ULP! (The Ultimate Lovelorn Poem)
Don Kingfisher Campbell is founder of POETRYpeople youth writing
workshops, publisher of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, leader of
the Emerging Urban Poets writing and Wednesday Afternoon Critique workshops,
and host of Monday Night Poetry in Pasadena. His first book of poetry, "Enter,"
was published by iUniverse Press.
Your long press-on nails make my jeans stretch.
You make me want to throw away my portapotty mouth.
My socks have holes in the toes from worshipping your presence.
My love for you is so single-minded, I'm developing a unibrow.
My love for you is as hip as a fu-manchu mustache.
Pickled pigs feet have nothing on our love.
I'm so inspired, I have to set my bedside alarm to 4 a.m. to write you love poems.
The pen with which I write you love poems is leaking in my pocket right now.
I've got a gum-stuck-to-your-shoe type obsession about us.
If you don't say you love me, it's like I spilled my ice cream cone on a polished floor.
Your kind words are my brussel sprouts.
This is that horrible green plastic Halloween mask kinda love.
Sometimes we're just a couple a skunks, in private.
My hair gets all frizzy when I think about what we've done.
Our love is as embarrassing as a pair of tighty-whities.
Burnt toast has got nothing on our love.
I'd wear socks with sandals if it meant our love was comfortable.
I'm blown away like an old umbrella by what you declare.
When you're mad at me, I wish you'd peel off that band-aid of hate quickly.
Remember that old fruit loaf lovin' we just had ... again.
You're a yellow jacket stinging my flesh for feeling.
Our love is like a batch of cole slaw from a take-out restaurant (on a red plastic tray).
I see a banana peel on the black and white checkered linoleum of our relationship.
You've got your hair in a bun today, bitch.
I'm putting my white plastic gloves on before I touch you.
You drove a rusty nail through my heart, or was that my penis.
The toilet roll of our love is running out of sheets.
The cell phone signal of our love is down to a single bar.
A can of salmon is almost as slimy as our moments of hatred.
Dirty dishes lie strewn about the living room of our past.
I'm the cockroach you step on every time you see me.
Time has expired on the parking meter of our love.
Published September 2006