D C Berry
For quick mental hygiene, the snail’s my white Mobile clinic, Dr. Hoodoo inside. Seriously. The snail’s my man. He’s shy, Shows speedy patience and plays safe, keeps his Hard hat on should a curve
Ophelia claims we’re dead and gives me back All my Frank Zappa and the Mothers albums. I nearly claw out of my shell and say, “You can’t,” but for a moment I’ve nothing To
Neutrinos do zip but swap back and forth Into each other, much like Rosypoop And Guildendoo do. For years it was thought Neutrinos hung out weightless as R&G. No longer. Scientists have discovered Neutrinos
Laertes has groupies, proof he has taste, Has cool. Wears skate-board clothes: elephant pants, The crotch snagging his knees, tent-size tee-shirt. He wants the play staged at a roller rink: Him, Fortinbras, and me
Ophelia puked hourly dawn till dusk, Retching mucous slobber, then spewing air. Scum that I am, I never stopped thinking What a beauty: small Icelandic hooters, Femme d’Bumpers, on whom all fun depends. Woman’s
Our mascot lives low, a baby alligator. She’s our happy-and-sad mask all at once, Mona Lisa her name. She’s my ideal, Her wrap-around grin both a smile and snarl.
“Let the words of my mouth and the meditations Of my heart be acceptable in Thy sight.” Whoever “Thy” is, that’s the prayer to breathe, Words that chimed in my head while I stood
Mel Gibson’s Hamlet stinks doll Mel. Wind up Mel and Mel’s eyes glaze into porcelain, Blue gulfs of earnestness, and Gertrude Sucks it up, swilling Mel’s sincerity Makes me want to haul off and