PIMPLE ON HIS

had a pimple on his butt,

just would not pop, pop, pop.

no, nasty whopper pimple,

until she brought a knife.

took that knife to his nasty

unstoppable pimple,

hanging there off his butt.

when she got done using

that knife, much more was

missing than he bargained for.

beware of women bearing knifes. 

the game is to use each other

until we each have what

we want from each other;

then the hell with each,

going about our lives

as if we've never known

the other ever existed.

graveyard for old poems;

where old poets go to visit,

reminiscing over old poems.

ah, just tripe-tap that sucker.
we'll catch first cloud heading
the hell out of here.

first foreboding cloudbank.
just another aging poet
drowning in words.

poems piled up higher than any
thoughts could ever abide.
while cloudbanks drift on by,
waving bye-bye.