at the head of this street a gasping organ is waving moth-eaten tunes.
a fattish hand turns the crank;the box spouts fairies,
out of it sour gnomes tumble clumsily,the little box is spilling
rancid elves upon neat sunlight into the flowerstricken air
which is filthy with agile swarming
sonal creatures…
-e.e. cummings (improper line breaks, desolee)
How did I manage without you?
I was a bard, bald
-ing quill in hand
coughing dried clots of ink.
Parrotless, I cannot be
a proper Buccaneer
Sonneteer, and alas without
cat to join a coven.
What kind of courtier
would be caught sans Spanish guitar?
Homeric interludes without lyre?
No, I’ve found you now,
my Familiar - instrument
of euphemistic song
tous ensemble.
*
I was the jewelry box
the ballerina was kidnapped
from, latch snapped—
unable to keep pearls
spilling from my mouth.
Now that I have your blond
wood body between knees,
lacquered curves of my lap—
I can sing those harpy things or
harp like an angel— still make
ukulele sound like innuendo
for lady parts soft pink
beach sands, islands of nylon
string bikinis, siren vajays fronting
volcanic rock bands.
+
there’s actually a continuation— instruments as love-objects vaguely ridiculous raunchy part2 poem en route too! but i didn’t want to vomit more than a six stanza beast here, really! that was not a good bit of image-making. apologies.
xo your poetesss, j.m. lazar
edit/ddition: can i be weird and say— euphemnuendo was coined while tagging this post. and i am mightily amused. whereas i’ve been ye olde buccaneer sonneteer since my renfaire dreadlock/ed days! TM yo.
via 
