Every morning
I brew coffee
for seven sphinxes
as dustballs
roll with the wind
of hurried steps.

Dragons fly
among billowed cotton
of new wash,
their breaths
steaming peppered steak
on my tongue.

Unicorns tiptoe in
at midday
impaling me
sweetly on
fusilli horns
dipped in tuna blood.

Sometimes
my husband comes home
talking about
the weather,
how much it is
raining outside.

I feign wisdom
by hiding
my surprise,
then muse
that it must be
Thursday.



Love Is

I spread myself
for I won't suffer you
to tread on unred
uncarpeted ground.

You wipe my face
with your feet.
Out of charity,
you make me think.

I slap myself
to tetanoid smile,
pretend to enjoy
the stench,

twist into
a Balinese dance,
secrete restless
cubist undulations.

I must possess you
or whatever slime
you drip on
my imitation wool.

But you leave me only
with my self-made muck
as you trample down
the welcome matte I've smeared

painstakingly on my face
with no other thought
than fucking a flealess
pussy for the night.