martha/maria

Well, Hello there Mister…erm…isses,

I’m glad that we have the chance

To meet under such informal headings.

It’s really rather hard to believe

The Annual Black and White Social has plagued us once again.

I know I got the invite ages ago-

I believe your secretary sent it to me.

What was her name again?

Martha… Maria… It starts with an M right?

Maybe a P?

Oh my wretched memory-

Who knew all those years

Of bottle tokes, joints, bongs,

Zongs and Cheech and Chong would actually affect me?

I personally know at least 100 grandmas’s

That say masturbation will make you go blind-

And I’ve tested that theory 14,945 times…

Sorry, 14,947 times,

And I can still see their wrinkly hands.

Every single stroke.

This being the sole reason; I never took science to heart.

Anywho…

This may sound like an excuse list

But refuse this notion

For this is neither folklore nor commotion,

But honest quips

Spewed forth from my lips

Let me begin from the beginning…

So about this invite

I meant to write

To you back in the day.

Please understand

That I struck sick

When some rubber stick

Got stuck in my anal gland.

It was a colonic gone wrong

I won’t string it along

But I milked a day off of work.

It’s not my fault

That five real women

Whose breasts were jiggling

Tricked me to join their cult.

I mean seriously.

When a group of girls say

“Hey, were getting colonics- Interested?”

You really just have to expect the best!

So after the bleed

I sat down to read

The message that Martha/ Maria sent.

El mesaje had vanished

To which I blame god

For the facade

That he’s not English- He’s Spanish.

I thought to I

Hey, you ought to try

A trip down Colombia way.

So I booked a flight

After smoking pot

Hoping to spot

The missing message along my plight.

I know what your thinking-

This gomer did all this just to locate a message

So he could enter his stupid poem into some

Wacky-ass named competition.

But I’m not a gomer, because at least I’m fighting for a dream.

And I’ve looked dozens of boners in the eye-

And I told them to go and ‘fuck themselves’.

I said “They have good intentions here at Wergle Flomp-

It’s not their fault that they never learned how to learn”.

And I meant that shit. Every single time I was forced to explain myself.

So off I went…

Well Colombia took

A turn off book

And straight into a pile of blow.

It’s freaking great

I shouted and danced

And pranced to trance

And raged till quarter past eight.

One week passed

So fast…So fast,

And I met a cleaning lady

Whose name I forget.

We changed rooms

And she brought her broom

And swept up after sex.

Two weeks passed

So fast…So fast.

I ventured to Machu Picchu

In search of the invite.

I found neither

But got higher than ether 

Transcending in the form of a pillow to ten dykes.

Three weeks passed

So fast…So fast.

And I found myself boarding a plane

Not knowing why I initially left.

I became a Peruvian godfather

And was bitten by a piranha

No wonder, I sighed in jest

You know when you retrace your steps

And then an old thought kicks in.

Like when you go for a walk to get some eggs and bread-

Which happens to be the only two things  

You have been living off of for the last month,
Because your boss spends all of your pay on kimchi and Hooker Hill trannies.

So on your walk to the store

You’re singing little made up songs in your head like;

“Hey trick, I’ma work that clit! Hey trick, I’ma work that clit!”

Or “Skip the nip, go straight to areola. Hit the clit, unless a hairy mole ahhh”-

And once you’ve purchased your routine eggs and dull bread

And you’re retracing your steps back home,

The same song kicks back into your head out of no where-

Well that’s the sort of thing that happened to me.

The second I touched down in Toronto

I remembered why I went to Colombia-

It was to find the whereabouts of my invite to the poetry competition.

So back on land

Empty in hand

Still in search of the lost invite,

I plucked an idea;

To talk to my dad

Who was dolled in drag

If he knew Martha/ Maria?

I sauntered into thee

Local brewery

With one question to ask,

I searched for my pops;

With mug in hand

Ready to slam

But everyone was dressed as cops,

Now, it’s not like I get into this situation often,

So you kind of just have to run with it.

And much like the colonics…

Hope for the best.

Ohhh, and I spotted my pops.

So embrace I did

Now father and kid

Dressed in drag to the tits,

He says do you see her?

Dressed in wig

The Fuzz, 5-0, a pig

That’s her Martha/ Maria.

I inched my way

With a conscious that weighed

More than my belt and holster,

Excuse me miss;

I’ve traveled the world

And shared tubes with girls

Just to have you read this.

And this is how

The poem right now

Had traveled just to reach you.

Its story told

Is the epitome

And legitimacy

Of sex, drugs, and how to sell your soul