My metaphors aren’t gonna
send you coy glances
suck your cock
offer you a cigarette
or pay for the taxi ride home.

My metaphors’ll
muck around here for a while
too drunk to find the bathroom
fuck your woman and
coil round
....…and round
........…and round,

one eye closed, the other
on your leftover beer.

My metaphors don’t want
your phony love or vegan food
an office with a view
cocktail smiles in a smoky room
or the cupcake ass of a beautiful woman
drawing them on to death.

My metaphors prefer
searing desert heat
glacial moraine poking out of high plains
homemade martinis and
a red wagon beside the white chickens

and buffaloes for that matter.

Nothing you’d ever find
floating around in someone’s desk

or at the crafter’s mall.

Maybe in your back yard,
pissing on your bedroom window.

We are here for love
in our mirrored confusion;
projectors looking for a fresh white wall,
blind in the vast empty air

and my metaphors
will not charge into your wonderland
unarmed.