DEAR BELVA

You said you weren't playing with a full deck;
Of Tarot cards all laid out to predict your death 
at the hands of hair removal surgeons.
Their lasers sliced open your colostomy bag 
and you found that mosquito that tormented you last night.

Veer into an occupational hazard,
And free yourself from flowery verse,
Because fifity six paralegals strapped on dildos, 
and impaled themselves on your mom's armadillo.

My forehead swelled up into a balloon full of spider venom,
NO, really, it did last night.
I look more horrific than that dude in the Psychotherapy video.
Adds new meaning to the term, "furrowed brow".

Furrowed tongues beneath your lungs,
Remind you of your shortcomings.
You came too short, too short to come,
But really Mr. Belvedere, Dear Belva,
You ought to be impaled upon the Statue of Liberty,
To liberate your garden statues and gnomes.

Forever.

{POETRY}