You Wouldn’t Understand Our Fun

It’s often solemn
here, at the bottom.
Moldy brick, insects,
fire escapes, door slams
footsteps
mark time,
make sense.
It’s godless and damp,
often rotten
here, at the bottom.
And eyeballs ache
and backs and mornings.
But there are glimpses;
ripe instances of
exhaltation.
My image in the lit pane,
a strain of real music.

The Joke

I eat to drink and breathe to smoke.
I disregard the papers and the stairs.
Being a grown up is a joke.

I let morning soak.
For breakfast, I’ve my nightmares.
I eat to drink and breathe to smoke.

What’s a watch, but a wrist to choke?
Plus, nowhere’s worth the transportation fares.
Being a grown up is a joke.

I keep lovely things to stroke;
But no paste, no sheet, no grocery shares.
I eat to drink and breathe to smoke.

No “wait,” no “hurry,” no guilty poke
When I’m lackadaisical with my affairs.
Being a grown up is a joke.

I’ve not stopped shaking since last we spoke…
As if misery only came in pairs.
I eat to drink and breathe to smoke.
Being a grown up is a joke.

The Whip

We gathered-up our earnings and went.
The wallpaper’d all been stripped.
Someone tipped-off the establishment.

Guards were sent,
Guns gripped.
We gathered-up our earnings and went.

They found blood spent,
Bills skipped.
Someone tipped-off the establishment.

Loyal coats crossed their arms, refusing to pay back rent.
Dolls and boot zippers were all tightlipped.
We’d gathered-up our earnings and went.

Certain lingerie was acquiescent,
The stockings finally slipped.
Someone tipped-off the establishment.

We honor our banishment,
Hang on to the whip.
We gathered-up our earnings and went.
Someone tipped-off the establishment.