Sit I melancholy here all alone
In a depressed, apathetic mind zone.
Sadly, I have nothing better to do
Than to be insignificant to you.
When I think of earth’s each twisted wonder
That cannot help but easily depress,
Think I of ye with such unmatched success
To convince me it is only blunder.
Neither insp’ration nor jubilation
Art thou, but perhaps an condemnation
To those emotions of mine well-beloved.
Nevertheless, will I have anon shoved
Your resemblance into verbosity
Or some other tripe that purges glee.
Satire
Vegetable Love
My love is a vegetable love
Incapacitating my thought
When you draw near.
My love is a vegetable love
I forget this world
When you are here
My love is a vegetable love
I have no worries when
You whisper in my ear
My love is a vegetable love
You are my life support,
My Darling Dear.
S. Mooching
I only kissed her
To make her shush,
But I continued
Silence in no rush
To hear or to see
Her crimson blush.
We had communion
Past when we couldn’t breathe,
But we were at our loom
Learning to intricately weave.
An onlooker would’ve thought
Us a human wreathe;
If we’d separated forcefully
Our chests would heave.
Like this naught matteréd
Besides the pure elation,
Not even when we died
Of breathless suffocation.
Onward we kissed
Ignoring salvation,
Smooching blissfully
Eternity’s duration;
I’d no intentions of hearing
Her whining frustration.
Cold Sins
Woman, I love thee but
Not thy hypothermic toes;
Strike me not with them
Till their warmth grows.
With you I am intact;
Apart a mangled wreck.
Oft’ I wonder which state is best with
Thy chilled fingers placed upon my neck.
Kiss me on my scratchy chin;
Envelope me in your limbs.
But only after they confess
And make penance for their cold sins.
Digestive Processes
There is no contempt in mine
Action to on you spit.
I only wish to consume thine
Skin, savour, and digest it.
I long to masticate on
Your sarcus, bones, and soul;
Transform you into a bolus;
And swallow you down whole.
Inside me will be your love,
Your essence, and your spirit.
I’ll save you from stomach juices.
Peristalsis, do not fear it.
You could help me grow;
Use my cells as a dorm.
You’d be stronger than ever
In your concentrated form.
Urea
Urine is like my love
For you—relatively pure.
It may have some contaminants,
But their numbers are few.
I try to hold it in,
But my love for you doth flow
Like words from a poet’s pen
When the muses have inspired.
When for a while it’s been unrelieved,
It refuses to stop.
It eventually starts overflowing,
Presenting some need for a mop.
Oh Fudge
Of fudge, you give me a headache
With your concentrated power.
I feel as though I’ve hastily
Consumed frozen ice cream an hour.
Your blackness is “forbidden”
To those who cannot say “taboo.”
After a small sampling, your
Potency makes many think “Morbleu.”
And though I know better when
I see you layered in parfait,
I seem to forget the harm
And think, ‘What the hey!’
On Making Beds
Why should the covers I
Pull taut and wrinkle-free?
Why canst they not reside as
Comfortable dungarees?
It matters not if the
Eye is by mess appalled.
Each morning making beds has
Logical ration galled.
Why should covers be smoothed,
An sleep will them perturb?
Live by efficiency:
Their rest never disturb.
Humility
Children are not humble; they are
Stubborn and amoral,
Just as the Morays and
Clownfish in the reefs of coral
That prey upon their neighbors
As starving Saxons at a feast.
If I were humble as a child,
I’d throw tantrums at a priest.
I do wish pride could be cast away like
A child’s food when they’ve been excited.
Then, the pangs of injury would
Be not felt when I am slighted.
The Goodwill of Death
“Good ladies and good gentlemen,
And those of gentler births,
I stand before you here today
For a crime that is the worst.
But before ye yet judge me
With a sentence that shan’t waver,
Please, let me inform you
Of how I did him a courteous favor.
I gave him the goodwill of death,
As goodwill to all must be.
How can you possibly think
This was ill of me?
Some people may nod or wave
Or shake another’s hand,
But me, I merely accosted him with
A smile and laid him out in the sand.
This earth is a cruél place,
What with kids and wives and rent;
He’s probably up there thanking me
Now that his life is spent.
How rather unfortunate
You’ve taken this the wrong way;
Perhaps you’ll understand when you
Have the goodwill of death someday.”
Midnight Musings from Melancholy Muses 