Love Poems for Alternative Types

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Ode to Ove

When the wife is gone

The patio sits vacant

Covered in leaves

Whispering stories

Of laughter and family

As the wind rustles beneath


There’s creaking through the walls

Like old shoulders sighing

Stretching, bowing through the eaves

Bending, exhaling

These old walls

Waiting for relief


The dust sits calmly

Not a finger to touch or disturb

The dust’s fine sheath

Across the table where we’d sit

Laughing sharing our tea


Death is a cold monster

That replaces a soul with leaves

And gives no remembrance

But to let them rustle in the breeze


Table or Tree?

When they decide

To reincarnate me

Should I be

A table or a tree?


One without the other

Then the first might not be


Only one has legs

Yet both are sedentary


Only one grows tall

Yet both help us to eat


Only one has roots

Yet neither can start a family


A table used to be

A place to join and eat

To talk and laugh

To chat


But now every table I see

People stare aimlessly

Into cell phone screens


Fuck that!

I’ll be a tree!




This is Atlanta

Outdoor couches adorn

Wrap around porch houses

Where old folks sit

In felted feathers and morning sweat

The street is a stage

To watch the world, unfurl before them


Abandoned houses with “stop work” plaques

Sit like ghost village shacks

Dangling electrical wires

Swinging like forest vines

In this concrete jungle


Nocturnal Co2 emissions

Mosquitoes on reconnaissance missions

To suck your jugular

To shed the blood of the covenant

Payback for the horrors in history

In the American South


This is Atlanta


An old woman hobbles

Down the craggily sidewalk

Long, gray dreads like Voodoo

“ali ali wei boomah!!!”

She hisses as you walk by

Leaving you wondering if she

Just placed a curse on your life

But you just keep walkin’ on


As if you weren’t cursed

As if each step

Each drop of sweat

Weren’t planning their revenge


This is Atlanta


Polyamory or Infidelity?

I want to fuck other people

Just once, I swear (maybe twice)

I want to see another dick

For God’s sake!

Yours gets old

It’s great, but it gets old


I want to feel a different feeling

This one’s gone stale

It “hmmmm’s” and “hawwwwwhhhh’s”

And meanders, slowly

Like sticky syrup

Over old grandma pancakes


I want to feel a fire

But not just in my crotch

(that would be weird)

but right in my soul!

Is the soul made of fire?

Heck, I don’t know!

But I’d like to find out


I still want you here, however

Because I love you more than

Life itself

And more than

All the stars

And you’re my best friend

Without whom, I would be

A lost dog, wandering

Eating garbage and

Howling at the moon


Do you want to try polyamory?


You are a speck

Did you know

You are a speck

Floating in space

On a pile of dust

A little dust bunny

I shit you not, you are!

You are a speck

An infinitesimally small speck

Smaller than a pea

On a football field

Smaller than a plankton

In the whole Pacific Ocean

Smaller than a particle of dirt

Floating in the atmosphere


Fucking people

Fucking people

Writhing in slime

Inside a dank, dark cage

Made of vile steel

That they forged themselves

Probably from a pile of sewage

That came straight from their soul


Slobbering sloths

Gently, treading

Up a giant hill

On the Isle of Assholes

Being pelted by rocks

But they’re too slow moving to get away

They wallow just the same


Little maggots

Covered in glitter

Burrowing through the dirt

And slurp

Up all the shit and steam

And they clean

The fucking mess

The fucking people left behind

Love is a circus

“Love is a circus”

I’ve always said

A balancing, teetering

Teeter totter

When one’s feelings weigh too BIG

You launch your partner

Straight into space


Sometimes they come back

Sometimes they stay in space…


Can you blame them?


Intimacy is a bearded lady

And a customer that keeps paying for tickets

To come see her

They are enthralled

But soon they will get disenchanted by

The feminine scruff

And go see the lion tamer instead


Do you blame them?


Romance is a trapeze artist

Her sparkling limbs, pointed toes

But it’s just an act

A daring feat

A wild display

Which wows the crowd

And keeps them wanting more

And the trapeze artist keeps wanting to give more


Did it work?



You are a speck


Even your biggest idea

Your hardest struggle

Your best day

Your worst day

Your strongest emotion

These are all specks


In fact, your every attribute,

however grand

is a speck

they are tiny seeds

on the outside of a strawberry

and the strawberry is you

and you’re floating in a giant fruit bowl

full of a gazillion other specks


How does that make you feel?




It was a feeling

It was a feeling

A “in the side of the gut poke”

With a pointy-toed boot

A very stylish one, of course

But nonetheless

Still a feeling


It hurt

That pointy boot poking

Jabbing my side

As she walked by

And as you watched her

So intently, walking

Her and her pointy boots


But I got pointy boots too

And I ain’t afraid to poke you

Right in your feelings


It was a feeling

Indeed, it was

When those dark brown eyes

They looked at mine

From across the bar

And I thought

“Holy shit”

“This person is looking at me”

“Because they want to look at me”

I felt like,

A wild, exotic animal

A sparkling burlesque dancer

Whose skin is speckled with

Blinks of light from the cameras

Reflecting off her glittering garbs

I’m a star!


Love is not just a feeling

Love is an old dusty book

That you go open up

After it’s been sitting in your attic for three years

And you gently wipe off the dust

And when you open it you cry

Because you know this book changed you


I wish I could measure


I wish I could measure

Our time spent together by

The tattoos on our skin

This one in Mexico…

This one in Chicago…

This one in Milwaukee…


And then we could be

Like that old couple I met in Idaho

That had been together for years

But never married

No wedding bands on their fingers

Just lovely, wrinkly bodies,

covered head to toe

In stick-and-poke tattoos


“On my back, you see”

The old woman said proudly

Raising her shirt to reveal

Black and blue jagged lines

Some straight, some curving, some fading

Swooping shapes across her backside.

