Poetry: Dirty Socks

Dirty Socks

by Emily Horne  1/24/13

In my little world, I am in charge of clean socks.

You'll wash them yourself? To that I say bollox!

Huffing and puffing and blowing my house in.

Not a clean sock in sight, let's get out the violin.

Ok, I'll wash some, although the sock is arbitrary

I mean, I've washed 'em it before, it's not revolutionary

But, I've gone nuts, gone mad and about to shave a mohawk

But it's got so little to do with your dirty fucking sock.

I'm real, and I'm smart and I'm undeniably clever

I embrace each adventure and encourage endeavor.

I have more to give than I can even withhold

If I let it all out, it would grow tenfold.

But I don’t, 'cause I can't, 'cause there is dirt in my grout

and the kids need a bath and we are out of sauerkraut.

This damn laundry (along with your socks),

is 3 feet high and is unwilling to stop

Dishes, and dinner and the run-of-the-mill

Excuse me, sorry, do you have a sleeping pill?

This is the part of the poem where I make it okay

to eat the shit sandwich and spirit away

But I can't, so I wont, so at the end of this ditty

Your socks are still dirty, and I have no fucking pity.

Poetry: Bella Franchesca Divine

Bella Franchesca Divine

by Emily Horne 1/21/13

For Bella Franchesca Divine
Being Bowlegged's just fine
A pigeon-toed beauty
A cross-eyed cutie

Just don't ask her to walk a straight line

See, my Bella Franchesca

She often reminded me of Tesla

the whirlwind of energy she created

when she prowled around and eventually mated

Oh, wait, did I forget to disclose?

That Bella is my cat, and she has 24 toes.

But hold on to your hats, folks, this one's a doozy

My Bella, my cat, is one helluva floozy.

A polydact, six toes on each paw

Hemmingway's cats- they shared the same flaw

I'm betting his cats weren’t quite so salacious

I have a bad feeling her hoohah is... hmmm... spacious?

Okay, maybe that's a bit mean

I mean, I don't want to be obscene

Honestly I have to say I'm impressed.

I mean, you'd think she'd be depressed.

Extra toes, bow-legged and cross eyed?

Appearance withstanding she pounces with pride.

The moral of this twisted kitty tale

Your fugly can be right off the Richter scale

Just take a note from Bella Franchesca Divine

Shake whatcha mamma gave you

and you'll be one sexy feline.

Poem: Dear Johnny

(I wrote this in 2005, in a twist about Bush... clearly) 

Dear Johnny,

Why didn't the devil consult with me

Before laying the golden fiddle at Johnny's feet?

Devils in the house of the sun that sunk

And Johnny can't get up that kind of funk

I know the real Johnny would agree

Still the man in black, but now he's free

Cash? Who's that? Johnny Ritter they said!

They didn't even know that country was dead.

Oh hell, oh well, they'll never learn

Cowboys are gone and it's Dubya's turn

That chicken's in the bread pan, he's pickin' out dough,

He's done more damage then we'll ever know

Two more Johnny's come to mind

Kerry & Edwards- they walked the line

But no match to the man with crude oil

And if you lose, the devil gets your soul

He won, we lost- but I'm gonna start singin'

To the Devil's music and it's liberal swingin'

Mr. Cash knew then and you'll know now

You applaud the Devil while Johnny takes a bow.

Poetry: Hot Dog Man

Hot Dog Man
by: Emily Horne

My stand is portable, affordable and neat
Sits on the southwest corner of 42nd Street
Can't beat my delicious, nutritious, expandable frank
My dogs are divine! Now, take that to the bank!

One twenty-five for a dog loaded or bare
Mini-meals readied with caution and care
Merciful and kind, my dogs nourish the broke
Fuels children and seniors and cold 'n drunk folk

I've served sages and I've served nuts
My clients range from brilliant to putz
Usually I keep the screwballs away
But now and again I have a crappy, no-good day

Like the time two thugs took off with my cart
They rammed it right into the Super Mart
Weenies went flying and relish SPLAT!
Stunned I saw my dogs were eaten by cats

Two weeks down, my new stand revamped and nice
Maybe those thugs wanted red beans and rice
But dogs are my passion and my life’s big scheme
So buy a hot dog and support someone's dream.

Poetry: Mystic Minute

Mystic Minute

Into the Mystic playin’ on the stereo

10,000 cigarettes and dirty brown amber ale

Turning heads she struts clip clomp, clip clomp

She thumps through unedited and bare

Defying gravity her body held tight

As she straddled the ladder-back

And stared with eyes that begged

But her face said ‘I got this, game over’

Oh- he was weak and this, his chance

But to be eager is to be desperate

So he continued to dry his pints

With each glass he bought courage

He could smell her and he remembered

September and her hair

She sat there like a lion

And he wanted her to pounce

But she wouldn’t- no, not yet

And there in that sweaty palmed

Heart-pounding silence with his

Head cocked and ears perked

He wouldn’t speak- no, not yet

And her lips pursed and so much

Tension, electronic juggling

In that moment, I live eternal

Poetry: Nero-ICU

About my Dad in the Nero-ICU: a (slam) poem

by Emily Horne on Monday, November 7, 2011 at 10:01am ·

Wake up
wake up
wake up
daddy
MASSIVE BRAIN BLEED
surgery
ventilator
brain waves
tracheotomy
insulin
wake up
wake up
INFECTION
fever
wide spectrum antibiotics- (just like on House)
open your eyes
open your eyes
seizures
SEIZURES
in the brain
Verced
blood pressure
pressure
pressure
pressure
21 days
“he wont wake up”
“he might wake up”
“he will wake up”
WAKE THE FUCK UP
no sedatives
just him
no movement
eyes reactive
good stats
his stats
I read his stats like they are part of a long conversation that we are having. A long overdue conversation not in a grocery store or in passing on the streets, and I have always had hope, incredible hope. Hope we would be together and go fishing again and tell stories again and eat uni with a quail egg again. I hoped for so long...then...
CRITICAL BRAIN INJURY
and I hoped some more
open your eyes
move your foot
squeeze my hand
and I wonder...
how did it happen?
why did it happen?
the merry band of coulda woulda shoulda's come dancing in.
I hate this hospital chair
it is supposed to fold out into a bed
it has massive cracks when you lay on it
the cracks let in the cold air
of the Nero ICU

and daddy
my daddo
laying there
still
breathing in rhythm
asleep?
dreaming?
Out on an adventure and it is a cruel joke that we are screaming at his body.
Lonely.
So
Lonely.
Day 24.
wake up
wake up daddy.

Poetry: You Egomaniac

You Egomaniac

by Emily Horne

New Years indulgence

Decadence

Kissed me in the midnight hour

Hey barkeep, another whiskey sour?

You egomaniac

Aphrodisiac

All dressed up inside my mind

Not what I wanted to find

You’re promiscuous

Licentious

Women dance in your head

You take me home instead

You’re provocative

Corruptive

Trapped within your sneaky twins

Working your way under my skin

You’re magnetic

Lovesick

Do you long for my caress?

I do want you, I confess

Poetry: Watch Softly, Little One

Oh, bloggity.

What has been? Two, three years? Sorry. I was washing my cat. I am now going to post several poems. OLD ones, and some new ones. Then I might even write some more. How 'bout them apples?