Scribblings 1

Rain cuts the heat of the dog days of summer.
But far from serrate or slice,
the stuff drips fruitlessly into drought,
like ineffectual radiation on a redoubtable tumor.
Bitches lick skyward while pups suckle dry nips,
pigs rut in the cached earth, hardly moistened, dreaming of lascivious mud,
The dog star, imperious, from his empyrean perch, radiates pure malice.

Cutting the cheese,
is an inevitable albeit malodorous function of eating and breathing,
but not on Maslow's chart.

To cut cocaine, crack, heroine, and the like,
with speed, baby laxative, glucose, baking powder, and such,
is to dilute poison with poison,
to spur even more druggie death and decay,
to dangerously distort the high.
But who is to say how or how fast a person is to die?

"Cut it out!" implores the belabored brother,
ugly harassment in his sister's ember-eyes,'
The oafish elder',
docile and sloppy in unlaced Sketchers,
is no match for her wiles and meanness,
her smart pigtails.
She grabs and twists his tender tit-toppers while he screeches,
as sharp as a knife.