Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


Love is like a snowmobile racing across the tundra
It flips over, pinning you underneath
At night, the ice weasels come

(Gwendolyn's mother's poetry - Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas, Tom Robbins)

I performed this poem at my sister's wedding reception when she married into a tee-total clan of Mennonites from Manitoba in what was theoretically a no-alcohol event (to keep the Mennonites happy). I was completely sloshed on Koskenkorva, it was in Finland after all, and most people seemed to have bottles hidden in their cars. It was a golden late-summer day. At dusk I took this picture:


Indigobusiness said...

Bloody ice weasels.

La Sirena said...

Bullshit Love Haiku

He says blah, blah
Blasé blah. I should soothe him With sunburnt kisses.

(This attitude of mine may be why I'm single.)

Indigobusiness said...

Sirena makes me horny.

word ver- curva

La Sirena said...

Does that make me special or typical?

La la blasé la...

Lazy said...

Curva is Polish for whore.

Indigobusiness said...

word ver.-


(no shit)

(S)wine said...

love was invented by ad men. to sell nylons.