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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, love-laden song, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )

lady x 7

foto by smith

i’ve nothing to say, so i’ll regale you with 7 short poems by Lady K.

these are not her master poems, just a real-life sample of what she does. she says she’s not a poet. i disagree. she says i’m a better poet. i tell her i’ve been writing poems 44 years, while she’s been at it 7 – that she already has more gems than i had at her age, and when she’s been at it as long as i, she’ll be oozing poetry all over the place.

she also claims i destroyed her as a poet because i took her misery away, made her happy – and it was her lack of happiness that drove her poetic search for a better place. well gee honey, sorry i brought you love and happiness and adventure. guess you’ll just have to suffer your lack of suffering.

poets are weird – except for me, of course.

~ ~ ~

I’m a lung
and a throat
on a seat
on the road
and there’s sun
and there’s wind
and the road
has no sound.

~ ~ ~

Perfume Counter Pussy

Prowl pussy!
big hair
perfect Tits
high in air

basic Black
pout lips
cheek boots
curve hips

spray marks
passers by
pheromone scent
mascara Eye

grip dog
tight jeans
on leash
back alleys Scream

~ ~ ~

I saw Clint Eastwood.
This morning, at the gas pump.
Tall leg and buckled denim folds.
He jiggered the nozzle,
dunked and docked it to the hole,
He set his angle butt
on the side of his indeterminate Buick,
Watching the money go by,
thumbs hooked in his pockets.

~ ~ ~

I am a girl who burns for you
my heart hangs heavy in there
it is ginger, for sure,
and its hairy root goes straight to my bud
oh, I bluster and burn.

~ ~ ~

Valley Girls

Childhood was a discount store, the ice cream stand
or Headlands Beach. We were as real as a polaroid,
in our feathered hair and blue jeans. My stick arms
freckled down to my large hands. Your skin as gold as
your smoky living room. We were beautiful
12 year olds, each other’s context, our words were boys.

~ ~ ~


I always got this thrill–
the idea of being Olive Oyl,
tied to a railroad track by Bluto

My pale skin, my
pulsing pulsing pulsing
So frail, so prone
a limp bird just waiting
for Popeye to rescue me

But Ohhhhhhh, Popeye,
an ache filled with thrill

Rescue equally exciting
as to succumb to consumption,
the train cracking rack of
ribs on the track

~ ~ ~


He was sick of all the shit–
the pyramid scheme where
144,000 angels cashed in
their pensions.
He’s down here,
with me, on Earth.

God closed up the
retirement plan.

Jesus cooked me dinner,
the last fish
in our frying pan.
He performs minor
miracles in our bed
and it is all for me.

~ ~ ~

foto by smith

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