This is a poem destined for rejection by the majority of the poofy literary journals around. Especially since this poem is a parody of one of the poems I read on one of those poofy literary journals. Thus, here 'tis. You bastards.
He veers from the Dude Who Calls Him Fonzie,
a kind of weird, snowflake like treat – a pizzelle
perhaps (mmmmm!). She’s half-miming, and dizzy
on Girl Scout Cookies and a teaspoon of crack cocaine
is a monsoon in July – call him Mr. Tibbs, or Christ.
He had a hell of a time of late on her belly in
the balcony of a theater, or yanking at glittery
nipples in the Framingham Best Western.
She promises that she will do some kind of dance
(safety or Humpty).
Many, many god-awful things: throwing tomatoes
at her ransom notes to the Amadeus Institute,
gratuitous hankerings, spitting Valvoline into a paper cup.
and belly dancers looking for sock puppets
who can take a punch, right on the chin or
in the bread basket, or square in the nuts.
He’ll get the Prince Albert prank call he’s asking for.
If you must know the earth is melting. This is hard to admit
when my lips look like Dali clocks and my tongue has hung itself .
They throw buttons and paper clips at the calves,
promising veal parmigiana.