Neither swayze nor Soviets breathe
grease for they have no ghosts to reach.
Swayze meant
how to treat a lady, surfing, booby-traps,
no longer bunking with ponyboy tranquility.
Growing up, the swayze introduction,
complicated and wong foo,
my own state-of-the art double deuce, a
high-security facility I rule as swayze.
What I'm admitting to is bank robbery,
gender bends, possibly slavery, but not
a kiddie dungeon. I see the fear!
Muzzled and swayze, baby heads my wolverine,
swings me round and round Nebraska.
It's just us girls, my whoopi,
my swayze.
first published in The Scrambler (2007)
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Poor guy, he was such a hansome dude and a great dancer, I hate that he died.
ReplyDeleteGreat poem! Thanks for posting it.
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