Inebriating Irish coffee at a dastard-handed glance & creative cocktail-shaking men placed handsomely amidst the

Middle of the malnourished evening time

Seems she’s been waiting with Catfishing industry for a favourite curdled friend
False identities, this fat,
Obese and gorgeously overweight
Keyboard warrior ‘princess’
Who carries sausages for gingerly pressed
And poised fingers

Another way inside of his lovelorn mind
Finds the time again,
Utterly confused by her unrequited rhyme which will
Not ever quit this game of prey-pretend

(Every month thru’ Sunday
She’s been being that keyboard warrior princess*)

Distanced by deceptively enlarged, fanastically – fanatically – fonted brilliance,
The overactive imagination suddenly transforms to turn
It all toward sudden remote controlled final tragedy

She knocks on his door before
The hole at his heart starts to bleed as though
It were a preordained explanation
In his broken pathway penitentiary
Of crooked dreams

Too many ventricles splay each way
And never enough to hold
The chamber of the secrets apart
From the dark and decidedly destitute days of the robbing women who imprison
Them with their manicured fingernails

Licking his lollipop non-stop won’t stop herself anymore than he shan’t ever manage to achieve for himself

Rain down upon me and call my name
From a great height, because I’ve been losing sleep trying at counting stars. They you all aren’t.

I am an upside-down five and you are an amalgamation of all of these imagined things – catching bullets with my teeth, while all of the real girls stress themselves silly til viciously unapproachable

He may as well be kissing tethered versions of Future superstars
No man is an Island both of and upon their own, yet they will still stand and kiss the shape and the shift of the scintillated microphone
Whilst pushing it furthermore against the searing heat of the bleeding hot sun …
This is an evening made in exchangeable heaven and it feels a little bit like…
An early birthday gift, if s/he will let it be. A thing of Camden Street creation
Tell her she can look me up but only if she’s got the mind…


  • Cheers to Karina Cotter for the nod toward the idea for this particular poem. Happy beeday, Karina; hope you’re enjoying your day as well as my decidedly “early 2000’s website” :):):):):)

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