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

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"

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

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

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

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