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The taste of Coke Zero is close to Coke,
unlike Diet Coke which is a different
formulation all together, a stroke
of genius for being considerate
of the flavor desires of the masses.
Most people would prefer a diet drink
that doesn’t add plumpness to their asses,
that tastes like the real thing without the link
to cancer, none of the most popular
sweeteners are linked to cancer except
saccharine, which in rats caused globular
growths, whose cancer notices had been swept
under the rug after there were no growths
in humans and makers swore safety oaths
Stroke Monorhyme
at nine in the morning I awoke
to the sound of a coughing bloke,
my roommate, who broke
my alarm clock, who I’d choke
for having urinated on my cloak
after drinking two liters of Coke.
I'd strangle him until he'd croak
and call the ambulance and police folk
who, when they'd arrive I'd tell a joke
about the poet Kenneth Koch.
The mounted police would arrive on a moke,
clad in blue with a baton of oak,
who'd wave and twirl their sticks and poke
my belly, which in pictures I polk
using Photoshop, I smoke
A cigarette and soak
in the vapors as I spoke
to a man who tried to stoke
the flames of his own cigarette with a stroke
of his breath. With his fingers he woke
his lips and tied himself to the yoke
of chain smoking. The egg yolk
is mixed in with a backstroke
of the whisk which in the baroque
kitchen of a mansion could evoke
memories of how I tried to invoke
the muse in the small town of Pembroke,
but did nothing more than provoke
an anti-muse, who would revoke
all inspiration, and I write in a slowpoke
manner inspired by the townsfolk
of San Jose who'd cook an artichoke
in whisky brewed in the town of Roanoke.
Breakfast on Monday
A bowl of oatmeal with too much water
with raisins and apple slices, and eggs
with a piece of bread. The oatmeal, hotter
than a piece of burning coal, burned my legs
when I dropped it into my lap, the burn
left a red welt on my on each of my inner
thighs, what on earth could I have done to earn
this injury, I must be the winner
of a "drop your breakfast in your lap" game
where everyone all over the earth drops
their breakfast in their laps so they can tame
their thigh demons, and the winner earns props
from some master of the ceremonies
and his thigh igniting wicked cronies.
Breakfast on Sunday
We had a fruity cereal today
with the taste of fruit loops without the rings
and a banana on a breakfast tray
and coffee and a biscuit and cheese strings.
The cereal was soft and mushy like
oatmeal because it was sitting awhile
on the table, it was something a tike
without teeth would enjoy with sly smile.
Cold milky mush for breakfast, what a way
to start the day, but it could have been worse,
it could have been a roach in curds and whey
and diarrhea with the devil's curse.
Nasty garbage for breakfast makes me sick
the landlord is a big and lazy dick.
"Four Poems" by Kenneth Larot Yamat
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Tesco # 70 by Carla Brunch Singer
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