playfully
For cameras that always seem to surround him
Both imaginary and for real

He takes me by the hand
And tells me to call him "Bubbles"
Kisses me on the lips
Before anally violating me
All under the baleful glare of his 1950's Russian knockoff Kodak camera
With it's lens glinting cool and cruel beneath the flickering neon lights

It's not that I don't want it
Oh no

After all
Didn't I vote for him three times?
Or did I vote for the other guy?
Was there another guy?
I forget
I'm sure there is a picture somewhere of it all

None of that matters now though
As Bubbles straps me to his back
As if I were an errant infant
Flying me high and far in his ultralight aircraft
While he heroically guides a flock of geese to their winter homes
Snapping pictures of it all wildly
As if he were the Russian Gonzo of photography

Landing atop a passing train
We adjourn to a private compartment
Where we do very private things
Involving his wet and rubbery lips
And fingerprintless fingertips
Taking selfies of ourselves
Cheek to cheek
Lip to lip

Bubbles then holds me like a baby again
Leaping from the train before the station in Sochi
Before sprinting like an Olympian to the main stadium
Where he skillfully flips me into the air like a circus acrobat
And places a camera in my hands

Bubbles straddles the enormous flaming Olympic Torch
Grinning sexily as it juts from betwixt his legs
A concrete sculpture of his Bubbley manhood
"Take a picture, take a picture!"
He cried gleefully

And so I dutifully did

Together
From the only finished hotel room in town
We cuddled nakedly under a Russian goose down comforter
And posted the pictures to Instagram
Under the bold heading:
"My Perfect Day With Bubbles"


Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Humpday Special

Humping his way up the aisle
Calling out to all his mates
"Happy Humpday to all!"
For he is truly second rate

Celebrating the halfway point in the traditional work week
Is this half-wits claim to fame
He is known as Stewart "Humpday" Hulverson
And Humpdays are his game

Behind his back he is mocked by most
But they don't know his secret job perk
For the real reason he is known for Wednesdays
Is because that's the only day he shows up for work

How did he manage this bizarre work schedule?
All I know is that it involved a photo
Of the boss and a two humped camel
That was taken on a Wednesday long ago

Now there is no Wednesday without Stew
As he walks around spouting his inanity
Grinning ghoulishly without much humanity
Slowly eating away at all of our sanity

One of these Wednesdays
Will be the last Wednesday
That he ever comes to call





Tuesday, February 4, 2014

This Cold's For You

Cold butterfly kisses
Causing numbness of the lips
A cold frosty gaze
And cold icy fingertips

With temperatures dropping
To well below zero
With no signs of stopping
And nary a hero
To save us from the chill
With their warm muscled abs
Sharing our bedroll
Likely giving us crabs

So give me Captain Cold
And all of his skills
Freeze rays and ice guns
For warm blooded kills
I'll laud him as champion
Of these lands made of rime
Till I see the sprouts of the spring red campion
But for now he is mine



Monday, February 3, 2014

Bolt Screws Nut

O mighty bolt
Not to be confused with a screw
For that right there
Be the rudest thing you could do

Bolts are paired with a nut
Fastening items together
Whereas screws are all alone
Threading dutifully into a solid whatever

But this thing looks like a screw!"
You say with face writ in dismay

And to that I can only tell you
"If it has a nut, then it's a bolt
No matter what it looks like"
Causing your eyes to glow red in revolt

In rage you throw your screwdriver at me
With the accompanying wrench
That you were using in concert with
Causing in my skull a bloody furrow and trench

Falling down I refuse to concede
And as I lose consciousness I argue away
"It's all in the Machinery's Handbook
Whose opinion you cannot sway"

Bolts that look like screws
Screws that look like bolts
All functionally unisex
Hardware rises up and revolts


Sunday, February 2, 2014

A Hardware Prayer

God bless the rivets
Which form ordered lines to the horizon
All checked for perfect pitch
Singing songs of joining metal skins
Keeping in the atmosphere
Keeping out the nightmares
That live at forty-thousand feet


Tumors Tits & Teburculosis

You are your tumor
Because you aren't one of the lucky ones
Whose tumors reside upon the inside
Hidden from view
Until it's far too late to save you

No, yours is on your face
Right where you and everyone can see it
Staring right back into your eyes from the mirror
Looking people's way when they pass you by
With those furtive sideways looks you always get
As they look while trying to look like they are not
Though the children always stare
And sometimes ask awkward questions

You are your tits
Mostly because you are a chick
Parting the waves before you as they always do
Hard to hide unless they are small
Made more to feed desire than babies on most days

Your tits attract the eyes
From all sorts of guys
The ones who stare into their cleavage as they talk to you
The ones who pointedly look everywhere but at them
The ones whose eyes dart furtively from your tits to your eyes
Giving themselves a virtual sprain
Though some virtually peel away your shirt with their gaze
And dream of nursing the night away

You are your tuberculosis
From the moment you wake up and cough up first blood
To the way people edge away from you in public
Once they realize what you have
From the large printed words upon your mandatorily worn T-shirt
"Tuberculosis:  Stay Away"

Who could love a pulmonary disease?
Though the consumption aspect
Has certainly made it easy to lose those last twenty pounds
Making one long and lithe
Though bent in half with constant hacking

After all
That's who you are