Aberrations Concerning True Love in the Coffee Shop
I could tell by her buttockses that she should be mine
To affirm and consider with my lonely incisors
Like a wayward, rebellious, unrepentant, drunken, yet mostly holy,
Schizophrenic Jesuit priest.
She mesmerized me by standing there,
At the half-and-half table,
All taught in her blue jeans
Around her Saturn-like, two-moon butt,
Unrepentant like a Barbie Doll,
Though more chunky.
My core and soul retreated
Then acted like a Flying bomb, fire-bang missile
Blasting off from Cape Canaveral
Or Hamburg, Germany.
I looked at her with sex eyes,
And she looked at me back.
Her face was moon-like too,
Gazing at me like a honey bear.
I was rearing all sexist
Like a moo-cow bucking at the rodeo in that backward land Texas.
After I had steeled myself, as Adonis would,
I began to utter my prepared words,
Which I had practiced daily for eight, solid, insidious months now
Before the bathroom glass:
“Would you like to function with me?
I’m apparently judiciously labeled insane by a Louisiana convention
Of 11 professional quack people,
But I’m really not. I’m a rocket ship instead.
How to do. I’m Harvey Thrilling, and I like your bangs.
Shall we sit together cozy
And talk of Toulouse Lautrec
And the schizoid-effective mal-effects of old-time, Parisian absinthe?
Or perhaps we should discuss the
Protozoan manners of the Japanese in WW II,
The repentant bastards.”
But before I could utter my oral recitations,
She turned like Ingrid Bergman and walked away,
Goose-stepping her fine ass in sway.
I looked for another hunk, hoping in my abdominal tract
To discover rescue, redemption, affirmation and ascension,
And I examined, Plato like,
My mothers complexes.
Sigmund Freud—in prodigious, comatose, cocaine analyses—
Should consider these things.