distro is not short for dystrophy.
Sam Allen was a rainbow. He wore socks. He qualified as a gentleman.
One day he was speeding down I-70 West right outside of Saint Louie when in front of him he spotted a young madam clinging to her portly beau as she straddled the ass-end of a gilded Harley-D.
Sam Allen was an elitist. But at least that's such a pretty word.
Sam Allen accelerated. To any passerby he would have seemed a chartreuse blur: blending with the tacky-genius lacquer of his sedan.
Sam Allen didn't like the motor city baby's lack of leather. And besides, everybody hates tie dye.
Gilda S. (it could stand for so-n-so for all I know) got the tie dye tank top at a swap meet in Vegas. She had a speech impediment from wearing a retainer as a kid. She bought into the ironic-dive gambling trend so current in Hollywood. She played Poker even though her mom had been a blackjack dealer and had od'ed on valium (now she scarcely qualified as veggie dip).
Gilda rode the gilded monster and thought of her niece's half bald baby doll named Cue ball. She smiled. Something hit Gilda between her upper right incisor and the baby tooth to the left of it she'd never lost. Gilda flicked away a bug. A bright green Japanese fly. All of the ugliness in the world hit Gilda like a bouquet of paper roses wielding paper cuts from cardboard thorns. She told the fly sorry. She wanted to die too in the tooth of a giant. The End had to be liberating. Gilda leaned back just enough to tempt vertigo. Gauzy green flashed before Gilda's eyes. Upside down she came face to grate with irrevocability.
Sam Allen hated tie dye. His car had just been to the dentist.
Gilda was a bottle blonde who put all her faith in psychics.
Sam Allen was intuitive. So he killed her.
Author notes
I am no longer going to post anything on this site (with the exception of Scratch Marks posts, perhaps). I have been writing more often than not in an attendance book I stole from Student Council several years ago. I am almost afraid to share those poems, though. I now have an online diary. If you wish to continue to read my poetry please e-mail me at gatabella@hellokitty.com w/ tagline “Verse PLZ.”
(The blog will include more private writings as well as day-to-day observations. If this is too netnick/Valley of the Dolls for your taste, then I recommend that you go read Da Vinci Code or draw American Idol manga or something {Kelly has such a Hentai-worthy rack}).
E-mails may be anonymous (I don't care who it is reading my posts, but I do want to have some kind of commentary from you beforehand). So, if you are netstalking me I won't discriminate. Besides, I’m dating an e-obsessor (IRL!!!).
It was fun while it lasted here on AllPo, but the bad graphics take their toll eventually.
I'll still check in on Esther, Zack, Jai, dolly, and all of my other favorites.
In keeping with the junior high yearbook ambience of this valediction, I’ll end with something equally banal:
PEN ON! Poetry is soulspeak.
What did you think
Comments
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Dahling, you can't leave! What will I keep my jewelry in now? I'm a pepper mouse of sadness.
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GOODREAD
Cool Poem just rocked in here ..but I like your work sad to see yah won't be round much ..oh well..I had a great read of the above ..
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