Peggy Flora

He is nebulous and poetic with a delicate comprehension
He fucks with his tongue and speaks with his dick
He’s got toys in his eyes and tickles with his lips
He’s a prick, painted in disguise, utilized, he’s quick
He’s slick, he’s fearful, he’s the antidote for no shit
He’s fever in strength; he’s the burning candle
He answers in quips as he rattles
He’s heard and listened, settled and peddled
All the words a chick can handle
He’s vague in defeat and noticeably discrete
He devours everything he desires
He’s the love destroyer of flowers
He’s drama with a penis and a tiara.

Time to think
About men
Why they
Follow me around
Fix my car
Fill me up
Fight and bore
They pretend
Then go to war
Show up no more
Smile and grin
Rape a friend
Rule and run
Stand in my sun
Ask for more
Give less
Yell and hit
Bruise my lip
Shut me out
Shut me in
Tie my hands
Break my back
Leave their kin
Screw and fuck
Display their nuts
Lie about their cut
Keep me up
Love me
Hate me
Drive me insane
Make me wait
Say nice things
Compliment a tart
Play with my heart
spend
Spend
Spend
Work at night
Cheat and steal
Make illegal deals
Spread disease
Drink some more
Do it again

Its 1 am

at the hour of midnight
on whiskey covered floors
with bar stools and noise
through the back door
a leather scented wind
sitting upon the motor
the vision became

a smile and glow
of red and yellow
a faint resemblance
of a colored road
marked by needs
only seen in the heat
of a long kept secret
to feel the breeze

weakened by the knees
in black night rumblings
Letters and numerals
Crept around truths
Of more meaning
But for an evening
It was you

The soliloquy of soul
sinks and flows
partaking in prayers
dreams and hopes
on the darker side
of salient nights
piercing membranes
of conscious thought
sexual desires and
violent behaviors
while questioning
comfortable egos
that frighten at
the simple thought of
secessions from public
while embracing
subtle touch
the art of language
secretly in love
dances around
the saga of life
playing upon
the sectarian mind

If we were reindeer, rustling in the bushes
stealing berries and chocolate kisses
taking moonlight rides
on starry nights with candy cane rainbows
we would slide while ringing bells
and announcing our arrival

If we were reindeer, playing in the North Pole
while Santa Claus reviewed our calls
we’d find new games that would include
all of the reindeer that Santa retained

If we were reindeer, with fur and hoofs
that fly on Christmas eve
giving all the lovely children delight
landing quietly on roofs in mid flight
whispering good wishes to an occasional sight

If we were reindeer, love would be in the air
as we huddled together at the end of our night
singing love songs and cuddling with care
recalling moments we shared
on our once a year adventure

If we were reindeer you would be here

Nobody ever thinks about death in a supermarket.
I wanted to dance on a mountain top with you
before death found me and discussed my options.
As if I had spent hours walking down the aisles
and the canned goods weren’t the best partners.
I felt some identity issues amongst the vegetables
but the condiments and I had so much to talk about.
Picking death’s receipts in spices and dressing.
I wish death came as a three course meal.
Eating dinner with all the trimmings
ending with the dessert and a slow dance.
Finally a cognac and a long kiss goodnight
and it all begins with a trip to the supermarket.

Slather me in a temporal mood
as the sun sets on this gray sky
Litigate my attitude from soft platitudes
of simplicity
while ignoring the mediocrity
of my everyday life

Hear the screams from my lungs
of not enough or to much or just right
forgetting another night
barely functioning in the day
wishing for sun shine on my face
hidden by structured paste
let me not waste my breathe
For I care more and not less

To be ruthlessly honest
yet speak with contemplation
of our time and occasion
spent in felicitous embraces
the slow movement of a caress
In the vulnerabilities we possess
breaking the walls between us
stopping the numbness
of this muted life

We live from one moon until the next
As our days become blended
into a mesh of daily meals
and the haze of colorless grays
Searching outside
for the red candle inside our chest
May it burn and never settle
Into a mediocre life

I use a pencil because the pen is so permanent,
preferably a #2 Ticonderoga.
I like the soft lead.
I press so hard sometimes I feel inclined to
apologize for the force of my hand.
I am just writing a number but in this profession
I should know better.
If I make a mistake I can not erase the dent
I’ve made in the paper.
If you have a vision problem, not a worry,
I write as clearly as most signs read.
I am concise to a fault with my numbers.
Letters are my play time
it’s cursive and sometimes it’s print and
On occasion I’ll split the difference.
I do not chew or roll the pencil in my mouth.
I find it a little gross to put a dirty eraser on paper.
I enjoy art time when the mood hits me,
to shade with the side of the utensil.
But my favorite thing about a pencil
is the way that it smells when it’s being sharpened.