a song for sheree rose

Cement/Concrete

Spanish name,

Spanish for,

Long, long hallway.

Always, closer.

Closer, neighbors.

If they’re…

Salad eating tossers,

Mistress of Echo Park Lake!

Can’t rent what

You can’t pay for.

Hooked 700,

On the ex-market reserve.

                        You see this boot?

                        Get under.

You ever watch the sea around 6pm in September?

Submissive retreat!

Sans tent!

Baby in the basket,

Screamed, “get me out!”

Baby in the basket,

Screamed, “tie my pigtails, bitch.”

Factory concave conversions,

Fifteen feet down,

Down

Down

Can’t reach the stained glass.

Doc Martens need platforms.

TV is now PSYCHIC!

PSYCHO!

Dreams of loft dreaming,

And when you were…

And when we were…

Here,

You stopped,

Breathing.

1998.

I joined the army,

Paddling the way,

Through encampments,

Of soldiering men.

Soldering brass knuckles,

The brass from Echo Park Lake.

I saw you/                                           Don’t look

I saw you/                                           Look, now

I saw them.                                         Look, again

All pass.

Does anyone have a pen?

Preferably red ink,

So that I can,

Write a Mother’s Day card,

On the back of,

This submissive male.

I saw you/                                           Don’t look

I saw you/                                           But you will

I saw them all.                                                Looked

Dug my pint hands into the pockets,

Of Bob from Burgundy,

To keep warm fur,

From the winter of-

Not the Biblical sick

Not the Christian sick

Not the Tarot sick.

The sick,

Of all sicks,

Where sick is warm hands,

In corduroy pants.

There are four walls, count them, one two three four, that keep me here,

Behind bars.

There are four bars, count, one two three four, that keep me

From staying.

WHITE!

WHITE WEDDING!

Someone said that,

Can’t/                                                  Yes, you can

Recall/                                                The recollection of

Should i?/                                           You should, remember.

So many numbers to play in the lottery.

I’m going to win!

I know it!

Lost my lotto ticket

In a toilet mouth of-

A rich Prince promised,

I’d win.

Then rich Prince,

Snuck out on a boat,

Rode the seaside gold,

All the way to the desert.

Violet,

Your lungs are purple.

And you haven’t willed,

Your mouth to me.

Christ child Prince,

Thread my nails,

So’s Mary could see,

Down deep into wounds,

As bees in honey,

Drown.

Has anyone been to the circus?

There was a place called CIRCUS,

A dank, dim nightclub.

They had a night,

SUPERMASOCHIST!,

Where mothers left children,

Brought adult babies.

Saints played in mud pits,

Gods playing poker,

While other wives looked,

With credit cards,

In palm.

Counting again,

1, 2, 3,

70,000

29,000

3 nails,

2 ice cubes,

99 buckets of needles…/                                I lost count.

Do you want a medal for swimming through sand to get here?

Is that what you want?

A beige sand medal?

How bout a “fuck you” medal for not getting here sooner?

How bout a “fuck off, cunt” medal for forgetting there was once grass,

Where you used to walk upon,

Pissing dog piss,

All over my grass?!

Is that what you want?

A GAME OF SCRABBLE:

B_A_S_T_A_R

D is for DICK

Someone could’ve told me…

Someone could’ve-

That a house weighs less than a shotgun,

Which weighs less

Than a glass of white wine

Have you been to the tiger farm?

I recommend it.

If you’re into eating and cosplay.

The farm tiger says,                                       “There’s no place like”

The farm tiger bellows,                                  “There’s no place”

The farm tiger screams,                                 “Get out because taxes!”

The farm tiger insists,                                                “You’d be home by now, if”

The farm tiger sleeps,                                                zzzzzzz

Lived on a farm in Oregon, living off Oreo’s and virgin hair wigs until someone sent a helicopter dad with a boat and ladder, saying something about 50 cents a day if you will, but the helicopter fell from the sky and morphed into a trailer that welcomed my feet with a door mat that said, “NOT MY BROTHER”.

I found it charming, however, my hair was on fire, that turned into salmon and pink hues, making me a goddess among these local dwellers that knew nothing of the finer things like mary-jane smoking and white wine.

One day, “I said!”, I will write a tale about tail in which I am the tiger who eats all of the lottery players and freaks in this small town.

Call me Cherry Red,

My blood is thick,

With thieves,

Lovers,

And boilermakers.

Call me Cherry Rose,

But not the wine,

Which makes me sick,

Not the good kind of sick.

Call me Cherie,

Sherry,

No, Sheree Rose,

But not the wine,

That white people drink,

On boats bigger than Andre the Giant.

Call me sick,

Sick Sheree,

The port of ports,

Docking ships,

Everywhere I go.

Call me,

The Gardener,

Who tests green thumbs,

Before tilling the soil.

Call me Sheree the Rose,

Whose roses are true pink,

A delicacy,

In a world full of dye.

Call me,

But not on a Sunday.

Call me,

But text me,

Your lovers numbers,

So I know how many nails to bring,

Before instigation.

Call me,

Don’t be tepid.

Try me at Scrabble,

For my words,

Are thicker than blood.