Monsieur Moonbeam

Monsieur Moonbeam, thank you for visiting at night
for your watching over me, keeping me free from the fright
of the hunger in the dark and the hunting after marks
and maintaining me well into the light.

If not for you, Monsieur Moonbeam,
I’d fear for many in this city with all of its gleam
and all of their nighttime wanderings
leaving me constantly pondering
just how long until the blood is streaming.

Because the danger always lurks
and the threat of me can never be shirked
and though I often go off in the murk,
you save me from any evil workings, Monsieur Moonbeam.

So thanks, Monsieur Moonbeam, for all that you’ve done.
For protecting the city until the arrival of the sun.
Without you and your support
I’d have long been on some cop’s report
after the death of almost everyone.

With safety assured, due to your brightest rays,
Monsieur Moonbeam, you come down and deserve great praise
and none are harmed for another night because you’ve been right there onsite
due to your purely defensive haze.

Since I can rest until the night comes,
I’m ready to relax and eat what I can of future’s crumbs.
I will rest inside of my den
until I next see you again.
Farewell until tonight, Monsieur Moonbeam!

Pigeons (After George)

Everywhere there’s lots of pigeons
living pigeons lives,
speaking in their pidgin English
before they take their dives
sharp with taloned knives
and hunt for breakfast.

In this place of pigeons, pigeons
tend to fly around.
All about this city, pigeons
darken the whole town
as they all track down
the best donations.

If you’re looking for a pigeon
by the name of Sal,
then you might seek out a pigeon
that you can call Al.
Those two are real good pals.
They’re often together.

There is little more on pigeons
I have left to say.
If there’s more about the pigeons
you’re looking for, today,
go somewhere else, OK?
I’m out of content.

Orange You Gland

I’ve been really getting into oranges lately,
just swallowing them
like I bought a bunch of ’em
and I want to eat them before they all go bad.

They’re pretty delicious
and I bought in bulk
so there’s a bunch left to go
all filling up the bottom of the fridge.
The fridge is big again,
much bigger than it used to be:
big as like a man-sized apartment should have.
Big enough for a whole lot of oranges.

Aren’t you glad to live in a world
where there are all these oranges?

Case, Montana

If you don’t keep bringing it up,
I promise you,
no one else is going to bring up how you were fired for drinking monkey cum, no matter how funny it is.

Really, if you don’t opt to make a literal Federal case about it with the literal Feds
in literal Case, Montana,
I don’t think anybody else will know what you’re talking about – especially if you stop talking about it.

Really, the phrase “monkey cum”
is not going to make sense coming from most people’s lips,
and the assumption will be that you’re talking about having a cousin of the human species arrive at your doorstep.
Do not clarify.

Just let the whole thing go.
Don’t get hung up on it.
Relax about the monkey cum, man,
and don’t bring it up again.

The Upcycle

This fictional genius I just created just let me knowshe reengineered a busted old motorcycle
she saw lying around.
"I had a few hours to kill," she explained,
and showed me the goods.
It was a forcefield-contained,
earth-environment sustained flying bike
that could take you into the atmosphere.

"You should be able to get to the Moon
in about three and a half days.
I call it the Upcycle."
I nodded. I don’t know much about spaceships.
"Looks good," I said,
"Will I get bugs in my teeth?"
"We haven’t sighted any astro-bugs yet.
Maybe you’d be the first."

She wanted me to fly her Upcycle.
"But why me?" I asked.
"Convenience," she said. "If you go off on this adventure,
I won’t hear your music downstairs for a couple of days."
I was convinced. "I’ll do it!"

My training took mere hours.
The cycle practically drives itself.
This is my last will and testament.
I hope I die before I get old.

TO BE CONTINUED…?

The Same Hands

Coffee sales are up, the media has alerted us.
No one is shocked.
Everything sales are up.
The free market has been bitchslapped
by gardening gloves with claws on them
and then penetrated in many holes
with the same hands.

Yes, labor rates are up.
Yes, bean prices are up.
But mostly kleptocracy has decided that it continues to be
hunting season on middle and lower class dollars
and they’re all being targeted.

Every single cent is on the table
and until everything’s been Hoovered up,
no money is safe.

Your addiction to coffee is fair game
as is your addiction to water
and shelter
and, no doubt, air.

Kleptocracy is seeking you out, man.
Enjoy your coffee.

Anyway, Jose

Is this route directly to Old Cathay?
Would you like another Fanta, Ray?
Is Rudy on the way to Santa’s, eh?
If you had the cash would you wanna stay?

We could go another way.
This whole trip we could belay.
If you preferred the port Calais
we could stay at the cafe…

Wherever you want to spend the day
we could go relax, spread out and lay
or cuddle like some lovely cliche.
However you wish to wile away the time today
what do you say?
How should we play?

Gwendolyn’s No Good

If I can avoid it, I try not to speak ill,
but of my girlfriend’s cooking, I’ve surely had my fill.
Though I want to take her out, she makes most of our meals
and we sit over dinners that taste like peels and seals!
I find I can’t eat much she cooks, at least not anymore.
And at this point my pants don’t fit the way they did before.
My belt is tightened daily. My shirts get looser still.
And if Gwen doesn’t feed me better, whither way, I will.

Gwen is cooking bad. I’m not glad. It’s so sad. It’s a tragedy.
If she could just learn not to burn but to turn it ’round more capably…

Gwendolyn is lousy, Gwendolyn’s no chef.
If only she were moved to improve, but alas, to change she’s tone-deaf.
Gwendolyn is awful. Gwendolyn’s no cook.
I fear she’s got her recipes out of some old spellbook!

I’ve been trying to broach the subject with my girl for weeks,
but I never reach the topic that I’m trying to seek.
I just flit around the area, graceless as could be,
as if I were a poledancer, working a Christmas tree.
Now, dancing for dollars doesn’t pay the rent,
when you tend to blend in with a burlap tent –
but I’ve been melting pounds off, with the weight I’ve lost,
so soon I’ll have a stripper’s bod, and then have twenties tossed (my way)!

Gwendolyn’s been cooking poorly, I’m had sorely anything but beets.
It’s a treat I can eat up any meat. I feel defeated!

Was this always Gwendy’s plan? What she began:
Starve her man, stop him eating everything she can?
Gwendolyn’s a genius. Gwendolyn’s in charge.
Now I’m looking like a kayak instead of a barge.

Gwendolyn is no chef. Gwendolyn’s no cook.
I think she’s got her recipes out of some old spellbook!

HMTY

The days are getting more dangerous.
The poisons are running through.
The people have had enough.
Happy Mother’s Day to you.

The world is in a crisis;
the papers looong overdue.
Civil wars are bubbling up all over.
Happy Mother’s Day to you.

Whatever kind of mother covers over you,
another’s gonna bother your brother,
so together, we should hustle the muscle
to recover the love for some mothers,
my brothers, all right.

If you see it coming,
like I think I know I do,
then you better rustle flowers:
Happy Mother’s Day to you.

Happy Mother’s Day to you!

The Grey and Jon Post-Picayune

Grey and me reviewing the past:
“That April was something!”
“And then that May rolled around right afterward.
I can’t believe it all happened so fast,
so quickly!”
“Damn, in all so short a time!”
The past has a way of being like that.
Drinks have a way of being like that, too.

We’re buzzed on history,
buzzed on what we did,
buzzed on the nostalgia of our accomplishments,
that nobody else might remember,
but are etched in the stone of our personal legends.

“We did that shit, man.”
“We did, indeed.”
“Damn.”