Three Poems by J. Bradley
Why The Hydra's Fifth Wanted To Drop Out Of High School
My neck soaked in the most afterbirth;
it's why boys never held me like a metronome.
He liked to leave chipped bronze hickeys.
Mother said it would grow back brand new.
Ma, where were you when we wore fire
like a promise ring? Where were you
when the smoke plumed venom and scabs?
If I knew our destiny then, I would have cut
the string of Fate, twined it around my neck,
forgot there is no man in heroism.
***
The Bad Love Poem on Career Day
I can undo bra straps with my meter;
that's what I'd like to think.
I slip rhymes rohypnol, make cheaters
out of them. What stinks?
My stanzas from all the sex I get.
I can help you woo like a speculum,
have you wake up wearing an aquarium
evaporated after realizing regret.
I'll teach you to build one-night stands
using her mouth, no hands.
Understand, I confuse love with lust,
bonding with growing bushels of boners.
I douse myself in desperation like musk.
I wait outside the bar for wheezy moaners.
My hobby? I collect infections.
Though I am alone always, my intentions
are sincere; let me do you like an enema.
I assure you it will be a phenomenon.
You will howl like a freshly cut flower.
I promise afterward I'll leave, not shower.
***
Dr. Mario to Sen. Chuck Grassley
Where I come from, health care
is easy; it's all about prevention,
containing the contagions before
slipping through the cracks
of broken bottle necks.
You wield pharmacology
like the gallows, thrust
pulled plugs as pitchforks
and torches into the hands
of angry grandchildren;
I remember how they loved
playing doctor with me.
In the Mushroom Kingdom,
a death panel is the bottom
of a pit, the poisonous sides
of Goombas, snapping,
starving Koopas.
In your dimension, they're called
prior authorization departments.
You don't have the guts
to make terminally ill patients
into wallets, tip exotic dancers
with organs and chemotherapy,
inoculate your constituents
with reason.
I wish I could slip behind
the high pitched Italian accent,
entertain you by failing,
die in your fingers.
When a pre-existing condition
hums fevers and chills into
your body, will your dexterity
snap the flat line into a high score?
When will you stop devaluing lives
for votes?
J. Bradley invented revenge in the year 103 CE. He loves like an empty wallet on a first date. His first collection of poetry, Dodging Traffic, comes out October 23, 2009 through Ampersand Books. Lust for him @ iheartfailure.wordpress.com.
My neck soaked in the most afterbirth;
it's why boys never held me like a metronome.
He liked to leave chipped bronze hickeys.
Mother said it would grow back brand new.
Ma, where were you when we wore fire
like a promise ring? Where were you
when the smoke plumed venom and scabs?
If I knew our destiny then, I would have cut
the string of Fate, twined it around my neck,
forgot there is no man in heroism.
***
The Bad Love Poem on Career Day
I can undo bra straps with my meter;
that's what I'd like to think.
I slip rhymes rohypnol, make cheaters
out of them. What stinks?
My stanzas from all the sex I get.
I can help you woo like a speculum,
have you wake up wearing an aquarium
evaporated after realizing regret.
I'll teach you to build one-night stands
using her mouth, no hands.
Understand, I confuse love with lust,
bonding with growing bushels of boners.
I douse myself in desperation like musk.
I wait outside the bar for wheezy moaners.
My hobby? I collect infections.
Though I am alone always, my intentions
are sincere; let me do you like an enema.
I assure you it will be a phenomenon.
You will howl like a freshly cut flower.
I promise afterward I'll leave, not shower.
***
Dr. Mario to Sen. Chuck Grassley
Where I come from, health care
is easy; it's all about prevention,
containing the contagions before
slipping through the cracks
of broken bottle necks.
You wield pharmacology
like the gallows, thrust
pulled plugs as pitchforks
and torches into the hands
of angry grandchildren;
I remember how they loved
playing doctor with me.
In the Mushroom Kingdom,
a death panel is the bottom
of a pit, the poisonous sides
of Goombas, snapping,
starving Koopas.
In your dimension, they're called
prior authorization departments.
You don't have the guts
to make terminally ill patients
into wallets, tip exotic dancers
with organs and chemotherapy,
inoculate your constituents
with reason.
I wish I could slip behind
the high pitched Italian accent,
entertain you by failing,
die in your fingers.
When a pre-existing condition
hums fevers and chills into
your body, will your dexterity
snap the flat line into a high score?
When will you stop devaluing lives
for votes?
J. Bradley invented revenge in the year 103 CE. He loves like an empty wallet on a first date. His first collection of poetry, Dodging Traffic, comes out October 23, 2009 through Ampersand Books. Lust for him @ iheartfailure.wordpress.com.
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