Twaddle 3: Coming Soon

Twaddle is back from indefinate hiatus.
Twaddle #3 is coming soon.

It will feature poems by
Ally Fleming and
Greg Santos.

It will also feature fiction by
David Summers and
Ryan Bird.

Hooray.

Waiting for the End of the World

The stray cats around here are
all six-toed, nerve-endings that
double as spiritual figureheads
for our foregone factory town.

Straddling our familiar, slanted
rooftops, their unclipped claws
cleave towards the rusty eaves,
like loose nails towards bare feet.

They scream their loud love into
storm drains, until God himself
promises not to act too rashly, or
otherwise beyond comprehension.

Like transcendent popular music,
they emit a tactful hum, like
some sort of groovy, cosmic ray,
dutifully calling Heaven out.

Haiku for May

Early morning frost,
The wire bends into a smile
as the crow takes flight.

Tom Cruise is Trapped Inside of Our Guest Bathroom.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our guest bathroom.
The room has novelty doors that swing like Western movie saloons.
Sometimes, we hear fire-fights from behind the bathroom doors.
Other times, we hear the distinct sounds of Tom Cruise eating our fancy, lavender-scented guest-soap, for he has confused them with chocolatey swag-bag truffles.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our Jacuzzi bathtub.
The nozzles that spray jets of Jacuzzi water have all been vandalized.
The Jacuzzi bathtub is now booby-trapped, but I do not blame Tom Cruise, for he is far too pretty to perform inconsequential, household atrocities, such as these.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our Water Pik.
The guest bathroom is now full of wide, movie-star smiles.
Apparently, this old-time tooth-cleaner is slightly outdated, and as of late has actually proven itself to be abrasive and damaging to impressionable gum-lines everywhere.

Tom Cruise is trapped inside of our medicine cabinet.
The medicine cabinet is wide-open, and it finally feels free.
Every last beauty product in our guest bathroom has been discarded.
Tom Cruise has decided that my Oxy Clean pads are stealing my brain's precious oils, necessary for cosmic re-enlightenment.

A Spawn Song

As I
squint

into the
salmon-tinted

sunset,

I hastily
imbibe

your bubbly,
ruby-red

smile,

before
crushing it,

with manly
gusto,

against

the faded
pink halo

upon
my sloping

forehead.

New Poem in Dark Sky Magazine

My new poem Carrot Top Filth Emboldens Terrorists appears here in Dark Sky Magazine 7.0. Enjoy.

Food Courtly Love

for Ally Fleming,

*

Last night,
I awoke from unsettling dreams
to discover that my wife
had become a
muffin.

I screamed,
and I screamed at her,
but yet
she remained
a blueberry
muffin.

Then I twisted
off her delicious top
in misguided,
fruity
frustration.

Then I ate her,
because I had to,
and because without
the best parts
of her,
her life would
have been
cruel
and

unusual.