Maggie

mathematical mystical,
masterful cynical,
miracle mixture of milky snow,
mint choclate chip ice cream cones,
maker of mixable,
munchable microphones
with masterful mighty tones
and melancholy Malaysian songs.

Microwave

Biting my lip to pull out the splinter
Snagging a fish through a hole in the winter.
There's a tick in a clock singing along
To the orchestra strings and the timpania drums.
Sit cross legged and feel the vibrations
The space stations drop on a radio nation.

With a skip in my step and bills burning in my pockets
Coins jingle like jets and sparkle like rockets

It's been raining all day so my bread is dough
And single second stains are tapping morse code.
We're burning our ants in the shade of trees
With ash on our pants and leaves in the breeze.
The eyes in the sky can never catch the blaze
They're two days behind the last pre-teen craze.

Sordid and rundown and rusted til sundown
Fluffin furbalicious until elmo gets recrowned.

His wig is whack and his words bombastic,
Chewed up like a chopstick made of plastic.
Like the pope in the day passing out pardons
The new corporate king is banking on cartons.