Anna Fulford and I Pose the Question: What is a Pookey & Can We Poem It?

If it were not not a mistake
lately it undulates outward
and even the cat senses its

anguish. Underneath its ultra-
gloss its mossy innards simply
be, simply do. If its lips were

any the more brazen. It gazes
unto itself a whole new limb-set.
If an aerial view did it more

savory, it shook to have it
meted out. Oh and it understood
every single sentence, sentenced

itself foremost. Sees it swatting
back the ambiance, tries
to control it as it webs which

way but down. Step away
from it, from recording it propped,
mammalled so. It has seen

the whole world, like a papier-
mache muscle, split side-
ways and tongued out.


Dearest Trull, My Harlot Head

Like anemone, fake star face

limned in bioluminesce

For whom I carried all this awe
an ocean salad more
I'd like to whack you, jug-jug
My dirty jinx, my bippy weed
so waverly the ocean floor.
The gin, the booze, the night
night !pow! Medusa muse-ic
leash, or un, cop-on
your head sank nomina
well-wet for a blessed second
Hardly feasible, a daffodil on its
home line, down drawn
vice drawn like a yak to butter

Never Again,
Your Erstwhile Lover