i’m trying to be more environmentally conscious
but it’s hard when i just want to leave the car
running in the driveway, filling the street with
the sound of someone coming home again.
and I’ve been cranking the temp each night,
to make up for a recent halving of body heat.
the truth is i’m wistful for the days of holes
in the ozone layer and i miss the foreboding
bbc segments that filled the blissful silences
on our aimless sunday drives.
It was not Cupid’s Arrow
That struck him down.
It was Cupid’s IV drip.
A prick to deliver the sustenance
he needed to go on.
–
The slow trickle of feeling.
A steady dosage of affection,
Sensibly prescribed,
That writhes atop his skin
Like morphine.
–
It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow
With all it’s vulgar sharpness.
It was Cupid’s Anadin.
Take two in the morning
And blunt those human pains.
–
It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow
Tearing a golden wound.
It was Cupid’s suture,
Knitting back together
The gaping relics of
A life, till then, misspent.
Uncultured Review 