my room

my bed
is my living room
in this place
that isn't mine
my bowl of Cheerios
my laptop
my tea at 5 AM
playing solitaire

I feed the 4 cats
in their special locations
so they do not fight
I get the dog a chewy
with peanut butter
he comes and lays close by
crazy cat hisses
and I eat an apple

unnamed


jazz slang poem; cool like the night

I slide into the Jazz gig
mad keen on getting zoomed
the darkness was zippy
and littered with zombies;
my cool instincts picked
out one abstract oolie droolie
who tossed me all abroad

Some slugs in the can tried
tempting me with an a-bomb
instead I scoot and madcap back
to his view and sling musical,
the trumpet sounds feel
ever so cockhanded but the cool
old dude on the drums really gives

I tempt Mr. Slingshot with a 
practised eyebrow and edge in
like the cadger I am then
sit sly behind baccy, swirling
smoke ever so seductively
envisioning madcap flag a cab
stretch out tuning my ear

The night renders hopeless
all the juice leaves me spoony
and his guns and talk seem at once
all madam and cagey, a messy attic
and I now crave zizz more than zowie;
planting a wet one on soon to be
forgotten the horn drifts me
home and I ponder before I crash
and burn; this just wasnt my baby

alien1