Portmanteau Girlfriends on the Side in Unexpected Days off Altered World Outlook

Portmanteau Girlfriends on the Side
in Unexpected Days off Altered World Outlook
by quasimofo
i. (is the horniest number)
Get more virtuosic bang for your buck
at brothels having sex in a sedan
coupling in a coupe cranking that curiosity throttle
circumsalivating the global intercourse positioning
saddled sate-night-lite…
…umm mama, all i need is a minute
with your hourglass figure—ooolala!
But this poem isn’t about sex and love
as a burning i n f e r n o
as much as it’s about
Sex and Love as a fire-escape.
Suit up at this uncouth line of scrimmage
if you triple doggie-style dare.
There is a terse flab of 2nd puberty yowch
on overcast days scrounged from gaunt heaps memoreasons
sulking custom glutton nipple ring cheerios in this vico-den-of-sin.
Yo is the disgruntler nerd at a geekfest getting dork-style physical
with the existfiscal – ‘i’ll show you mine if you show me yours” –
backscratching that we long to atone for in this
                   missed -              out -              on
         checklist/            chicklist/            bucketlist.
But it’s time to face the music of a goddamned symphony blaring
out sour-candied-shoot-an-apple-off-the-head-post-it-notes:
“I’m not good enough, I’m not supposed to be here,
I surely don’t belong cause all of this is so awe and all-fully wrong.”
Ahhh, Thank god for
Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing Therapy!

ii. –delete me again, yada yada yada…–
Pippi Barbarella befriends you on some social networking site
growing weed on Farmville to bake you special brownies
in Cafe World telling you yer her favorite Potato gun pistolier.
“Look at me! Look at me! in my lonely spinster soliloquy!” she blathers
with flower panty power & pom-pom bespeckled lacodaisies.
It feels like a match-stick ‘made in heathen’ you could love till death do us particles…
—cause you take love where you can find it sputters the cerebral vortex
..and you call it your go-to safe-haven P-A-R-A-D-I-S-O
just floating air-stream elatedly along
in her hot-air balloon between moral ground and aesthetic heaven
fancy-free traveling the fucking world
in 80 fucking days ablaze with a happy harpy flavor-of-the-weak-minded fury—
That’s when the fair-weather ends and i’m cut loose
like a deadweight sandbag…
..i find myself whooshing reflecting deeply next to descending body length mirrors—
the split-pea personalities break off holding hands forming
ski-diving hoops midst turbulence destined to desecrate
fresh urban art concrete but i pull paper hearts parachutes and plunge into abstract bubble bath with mermaid barmaids who serve me cold beer and give me
sponge massages healing life-long wounds and worries.
Your loss fly girl!
Whatever floats your boat jostles like subtactically
strategic shit cause loose lips sinks relationships, babey!
We are all in the same boat until someone rocks it and someone jumps it.
Being tough doesn’t matter if your heart gets hard.
But don’t fret on your weeping guitar, Princess Goddess, u need no beauty sleep since beauty’s only skin deep—and lord knows you put on enough make-up to fool a raccoon.

iii. {conciliatory filthy minded-ness}
Masturbating mastodons peder out as you
desperately sling on your big-boy panties.
I’d rather be laid than laid-off in this
unending rat amazing 24 hour fitness finesse club.
Save me Saint Joan of Arcade!
Take me under your wing
oh Pirate Lass of the Adventuresque
High-School Seas[onings]!
I’m the only one who can give a candy-gram
with a mammogram in this flick
where all you need is two fingers
below and a tongue in the top—
yes, i’d rather be finger painting
than finger pointing
(just stay away from the eschatological excrement)!
..chap stick after the lapstick please.

iv. (fluids)
A romantic get-a-way needs to be a place, not a person,
and this surely is a time when i’m so open-minded it’s like i’m close-minded.
All i ever wanted out of life was a Camaro and a camera.
i want one waterfall afternoon with quilted blanket wicker picnic
sharing secret thoughts & questions with a deathbedbuddy.
We all micromanage to keep ourselves in adoration—
Pummel your kindred spirit lover into grovel heckler secretary
interpersonal code for let me go.
When you’re put on the shelf dust yourself off;
take a hot shower for that cold shoulder;
if you’re avoided like the plague visit the morgue and play dress-up.
There is a one in a million chance your glass will break
so make a million preventative procedures and plan for it.
Those who get first dibs often need first aid.

v.[deep breaths]
Pull the string to your ego doll
and Tickle-me Ozypanzias Chumpanzee will say:
“Look upon the dust that jumped my bones!”
You’ve got to live like you’d rather be dead
like you’d rather be living and just decide
that life’s death is a choice .
In the meantime,
i’ll have a Corndog with a Capricorn,
uproar with Leos,
bullshit with the Taurus,
and ponder as i pander.
…try as i may, i cannot for the life of me & you
find a refill cartridge
for this pen-pal p u r g a t o r i o,
but then again—
that’s what i get for using
you as an excuse
for living,
and not living
for myself.