Monday, October 24, 2016

Question: Write us a poem, luv.

This feels like it must be from my grandmother, though I'm pretty sure that's impossible.

(One of my grandmothers doesn't much like using the internet, and the other is a convicted hacksaw murderer so deep in the bowels of an American prison that she hardly sees the light. But to be fair, those kids were on her lawn.)

What the fuck was I talking about? Oh, right. You want a poem. Shit.

Petunias are the thing, when you're looking for some color,
when you're looking at the dead or want a wedding to go smoothly
Petunias are the cure to needing contrast to your pallor,
when you look into the mirror and wish your skin was smoother
Petunias are the reason that the kids were on the lawn,
not because they are the offspring of demons from the moon.
Pieces of petunias sandwiched in between the bodies,
smelling putrid long after the children have gone dry.
Why, oh why, oh why, did you ever plant petunias?
Why, nan, did you feel the need to brighten up your lawn?

Short Answer: For my nana, Hacksaw Marge. Miss your biscuits!

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