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Poets P 

Percutant (3) - Przybylowski (3)

Bella
by Wayne Przybylowski

A tempest in a teapot Elliot
Her finger traced its painted stem
Iíll need the cups to match
This one isnít good

There has got to be something wrong
Get some clothes for the baby
Some food too
At least theyíve paved the parking lot
Nothing will get broken

Palm trees canít grow in the desert
Thereís the bearded man again
                      rolling down his car window
Why was he always so formal?
He always shakes her hand
She put the ten dollar bill
                       in the pocket of her skirt

One last look at the mountains
She must have lost her sunglasses
Home isnít far
Take the shortcut
Pebbles always get stuck in the wheels

The rug goes first
                      from the buggy
Now the teapot
Wipe the babyís plastic face
Next the pillow and blanket
on the grass
under the tree
where no one can see
Tonight this is home
Starry night Elliot

Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski


Barfly
by Wayne Przybylowski

It could have been Tangiers
Maybe it was the Village
those concrete steps
worn, not at all perfect
weathered like the clientele
which devise the dimly lit
                      cauldron of conversation

Ernest is usually there
sometimes alone
sometimes with woman child
ďItís easier getting in than getting outĒ
A man says to his buddy
His buddy nods from stupor

Lady traces the rim of her glass
                  to keep the fly away
She would like to sit with Ernest
but woman child has his attention
Itís late afternoon
Now woman child is waving the fly away
Five oíclock, round six
Lady still sitting alone staring into her glass
She sits in the same place everyday
She canít remember when she was woman child

Woman child and Ernest support each other
as they make their way up the steps
ďItís easier getting into this placeĒ
Ernest says to woman child
She smiles
The barfly whizzes past into the night
along dimly lit streets

Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski


All Night
by Wayne Przybylowski

No baby, I donít like that
No baby, I canít do that
No baby, I wonít do that

Iíll have em sunny side up
Coffee black
Bacon instead of ham

My feet hurt in these shoes
Too cold to be outside
Hey, Get lost

More coffee
Your daughterís how old?
Thanks, you too

I thought I told you
No
Oh, all right

Now the money
Hey baby, now donít forget
Iíve told you a million times

Come straight home
Donít talk to strangers
Lock the door after I leave

Copyright © 2008 Wayne Przybylowski


Stencil Girl: Zombies of the Night
by Marie Percutant

A street light flickers shades of amber anticipation
across your dark shadow. ďOne-of-a-KindĒ peers
at you on the backside of an old brewery
in T-Town.

Your final touch, a trademark, known by all and
applied with a flourish known by none except your
blood-red can of high gloss and your
treasured cardboard cutout.

You unfold the stencil like a flag and tape it to the wall,
artistically measuring the light before dawnÖyou spray
feverishly absorbing your creation through jittery eyes,
stinging nostrils, and taser-town nerves of steel.

Satisfied that all was finished in record time---no one
saw you come---no one saw you go, you slither
off avoiding night watchmen, rusted cans, and garbage
left by zombies of the night.

Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant


Chatter on the Net
by Marie Percutant

Around the world doors are opening,
eyes are blinking, and minds are sinking.
This is your last chance to satisfy your
curiosity, step out and dance the
royal shuffle.

The duchess has big hair and the pirates
are atoning---at least that explains why
liberty holds the audience in line,
a line that packs a punch as much as the
sound of crystal crashing unheard amongst
Essex folk.

Somewhat odd that anyone so unsure would
use a reference to The Collider being tested
on the Franco-Swiss border. The art of the
spoken giving lessons to mere infants unaware
of the Ichiban dining experience. Number one
is lost in translation.

Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant


ABC Yo-Yo Zingers
by Marie Percutant

A is for American bulimic CRTs
depicting effervescent fools guzzling
haughtily in journalistic Kamasutra,
laying monotonous networks of pomp.
Quirky ratings steaming thermal
undergarments veiled with
x-rated yammering zippers.

B is for Broadcasting channel devils
erotically feeding guilty hearts
into jugs kept limply morose. Naughty
organic programmers quilting
reruns so televisionís underdressed
vixens whip x-rayed yelling zealots.

C is for Company depressed erections
forming glandular histrionics indulging
jealous kisses lost momentarily. Now
oppressive parents quell revving
soapy teenyboppers under very
watchful XXX yo-yo zingers.

Copyright © 2008 Marie Percutant
 

 

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© copyright 2008 - Last Updated: 05/21/2012