June bug, is the rumor true
about your soiled existence:
that, waiting for July to die,
you toil in concupiscence?
I, myself, might chafe a bit
if forced to love for grub.
But must you eat—you little shit—
my only lonely shrub?
Saturn, in a neat retreat,
devoured his brood with relish.
Ops dropped Jupiter on Crete
once Saturn’s mood turned hellish.
Myths are but an ancient means
to say to lads and lasses:
Dads eat genes, and bugs eat greens—
so cover both your asses.
From Dust We Come; to Dust We Go
From dust we come, to dust we go,
just rednecks riding rodeo.
If once or twice along the way,
we stumble, or our horses stray,
it ain’t our dust that stops the show—
as horses, unlike folks, bestow
decorum upon majesty
where horse sense senses travesty.
So take it easy, take it slow,
and take to heart what little glow
may radiate from one cold urn
in which life’s nettles slowly burn.
If nothing comes of all you know,
or what your wildest seeds might sow,
then auction off your last remains;
take your losses; stake your gains.
There’s Nothing Left but Cigarettes
There’s nothing left but cigarettes,
yet cigarettes are fine
to pass the test—or kill the rest—
of lust, regrets and time.
Discounting how I finally choose
to shift this paradigm,
if you think cigarettes and booze
might make it worth the climb,
okay, then—let’s agree to waste
each other’s time online
and spend an afternoon in chaste-
ly existential crime.
A cognac, too, might nicely do
to rarefy my rhyme.
VSOP’s a pleasant brew;
XO? Downright sublime.