Moods

Rhymes

Keats was so close to himself when he wrote

He wrote an archetype of the world.

My mother a psycho of little note

Wept the day she died.

But now she's underneath the sand

By the ocean where she was bred.

My father would not hold my hand

When he lay in the hospital bed

And slept til he was dead.

Where are the images Keats unveiled?

Where's the cadaver that lay impaled

In the coffin completely nailed

Shut that the wind and the waves assailed?

Married

Today I was married.

We shopped for food.

Spending as much as I spend

Four times alone,

But come back with nothing.

We've food for days.

The ice box and cabinets bulge.

Today I was married and happy

 

Joey

When we were 10 or so

He fell in love with me.

His family was quiet and poor.

One night he had me over.

He'd bought me a little derringer

That popped a scrap of paper

When you squeezed the trigger

And thereby made a shot.

I'd wanted it for weeks.

Joey bought it for me.

We spent the night together

And I reached for sex.

He withdrew. I stopped, I think.

With something lost forever.

Though it finally occurs

There's nothing wrong with sex.

 

Moods

There is a certain person

Who's proud of being cold.

This jaded warped sincerity's

Beginning to get old.

He's absolutely certain

That everything he does

Fits his mood exactly.

Who remembers what that was?

Be like him and perish

Saying what you feel

And not another syllable.

When dead be still more real.

There's a mood for scr-wing.

One for will and for will not.

A mood for hearing Sisters Sledge.

A mood for smoking pot.

A mood for saying yes.

A mood for saying nix.

Moods like iron barriers

Neither cross nor mix.

But the people that I like

Have a different appeal.

They act a little nicer

Than they feel.