• Jimmy Broccoli

I Think It Means “Vagina”, But I’m Too Lazy To Look It Up

My clothes and other belongings Are on the lawn Looks like a yard sale without price tags Everything thrown here and there in an unrehearsed cacophony The wet grass attacks my designer briefs… Were white – now with a hint of stained green Like a semi-albino St. Patrick’s Day shamrock


The stereo system he bought me last year… It is smashed to hell – a pile of plastic and cheap metal, defeated The music is dead I sit on the edge of the sidewalk waiting for the taxi As he is here, yelling For the first time in any relationship, I am the discarded I am wet and discolored underwear no longer suitable to wear


His trucker mouth Paints the air with abusive shades of blue With his tongue and saliva A holocaust of language I blush a little My face…surely The color of next-day lipstick, faded and a bit smeared


His words Chisel into me

He calls me a “twot” A word, I think That probably shouldn’t be used In poetry



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