David J. Thompson goes places. And he takes pictures. And writes poems.
Rub This Poem
Next chance you get,
rub this poem
on the chest
of a sick child.
I’m not kidding.
See what happens.
I dare you.
I have a job
at the local convent
of the Poor Clares.
the Sisters say,
Past Due Bills
He’s in the post office lobby
holding a Baby girl; you know
the look – ex-frat boy in his late twenties,
white Polo, pressed khakis, and stylish
stubble. I hate him already, but I see
he’s wearing a Boston Red Sox cap,
so after I drop my past due bills in the slot,
I walk up to him like I’m admiring the kid.
He gives me his best Matt Damon smile,
and then I punch him as hard as I can
right on the nose. I hear the bone crack,
see blood spurt out, watch the baby fall.
I just keep walking out into the parking lot,
thinking what I might have done
if he was wearing a fucking Dodgers cap.
I Guess You Could Say
Every English major knows,
with a wink and a grin, that
Lord Byron, the great Romantic,
had more than a sibling relationship
with his half-sister, Augusta, .
but it turns out that his father,
Mad Jack, as he was known,
was lovers with his own sister, too.
A chip off the old block.
Like father, like son.
I guess you could say
incest runs in the family.
I Have Sinned
No matter where we are
in our lovemaking, if
my new girlfriend hears
church bells ringing,
she stops whatever we’re doing,
crosses herself about a hundred times
and keeps repeating, Forgive me, Father,
for I have sinned.
The next time I go to CVS
to buy some condoms,
I’m going to pick up
some ear plugs, too.
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This post first appeared on Zombie Logic Review: Poetry For Outsiders And Outl, please read the originial post: here