The Orange Hatter

She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.

He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.

She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.

Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.

Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.

July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.

Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.

Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.

The Loose Hurricane

That fool of a Hurricane came along
wearing her precious
golden wig

her bitch stamp

tempestuous temptress
twirling
spinning
violence through
internal bricks and boards

I am a carpenter
a blood sculptor
The Queen

my masterpiece
in matching
patterns
nailed to the walls

my precious dynasty
garnished with
parallel features
inside and
out

muscles and brawn
My King
mixed with this
destructive
maniacal
windstorm

she rushed him
in her
giant waves

into her vast Ocean
her wet white body

then ripped and yanked
at my prized
creation
jerking
wrenching
until defeat ambushed
her
from behind

she resigned

and I was left
with my masterpiece
to clear the clutter
the debris

watching the Ocean for the
return of
my King.