Minisode 24 – Kees and Malloch: I’ll Go First Because This is My Podcast

Flamingos
On wooden deck down diamond sky,
Sit comrades One and Two.
Two knows the other is hard to come by,
And One admires the view.

Tailored thee to shoulders broad
Of satin and running stitch;
One and Two need not a facade –
To each, they are hitched.

Between healthy gums
Sits paper-wrapped tobacco;
With brown elixir made of plums,
It warms their throats of snow.

Nevermind the lipgloss
That often came to woo.
Together stick through love and loss
Do comrades One and Two.

Alice
Dark and deep was that small hole
Down, down did she go.
Yellow eyes and blurry shapes
Flew past her puckered face.
Never traced near gravity;
Softly step on greener weeds
And guarded safe by canopy.
Step by step the colors change
Green to red to white to beige.

Upon a stone she finds him there
Smoking pipe and longing stare.
Who are you? his voice rang true –
She turned away and tunneled through
Right past a shrieking, cheeky shrew.
She pounced on top and heard a splat,
She gulped him down and that was that.
Full from her meal and tired from play,
The end was near for this long day.

Sheltered sleep by stagnant stream,
Heavy breath and lively dreams –
A leader on horse with silver steel
Pink face, blue bow behind the wheel
Of the streaked and wooden fin keel.
Gold on throne and heavy crown,
Turn a blind eye and watch ’em drown
Rise at light, his question takes root;
Hunter, dreamer – who are you?

Autumn
Autumn is my favorite season,
but not how you might
expect. I love the smell
of decay, and that’s the reason
I squint in the weak light,
trying not to break the spell.

And the spell of the season
is more than just weak light
and loud crunching leaves
underfoot. I think the reason
is linen markets and the sight
of cobwebs forming under eaves.
Your voice echoes and is gone.

The light and the sight and the smell
of the dying underbrush isn’t the reason
I love Autumn, it’s the abandoned streets
of the city, the wind’s just a pawn
as it drowns out your whisper, a season
of longing and loss. That is the spell
and the appeal of Autumn’s earthy smell
of decay. Your voice echoes and is gone.

Amaretto
I like a heavy pour –
Liquid treats
Like ice cream, sweet
My vices meet
In numbness
Less some.

I like a heavy-handed pour –
Supplied by pump,
Filled with pills, I’m plump
And until I slump
I will not stop,
For I am foolishly cruel.

I like a heavy pour –
In drenching me with sweat,
These alleys are my allies
And though I
Burn, I yearn,
And hope to learn.