THREE POEMS BY HARRYETTE MULLEN (1953 - )
Wipe That Simile Off Your Aphasia
as horses as for
as purple as we go
as heartbeat as if
as silverware as it were
as onion as I can
as cherries as feared
as combustion as want
as dog collar as expected
as oboes as anyone
as umbrella as catch can
as penmanship as it gets
as narcosis as could be
as hit parade as all that
as icebox as far as I know
as fax machine as one can imagine
as cyclones as hoped
as dictionary as you like
as shadow as promised
as drinking fountain as well
as grassfire as myself
as mirror as is
as never as this
[Kills bugs dead.]
Kills bugs dead. Redundancy is syntactical overkill. A pin-prick of peace at the end of the tunnel of a
nightmare night in a roach motel. Their noise infects the dream. In black kitchens they foul the food,
walk on our bodies as we sleep over oceans of pirate flags. Skull and crossbones, they crunch like candy.
When we die they will eat us, unless we kill them first. Invest in better mousetraps. Take no prisoners on
board ship, to rock the boat, to violate our beds with pestilence. We dream the dream of extirpation.
Wipe out a species, with God at our side. Annihilate the insects. Sterilize the filthy vermin.
Dim Lady
My honeybunch's peepers are nothing like neon. Today's special at Red Lobster is redder than her kisser. If Liquid Paper is
white, her racks are institutional beige. If her mop were Slinkys,
dishwater Slinkys would grow on her noggin. I have seen tablecloths in Shakey's Pizza Parlors, red and white, but no such picnic colors do I see in her mug. And in some minty-fresh mouthwashes there is more sweetness than in the garlic breeze my
main squeeze wheezes. I love to hear her rap, yet I'm aware that
Muzak has a hipper beat. I don't know any Marilyn Monroes.
My ball and chain is plain from head to toe. And yet, by gosh,
my scrumptious Twinkie has as much sex appeal for me as any
lanky model or platinum movie idol who's hyped beyond belief.
For reference, regarding “Dim Lady”:
Sonnet CXXX (130)
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,—
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare