I’m going rogue—

unappreciated Life

becoming an Id Beater,

joining his·band

since Id’s a lousy, overgrown brat…

Id toys with me like a favorite, dilapidating plaything

a scene stager that knows-Id-all, and tells Super Ego

every chance Id gets
 
 

Id gets plenty,

A minor that’s F(n) major

Id’s scale made to order

and spoiled like carrion

Id does carry on

Never ever asking Y, strangely enough,

except when I·Z but I’ll

foil Id evening

sow,

I’ll

wrap Id’s cuts in badinage, and put Id in an

err-less

container, until Id behaves

…

A bit of add-vice

(don’t)

Don’t coddle your Ids,

for all people say they are just like you

or cater to ‘em,

they’ll wage tantrums

they’ll never stand down, if you do,

beating on ear drums the daylong

and are

quite likely to stay with you forever,

running up electric bills, and writing checks you can’t cash.

talk to the hand

but favor

the thumb

since thumb is the one

that gets the job done

it taps

on the apps

that make your life run

it texts

of what’s next

and pulls out a plum

it hitches

when sitches

require you gun

rotors

on motors

to get to and from

it twiddles

a little

its opposite chum

and rules

in the school

by measuring some

and waves

nose on face

when you’re having fun

then plants

when it can’t

green under the sun

 
sundowners a’blowin’

I took my palm tree for a walk…

ears flapping like fronds

and truncated torso bristling…
 
–scalloped hackles the envy

of every wood-be pineapple in the hood,

but luckily

~for the wind~

it was all bark, and no bite.

the abyss grips

my hem-

-unlocked by a combination
 
of “oh, man’s!”

lonely

6

better the devil you know

scared

6

the hell into me

hunger

6

razing Cain

‘set to simmer at a nice high temperature

in Hell’s Kitchen.

 
She’s always been a blended drink.

Al’s favorite slammer,

and Moe’s favorite heat–

you’ll find her more Margarita than Mary,

a melting pousse, pousse, pousse that’s

–part ta kill ya

–part splashy sex

–part sour-n-sweet-n-

salty rims

all the same

she’s one girlie cocktail

known to separate out

after sitting

(un)becoming hard to swallow

wry—bitters—and cherry

her·mouth should be sweet!

and is altogether better when you

mix her

(old-fashioned as she is)

as she muddles fairly easily,

inclining her to throw rocks, instead of chew them

without sin, you know

break straws she ought grasp

f*ck that Joe Camel

eschew chimneys for buckets

listing or seated

all the while

Looking through her

bottomless

Glass.

©Karen Robiscoe

related: Mud Gets in Your Eyes

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