Never Smooch A Brooch

 

 

Nancy Cunard
Nancy Cunard

Always walk arm and arm

With a purse. They’re insecure

And get addicted to junk

Don’t listen to babbling bracelets

They get caught up in the apparel

Never hang out with a trashy trinket

Necklaces will fool you

With spoiled-ass sweet talk

Keep them behind buttons

Or they’ll wink at any old dog tag

Don’t let a ring control things

Anklets can be footloose

Make sure they wear bells while jingling

Earrings think they’re trapeze artists

Dangling high, unless their studs

Then one’s fine, two’s ok

Three or more is an orgy

Toe rings stink

Don’t give into those

Snotty little nose rings

Divulge nothing to pinky rings

They’re not mature enough

For indiscriminate indexing

Can you believe the gall of the tiara?

Never let a choker get its hands on you

Bangles are for bums and beehives

Rosaries want to wait until they’re married

Then all hell breaks loose

Never smooch a brooch

Heavy Woman In Costume

 

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Found on 500px.livejournal.com
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Beanies Are Babyish

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Hairnets keep things in place

Caps are con artists

Indecisive little shits, who

Don’t want to be pinned down

Derbies are dumbfounded

Stovepipes are bearded with warts

Stocking caps muffle their words

Then get lost in the snow

Unless they have a tassel

Then they cause a hassle

Hair ties hate scalps

Fedoras sing like Sinatra

Drink like Dean, Dance like Sammy

Trucker’s caps have stinky-ass breath

And wake up with hangovers

Bonnets are prudes

Berets fake French

And are prone to Be-Bopping

Nightcaps, really, is anyone that perverted?

Turbans turn the facts around

Pork pies are chubsters

Veils don’t know how to do their makeup

Fezzes hide their bald spots

Helmets beat things up

Then claim self-defense

Are into a cult called Game Time

Where priests dish out penalties

Panamas reek like cigars

Stetsons talk very slowly

Like they mean something

But it’s all just sweaty nothings

Visors are all the wiser

Unless it’s raining

Then they dumb down

Beanies are babyish

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Distant Trees Know No Names

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The look feels the distance, travelling

Upon waves of heat, blurring perception

Future weeks are lost in the haze

I am the lost street, blocks scrape my skin

And cannot be disconnected, unplugged

 

I am only electricity, a time excuse

For the ways and means of my light

Watts and bulbs burn, emotion cauterized

A tangy burnt metal, my night’s tongue

Distance buried somewhere in the Wild

 

I am a head full of wilderness, burning

Firebreak drawn in the dirt, to distance

Flames from jumping, tree to tree

Body spits, sizzles and cracks blood

Paints my face a fallen gravel dance

 

The gutters sweep me into the drain

One slippery finger on the grates

I am the one who sees you pass by me

Your anger trailing behind you

Mine always, always forced into distance

 

You grab the coniferous branches

They regularly snap back in place

April makes no difference. Deciduous

Always the cruelest month for words

I am the distance of winter, city birthed

 

Distant trees know no names

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Earthen Heart

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Sacrifices are in plentitude, fruits are abundant, mist will always hang on highest of ranges. But, to promise another your heart indefinitely takes an acceptance of the ground, feet steady, smart eyes, and a heart like earth.

 

Flannel Likes Your Grandma

 

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Comforters are insecure

Blankets hide in between secrets

Muffling the truth of the matter

Pillows make lewd suggestions

To any side of the head

That happens to take an interest

Sheets are cold at first

Until they warm up to you

King, Queen, Full, and Twin

Are an incestuous family

Linen loses it around bedtime

Bedspreads are nice at night

A ruckus in the morning

Throws miss the spot

Quilts always get confused

About life’s bits and pieces

Coverlets and Duvets argue

Endlessly about standing alone

Memory Foam never forgets

a shapely ass and a good boob job

Thread Counts weave tall tales

Down begins all fluffy and nice

Then becomes one big prick

Flannel likes your grandma

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