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Trying To Break Out Of
Association Prison, or bowling for poetry
Hortense watered my delirium
with her silk hose. Sudden and swift
I, the fetishist of late, appreciate
the dangle of heel, but not a mangle of rhyme.
Some other time.
Right now a lucky strike means
a near-perfect game, bowl a frame
with me, velocity of a dry run
will taunt you, your white shoulders shrug
a pale song. I sing along.
Wouldn't want you to be Veronica Lake,
I couldn't take the intrigue in your eye,
as if you were whispering the ugly truth
that war bonds a loose nation, that
voluptuous mystery is a dangle
of half of something as a big band
blows at 78 RPMs. O femme-fatale,
fast-forward through spastic rhymes
of smashing pins, in beer and Tabu,
with a poodle on every skirt. It couldn't hurt.
In the face of the enforced past
you of a time I can't dismember
are willing to sing along, those unassuming
bobbypins match your chocolate eyes,
a minor detail to savor the flavor of.
Hey Toots Sunshine Brianna-Brytnnii Rosie Riveter
it's your big palooka wavy gravy coming to take you
bowling again. We'll make it this time, Ronnie
and Donny and maybe Big Dick'll be there.
Love your hair, Hortense, and that cute poodle, Oodles.
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