If I Still Wrote Poems They'd Come Out Like This
All future frivolity is relegated to my socks.
My youth as tattered as Angus Young’s shorts.
My only investment is the silver streak in George Clooney’s luscious hair.
“Suicide by procrastination” Ronald McDonald proclaimed.
(He's more halting than joyful anymore — Happy Meals taking on a far more Melancholy tone).
“Fry me to the moon!” I told Morgan Spurlock and his mustache twittered.
All the boys are beautiful.
And it’s time to grow up.
Frivolous socks bellow : “Do the Rockafeller Skank!”
And I was lifted the entire way
to heaven smuggled in
Christopher Walken’s secret container.
An uncomfortable hunk of metal, indeed.