Love Sonnet

She is a masterpiece as excellent

As the cracks in the Mona Lisa.

A work of art as almost beautiful

As the mold on a squirmy armadillo.

Can I compare her to a jubilant hairy lobster?

Or is she equalled by the immaculate weeping watermelons?

She is more lovely than the shattered shards

Of exquisite Grecian pottery,

And more realistic than a crocodile

Who swims all day in tart and tasty lipstick.

The missing pieces

Of the mansion Parthenon,

The breathtaking breaks

In a Yellowstone precipice,

The brown part

Of a rotten bow tie.

She is more to me than all of these,

And now I have a kangaroo nose of my own.

I think that I must be in love,

But it could be indigestion—

Only Lee or a bad burrito

Could make me feel this way.

She smells much better than a bad burrito.

She doesn’t fit at all inside the rigid barbed wire,

But she is a misshaped gratuitous extraneous rupture

In a canvass that forever disrupts the regular flow of purple tea.

So what is the best type of story to tell a toddler with pointy teeth?

To Solitude

a satirical and cynical sonnet

 

I may not know if Love may lead to madness,

For he who madness bears is ignorant

Of if he thinks in sanity and soundness

Or maddened thoughts in this deceive him verdant.

 

I may not validate th’ verisimilitude

Of this common claim to Love’s duplicity

For I stand a subjugated subject to Solitude,

In Love with oneness, unknowing th’ veracity.

 

Perhaps I may be mad to say I’m mad

Or mad to be in love with Loneliness;

Perhaps it’s Love himself that drives me mad

Or merely Solitude too much for wits.

 

I cannot say if love to madness moves;

I only know that madness leads to love.