And her flesh,

Starting to sag in her old age

Was a tattooed tapestry draped

Across her hunching and bowing shoulders.


“Eddie” she said, with eyes bright

“He did these himself”

“Just for me”

“Ain’t they fine?”

“You need someone else to do these, ya know?”

“Cuz ya sure can’t reach ya own back!”


Perhaps love is, simply enough

Never feeling too old

To put tattoos on your back

At the same time

Us, remembering, laughing:

This one was from Mexico…

This one was from Chicago…

This one was from Milwaukee…


Get Money

I like fast money

I like the way the green, crisp

Capitalistic flesh runs through my hands

As I flip the bills

Counting, quickly

AS if I’m counting cards

At the Grand Miraj in Las Vegas


Yes, that feeling

Like I’m a big, important lady

In a fur coat

Sitting at a gambling tables

Ordering stiff gin and tonics

But the drunker I get

The classier I get

Yes, that feeling

That I’m so fucking hot

A trail of fire is formed

On sidewalk from my Louboutins (pronounced: Loo-Bah-Tons)



Yes, I like the way

These tiny, little green rectangles

These floppy little pieces of paper

GIVE ME  the Power to be somebody


Or maybe, I like the way

That just for, one moment

I can escape

This lady in the old, ripped up flannel

Slumped over in a barstool

Drinking shitty beer

With barely enough for the tip



Dog, Woman, Man

Ain’t it funny that

You leave your dog home all day

And the moment you crack open the door…

There she is!

Little pup, tail wagging

Couldn’t be more excited!

As if that one moment

When you return

Is enough to negate the neglect


Ain’t it funny that

Your girl

Sweet and gentle

Stays home at night


Gives the dog a bath

Watches the clock




Hoping you’ll come home soon

Then the door cracks

“Lucy, I’m hommeee!”


Leads me to believe that

A dog is actually a woman’s best friend


Other Men

Sometimes I look

At other men

Because they are handsome (that’s all!)

And I think “oh gee, what could be?”

But that was just a thought…


Like in the grocery store

The tan, dark haired gentleman

That noticed me first

His dark brown eyes, glowing

He walked past me a couple of times,

always smiling


I smiled back

By the third time

I became nervous

sheepishly sprinting through the isle


Maybe at the third pass

This handsome man’s smile

Became too real?

And I think “oh gee, what could be?”


And I’ll leave it there:

He walked passed me a couple times,

Always smiling.




White Trash 2 First Class

Warmed nuts

Warm hand towels

Reclining chairs

Champaign classes clink

With the turbulence


“Good morning, folks, this is your pilot speaking”

“It is 10 hours to Frankfurt”

“we will have a smooth ride today in first class”

“Everyone else, except a bumpy, uncomfortable 13 hours”

“Expect your neck to be crooked permanently to the left after this flight”

“Expect to lose all circulation to your limbs as you sit…

Awkwardly upright and cramped like sardines in a flying can”



Indian princess, sitting in 3B

Taking selfies

Camera flashing in the dark

Like a little lighthouse

A beacon of hope for lost millennials

Guiding them to apathetic indifference


Little princess

Riding in First Class

Looks at me, as if, she might say start conversation

Don’t even try it! My eyes glare into hers…

But her kind knows

Never to fraternize with my type

My un-styled hair

My goodwill clothes

My thick, Midwestern un- perfumed neck

My rough around the edges


Her dainty little hands

Stand no chance

To my tightball fights


But who cares, I’m in first class!!

Imposter syndrome, MY ASS

Little, poor widwestern girl

Stickin’ it to the man

The best that she can


Brand new pillow

Fucking fluffy pillow

Still in the plastic

I’m going to rip it out of the package

It feels like Christmas!

I’m in first class!!


Free headphones, calls home

Every day is Christmas!

Rip it out of plastic

We’re in first class!

Another Champaign, lady!

Don’t have to say “please”

No “thank you”

No manners, whatsoever, when you’re as rich as this

I’m in first class!

Want a newspaper?

Who needs to read? when you’re this high class?



“You’re not late, you’re just creating suspense”

I read that phrase on a hotel coffee cup

While, ironically, running late to a meeting

And thinking to myself

If this hotel really believes this?

Then can I check out an hour later?


Like I’m some sort of really chill South American

Just sauntering along the sidewalk

With my flip flops

Not even sweating or worrying about a damn thing

At what point is lateness no longer suspenseful?

At what point are you just late?


For John(my big brother)

If dicks could fly, this place would be an airport

If pussies could talk, this room would be “Dear Abbey”

If anger were funny, we’d all be laughing


No one is laughing…


If drugs were just candy, you’d still be here

If guilt were water, I could fill an ocean

If pain were tangible, maybe I could grab it

And throw it, and punch it, and get it to go

Far, far away from here


I miss you, big brother


If consciousness was created

By a good man called “God”

Why did that same man

Allow us to hurt?


He doesn’t sound like a good man…


If humans are just a blink

In the history of the Earth

And your life is just a tiny fragment

Of an even smaller piece

Of a vast mass of people

Then why do we live at all?










Submitted: August 09, 2018

© Copyright 2022 B.L.Curren. All rights reserved.

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