Refrigerator Poetry

The company I contract for has changed its business model with resulting upset amongst both the noble and common populace of its fair Santa Monica Cubicle Kingdom. Some while ago, a noble long since lost to a diplomatic incident with another Cubicle Kingdom tossed a couple of packages of Refrigerator Poetry magnets up on the refrigerators in the Castle Kitchen. The mood is relentlessly grim above the salt, and the peasants are revolting – bitter, angry, mournful and otherwise emo messages are scattered in staccatto black and white all over the hummy boxes that hold food.

I am tired of the negative vibe. I get it, sometimes I share it, but it damned sure doesn’t make me wanna go to work to earn my ducats. So today I did my part to move a little energy around the space while I waited for the other half of Monday’s lunch to heat up in the cleaner microwave. Since all my poetry seems to be about sex or death and I wanted to lighten the place up a bit, and also because the world needs more refrigerator poetry, I offer my effort:

refrigerator poem #1

drunk on need
and
luscious red wanting
my languid tongue
your
iron will
raw juices run
honey
smeared over
your skin
the urge
to watch you
ache
rock
sweat
scream
under me

Not sure if I should actually number it, as that is both pretentious and implies there will be more. While pretentious in this context could be interpreted as mildly ironic in a post-deconstructionist sort of way, I may not want to write (stick, assemble, manipulate?) any more refrigerator poems. At least not in the office, if I’m going stick to my usual themes. And our dogs will peel and eat anything remotely reachable on our refrigerator at home. On the other hand, a limerick about a serial killer who sticks his victims in abandoned refrigerators might be kinda fun for #2 – switch it up a bit, zazapow!


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