Choc-O-Late Sex Poem by Dairedee BurrisLandwehr

There’s an alien on my shoulder, and
he’s singing
neurotic patriotic hymns
triggering a thousand (dead-men) demons to
stand up and salute him.

The playgrounds are graveyards
drowning children
in sin.
How will we transcend if
the snake always wins?
Adam slithers under cover
every eve
with your mother, until
Black Jack hits 21, and
he’s done, with
it.

I pulled out just in time two
Christ-Cross the border-line (poles)
bi-cursing the Devil on
Not-Tue-s-Day(s) if he’ll show, but

He’s down below blowing
Jesus after His second show(ing) , at the
Four-Corner Desert Casino;
Mid-night every
Day, or
So.

I am throwing-up stone-ground bones, on
green carpet
between teeth breaking
bad bread over
a table on its last leg
(k) not ma(i) de by(e)
King Arthur or his rounded Square-Men.

O, say I can you see in
20-20 hind-sight super-vision?
The President is praying over
his podium-pulpit, that
Black-Heart(ed) culprit
bending over, and
knows it.

Mum is the name, but
Bird is the Word.
Cardinal(s) specifically,
(It’s) a priest, (parenthetically)
lighting candles, inhaling angels,
dust and sin.

The hole-y rollers are
suited in black and red robes
painting the Garden of Eden
where heads will roll when the
Queen sings off key, and
doesn’t know
[it].

She sees stars and stripes [divid-ing]
outside and in when the
canary smoked all the weed
during a nuclear winter hollow-cast snow-pocolypse of discontent
playing fools instead of gestures gets
her sent to the pen
(without ink):
sword-tipped off, and
(I think)
I smell a rat in Den-ma(r) k.

not once, but
thrice.

We were poor as mice, but
I spent my last cent to repent, and
all I got was a [stained] T-shirt

Reading:
Sucker.

My luck hurts -
Twice.

The Chesire Cat sat chagrin-ing
plastic smiles at me
while illiterately spelling, and
I’m be-witch(ed) -
condemned for
smoking Salems, and
pitch-black ditch-weed
akin to sin everywhere and when, but
under water and in space, and

You can bet your red magic schlippers
if that were the case
We’ed head there in a craze(d)
[purple-haze] maze race.
Box Mott and Pop Mott, and
Me’d (be) on the
Nex-us ship sailing
Wehr inhaling was legal, but
The Eagle (Son) says:
No.
No.
No.

The Nazis have landed -
It is so
It is so
It is so

The economy is failing
The people are bailing
Ahab’s still wailing

about the mammal who
slipped
away.

The people are bored
Stiff as stone statues
Betting against death
In cellars playing roulette
In duets
So you know someone’s
Got to go.

Casting (out) votes against
magic mushrooms
baked in sun ovens in
Congress’s basement meth-lab
poisoning water hole(s) with
cyanide and happiness
wearing pearl neckties in gay bars on the
South Side.
Color-Coded
to go with
their gold-plated eyes
custom white, red, and baby blue(s)
match-heads to stick up your panic-room.

There is no lock
There is no key
There is no spoon

You’ll have to
consume
consume
consume, or within

72 hours ending up on
Date-Line with
Diane Sawyer, who
eats your lawyer in the backroom
where you grow Ivy Thickets
alive with vines thick as fat-lips
on a Bloody Son-Day
in Hell;
telling you to say
you trip(ped) , and
He fell.

The Changling is
scrawling on Gonzo walls
Asking Alice at
10 feet tall if
She heard the Door-mouse call
from down the street
through thick bricks
painted for war;

Our cry is:
Icket! Icket! Icket!
and
We mean it.

Somewhere in [the state of] Colorado
Three Gurus ate
pink LSD oatmeal
in a yoga haze after it said:
eat me, with
Yogi tea brewed by the
Mad Hatter
playing the best of the Beatles, and
Crickets on loop
for red-heads
who said:
Icket! And
meant it.

The dragon drops by, and
burns fishes with kisses, but
I am an oxygen-deprived tadpole
locked in the stake-house blood-bank
after it tanked at the box office
upgraded to white tower estates harboring
Dracula,
rancid and raving
downtown at the
Village Clubs;
tonguing hookers
since he lost his fang-dentures
at the Last Supper in a bet
he never men-tions
his intention(s)
to lay [down with] the Son, but
Mother Mary moon-goddess
stepped in, and
won.

Vampires are light-weights
making too many miss-takes to
fake bake.

-Chanting-

“Garlic! Garlic! Garlic! ”

I am shouting nonsense at the
Onion-Blossom
Tea-Garden Party on the
Great Salt Lake
singing my eyes
paper-thin skin peeling
in the sunshine
even though

It hasn’t been a moon day in
seven times three weaks, and
I’m not going to say it, but
the future looks bleak…

am I on repeat?
Repeat?
Repeat? like

homeless children in bare feet, and
battered women in bruises
retreating to the street
fighting Adam bombs
dropping emotion in all 50 states, but if
I write I can’t be wrong, and
I’d rather burn in hell
in the desert with
no name
then play that game
every day.

Paper-plate heart-aches
fold under pressure forming
bone-white diamond cinders at
100 degrees A.D., but
No one will know you
After 100 beers, and
Someone will love you for
100 years, but

You haven’t got time
You haven’t got money
bee leave me, Honey
I don’t mind the sting still
Buzz
Buzz
Buzzing
like Egyptian crack
walking to the alter
sacrificing new born kings, and
virgins mothers on a
sugar-high priority
smothered,
then baked.

I reach home-o-stasis in various places.

Solar plexus lunar vibrations
blowing hot air balloons
over the moon landing in
Kansas, and
out steps Dorothy –
wrapped in a green bow
channeling Eros shooting star arrows
presented in future tense(s)
high-strung honey-lipped verses
pour from sweet creeks
kept in check by
the landlord keeping your checks
balanced over your head,
a noose sewn in a deadly red thread
locked and loaded on a
weekday before noon
singing bar tunes on jukeboxes
like a lullybye blackout
crooning off key in your head.

The man with a plan lives next door to
Jesus’s dumpster
Waltzing with Matilda at
5 am Za Zen, but
all you wanted was a

Hud Hud Haboob
like clockwork
before work.

You are orange.
Orange.
Orange.

In the
Center of the Universe
In a
Spirit Room -
Gurus are chanting:
Gate Gate Parasamgate
with you, and

It’s true.
It’s true.
It’s true.