The Room

His schedule is synchronized,
With cycles of the moon,
A piano that forever plays,
The Addams family tune.

Pale girls adorn his banisters,
At length they hang around,
Wearing their high stiletto heels,
And vintage velvet gowns.

He tells everyone his best friend’s,
A poet down the way,
The only one who understands,
Every last word he says.

They made up a secret language,
Deep in their conveying,
Although if asked they will admit,
They know not what they’re saying.

And his residence of choice is,
All he ever wanted,
To live in a creepy mansion,
Well known to be haunted.

Kept at a chilly 65,
This curmudgeonly host,
Does his best to keep guests out,
And accommodate the ghosts.

But there is one room in the house,
No one knows the function,
Could it be some sort of dojo?
Or maybe it’s a dungeon!

Some swear that it’s a slaughterhouse,
And he’s a cannibal,
Who sucks out corpse’s blood for youth,
And other animals.

Or maybe a shrine to himself,
To blissfully revel,
Or maybe where he’ll sacrifice,
Young girls to the devil.

But if some evil does lurk there,
He’ll make no exception,
And whether for his privacy,
Or for your protection.

But I think that’s its just a ruse,
Surely we’ll discover,
Him in there hugging teddy bears,
And Skyping with his mother.

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Trikki Gunns

His vinyl jeans so tight that they
Muffin top his belly,
He thinks he’s a weird emo kid,
Folks think he’s old and smelly.

We know his real name is Eugene,
But Eugene’s have no fun,
Combined a cat’s and porn star’s names,
And now he’s Trikki Gunns.

The 80s already happened,
Time to update his look,
Got him some green extensions,
Wrote songs with grungy hooks.

He saw Marilyn Manson,
The white contacts he wears,
First thing next morning he ran out,
And he got himself a pair.

Now he caught up with the cool kids,
He’s looking lean and mean,
Somewhere near 1999,
Though it’s 2015.

No club in town that you could say,
His band didn’t play there,
The crowds are getting thinner,
Much like his graying his hair.

In his mind he’s a heartbreaker,
A rebel, he’s the bomb,
Taking the ladies to the home,
That he shares with his mom.

For though they’re few and far between,
He manages to score,
He says it’s just a place to lay
His head in between tours.

And thinks of that old song he knew,
Wonders if it’s a lie,
Can you be too old to rock n roll,
If you’re too young to die?

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The Life Of A Concert Promoter

A dressing room painted eggshell white,

For if ivory she’ll have a fright,

And all specifications we must meet,

Right down to a new toilet seat.

 

And I’ve just sent out the concert booker,

To find a very specific type of hooker,

Certain issues of magazine,

Cornstarch for their leather jeans.

 

A machine gun acquired for these temporary digs.

And a separate room just to keep her wigs.

Accommodations for their furry friends.

And for God’s sake no brown M & Ms!!

 

I’ve studied the rider’s specific features,

All to appease pop stars and divas,

But I’d just as soon they shut their trap,

And I’m quite relieved to see their back.

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