Under Pressure (from Ruthless Grip Poems)
Jesus is the lock,
you are the key,
and Satan is my bombardier.
We're happy in my laboratory.
We read St. Luke till we puke,
a poem lives or dies in the first six lines,
we read St. Matthew till we mildew,
and love has no laws.
A flying saucer hovers above the suburban religious tract.
A deflated Smurfs swimming pool
protects a motorcycle from the rain.
I'm having a long and happy childhood,
I've been sad since the day I was born.
When you turn one of my poems sideways,
you see the graph of a mood.
The pirate ship I sail my soul in has outlasted rough seas,
I want to live on a continent named Spiritual Aspiration,
and I'll be the last blade of grass to enter the Pureland.
you are the key,
and Satan is my bombardier.
We're happy in my laboratory.
We read St. Luke till we puke,
a poem lives or dies in the first six lines,
we read St. Matthew till we mildew,
and love has no laws.
A flying saucer hovers above the suburban religious tract.
A deflated Smurfs swimming pool
protects a motorcycle from the rain.
I'm having a long and happy childhood,
I've been sad since the day I was born.
When you turn one of my poems sideways,
you see the graph of a mood.
The pirate ship I sail my soul in has outlasted rough seas,
I want to live on a continent named Spiritual Aspiration,
and I'll be the last blade of grass to enter the Pureland.