Mary Cote-Walkden

So Many Stories, So Little Time!

through a cannabis haze and rose-colored glasses

My ‘62 Rambler

 

As I view this 62 rambler

Once pristine, shiny paint

Purred like a kitten, sort of

New car smell

A bat out of hell?

Not really

But she served a purpose

 

No Nova. No corvette

But heads she could turn

Miles she travelled

Steady, secure

Yet seriously flawed

 

So time did wear

Paint faded to dust

Sun, rain and snow

Stole her sparkle, glow

Scratched, dinged, dented

Bumper too heavy

Laden with rust

Headline sags

Left more than right

Tailpipe plugged

Torn seats, tattered rug

 

Engine knocks?

Up on the blocks

To sit in the field

Fall apart more

Springs seizing up

Holes through the floor

A home for a mouse

Is her lot in life now.

No value, no use

Just to rot, decompose

The right thing to do?

Your time should be up

To the scrap heap with you


 

Procreation Proclamation

 

In Pontifical Profundity

And political profanity

A pose, puritanical at best

The vagina is procreational

And never recreational

Except at god-like penis’ bequest.

 

It says here in my Bible

So bite me, it ain’t libel

Sex for only procreation is allowed

So tighten up that belt so chaste

For there is no time to waste

Our purity the clergy has avowed.

 

So despite that little nit

That every woman has a clit

Intended solely for her joy in passions’ thrust

In sex she must not partake

Without intent to procreate

In the honor of our clergy we must trust.

 

But curious am I

Bound for hell, I won’t deny

Where’s the logic in this edict so profound

Men  can do it round the clock

With no thought of babe to rock

My discrimination case is very sound.

 

One more way the church conspires

Oppress the women, threaten fires

Hell and brimstone are their futures without doubt

Beaten, raped and degradation

For one reason – elevation

And the excuse to let your fucking prick workout.

 

 

Tequila Mockingbird

 

While sitting in my happy spot

A spot I sought to sit and rot

My brain

A spot where i could not be caught

Where perhaps a thought just might be wrought

With strain

I reached out for my friend.

 

Jose was sitting at my side

I was for him a blushing bride

Again

His golden fingers reached with pride

Caused toasty warmth deep down inside

No pain

But that was soon to end

 

Upon a branch it did alight

A fright it gave while ending flight

O’erhead

A mockingbird not very bright

With voice too shrill, I wished it might

Be dead

So a message I would send

 

Of my plight he seemed to mock

Took delight in how he liked to talk

Too much

I wished that he would take a walk

To find some other drunk to stalk

And such

He would not shut up at all

 

To his voice i tried to close my mind

And hoped some other he would find

Indeed

Jose and I, here to unwind

Just solace and peace for us sublime

We need.

The fucking bird had too much gall

 

For disturbing all my thoughts profound

While still reposing on the ground

Alas

Dearest Jose my hand had found

I downed the rest then aimed around

His ass --

I launched my love with heavy frown

 

And found the target, true and neat

Knocked said bird off fucking feet

Aplop

Upon my head he sent his shite

The crap and fall, caused his heartbeat

To stop

Another tequila sundown.

 

Janus Reflects

 

Fucking feckless coward

Touting self-righteous privilege

Justifying crap as earned dues

For imagined wrongs and

Paranoid picayune perceptions.

Janus reflects, two mouths talking

Paying forward pretend pain,

Wallowing in self-serving slop

Pity pig, play-pen personality.

Stand up and piss with the big dogs

Or haul your pathetic ass to the corner.

 

When Life Gives You a Fucking Lemoen…

 

“It’s a fucking rattletrap!”

Yeah, that’s what the asshole said.

Dash finally crossed the line

It was time to squish him dead

Like a fucking bug

 

He was talking ‘bout my wheels

My steed, well, deux chevaux

Just an itsy bitsy car

But hell, that thing could go

Like shit from a loose fucking goose.

 

So the challenge had been made

Time and place were fixed and set

There was just one last detail

Get Steve… then win the bet

And had Dash his fucking ass on a platter.

 

Steve loved these little babies

Kept them polished, purring, fit

With him here riding shotgun

Fucking Dash was in deep shit

But what the hell else was new?

 

Steve-o greased and primed and oiled

Dropped the hood then pumped some gas

“Now get yourself right in there

Cause we’er gonna kick some ass”.

Dash ass… finest fucking kind of ass to kick

 

But then, to my surprise,

Old Steve-o gave a shove

And climbed behind the wheel

Pulling on a racing glove…

Just one though… sort of a cheap little fart (I know… he got his parts from Fred’s Junkyard)

 

He stomped down on the pedal

Made my poor Lemoen peel

The glint there in his eye

Sorta made me feel

Like I was about to puke. “What are you trying to do? Make me sick?”

 

Two wheels round the corner

Then gunned it, made me cry

“What the hell is wrong with you!”

I thought I was gonna die.

For sure I shit my pants… eww. Won’t that be a wonderful fucking thing for Dash to have to clean.

 

“You crazy fat-assed nutcase!

What did you think I’d think?

You took my red Citroen

And changed it into pink!

With rolls of fucking duct tape, no less!

 

So here is our NEW deal

For my sweet Roseanna car

She will live in my garage

And you will now stay far

Away from it. Look at what you did to the suspension? And here… the damned steering wheel is twisted up because of your fat freaking ass. No way, you are NOT doing this to one of my babies again!”

 

So now I have no wheels

And Dash, yeah, he lost the race

So both our little Lemoens

Are parked at Steve-s place…

With a fucking wire fence around em… razor wire… and two god damned huge Rotties standing guard, like he doesn’t trust us or something. Geesh.

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