Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

how’s it going with that new chick?

  the plot is thick   she is intrigue itself   like me, she’s a poet!   her angles sublime   in time I will woo her   I’ll incline her to me   her feelings besot

is she hot?

  the warmth of her nature   is sunlight in summer   her smile alone is a fiery thing   a telephone call from her   a forecast of spring   I’d brave any dark winter   if only to woo her

telephone? mate, did ya even do ’er?

  would I dare?   to place me in there   in her frame   in a place where I   might brashly darken   her burgeoning fame?

that’s lame. so you haven’t?

  what have I?   have I what?   could I be?   could I not?   could I hope to raise a thumb   to her negative space   which fluctuates   at scales at which   my instruments fail?

no tail? you mean you couldn’t get it up?

  I am heightened, my cup   overfloweth, I’ve dispensed   with pleasantries   my peers don’t know me hence   every planetary globe of grass points   to where I wander on high   the very air   my only alibi

did ya even try? grass? you did weed?

  oh hush now you see   my condition, a weed   that is innocent   but for displaced position   like my feelings did flee   to be by her bosom, where they   lost all claim to naiveté

yeah, right. okay. cool man. that’s cool.