Quip

My dog smells like Chinese food.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Diana is shap-
ed like guitar. I want
To ride in her car.

haiku by Bret R. Crabrooke
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I am going to
Tell your husband that we made
Love forty-two times.

haiku by Bret R. Crabrooke
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I f’ed her bet-
Ter than her husband with-
Out even touching her.

haiku by Bret R. Crabrooke
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In The Darkness of The Theatre Many False Things Who Bloom And Forage

Scrub pines
And Ajax,
Ruby Red
Grapefruit
And
Thumbtacks-
A lost
Shopping list.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The 4th of July

There’s my girl
With somebody else’s guy
In her witch’s costume
On the 4th of July.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Saint Paul.

Maybe I will meet a fine girl
At the funeral this
Evening,

So I can have sex
One more time so
Close to death.

If not,
I will pick one up
Next week in Minneapolis,

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Untravable Hills

I have the skills
To pay the
Bills—
I can travel across
The untravable
Hills—
Up town,
Down town
No matter what’s
Real—
I’ll dance with the
Goldfish atop the
Windowsill-

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Beds of Concrete

Her eyes the
Deep deep aqueducts
The sunlight skated on
Like water spiders
And beautiful couples
Never revealing
The murdered love
Down so very deep

The skeletons peeling
Inside
The rusting landrover
Flipped over against
The bed of concrete

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Too Far Away To See

I set out on my horse- it was the
Best thing I could do-
We galloped to the sea- it was the only
Thing I could do,
And we drowned beneath the windmills
For her-
My horse and I, as my father watched,
But the stars were too far away to see.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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