shane allison
Shane Allison has had his poems published in: unlikely stories,
coal city review, absinthe literary review, fifth street review,
the doomed city, 13th warrior and has more work forthcoming in
babel magazine and 3 a.m. he lives in new york city. Starsissy42@hotmail.com
Hot coffee in your face
Hot coffee
In your face
Throw hot coffee
In your face
Gonna throw hot
Coffee in your face
Gonna throw
Some hot coffee
In your face
I want to
I want to um
Throw hot
Coffee in your face
Yeah
Yeah that's what you need
What you need
What you need is
What you need is a cup
Of hot coffee thrown in your face
Need
What you need
What you need is a cup of hot
Coffee thrown in your face
What you need is a nice hot cup
Of coffee in your face
Thrown in your face
Is a hot cup of coffee
You need is a nice hot cup of coffee
Thrown in your face
It would be so nice
If a nice hot cup of coffee
Was thrown in your face
There is nothing like
A steaming hot cup of coffee
Thrown in your face
You bastard
You brute
You bitch
You bastards and bitches
Need a steaming hot cup of Joe thrown in
Your face
It would be so nice
It would be ever so nice
To just
To just
Just to throw a steaming hot
A hot steaming
A hot and steaming hot cup of Joe in your face
Hot
A hot cup of Joe
Nothing quite like a hot cup of Joe thrown
In your face
Nothing
Nothing quite like it quite like a hot cup
Of hot coffee thrown in your face
Gonna do it
gonna throw a nice hot cup of coffee
in your face
you won't see it coming
until it comes
when it comes it will be too late
it will be much much too late
for you will be blinded by my hot cup of Joe
MY HOT CUP OF JOE!
Steaming cup of steaming Joe
In your face
Your face in your face
What you need is a cup of coffee in your face
That is what you need
It is what you deserve
A hot cup of coffee to scald your senses
You bloody bastard
You bloody buster
You bloody blooder you
Hot coffee in your face
What you need is a face of very hot and very steaming coffee
Quatrain for David Warren Frechette, 1948-1991
When you died from an AIDS-related cause,
I was fighting to save my own ass
At Rickards High School
Home of the Redskins.
Years later they changed the name to Rickards Raiders
After protest from the Native Americans of Tallahassee.
Opposers to the change were cheerleaders in their
Royal blue & gold uniforms holding up picket signs
Instead of pom-poms. When you were writing poems,
I was dodging spitballs. Cleveland Richardson called
Me a fat faggot in woodshop. When you were doing readings,
Getting your poems published, I wanted to gouge out Eldridge
James'
One good eye. The other one was as dead as a fish.
He wiped boogers on my shirt in Mrs. Bruces' class.
He led a gang of bullies down hallways. When you were at
Parties, friends toasting your success, I was just a young,
Black gay boy tryin' to survive my teens. I wrote poems
In spiral bound notebooks, hid out in smoke-infested stalls
Wishing I was a famous Hollywood actor. The day you died,
Steven Weber, from the NBC sitcom Wings,
Was my make believe boyfriend.
When you died, David Frechette,
I cried into my spiral bound journal.
Angel in My Apartment Building (For Noel)
There's an angel in my apartment building.
We live on the same floor.
I'm in room three, he's in room one
Cuz one stands for angel.
He has wings, but like an itchy sweater,
He hates to wear them.
Says they get in the way of things,
Often gets slammed in doors.
"Does that hurt? I ask.
"No, there's no pain at all.
Other than losing a few feathers
And experiencing sort of a ticklish feeling, he says.
His heart is his halo.
I'm the only one who knows his secret.
When I'm around him, I feel clean.
I can walk through the open flames
Of the world unscathed.
When he comes in worn, tired
And torn a little,
I just want to carry him to the glory
Of his bedroom and bathe him
With a washcloth of light.
|
