Three Poems

Posted on April 20, 2009


By J. Bradley

A Day At The Market

You mistake my head
for a cantaloupe.

Your mouth is speed metal
against dry chalkboards.

I dig your inner thighs
out of my ears.

I wear what’s left of you.

Happy Birthday, Motherfucker

Today, we throw a ticker tape parade
for your mother’s cowardice.

Many years ago, as you rattled
her ribcage with your umbilical cord,
she had three choices: keep you,
have you and abandon you,
or travel back in time
so you could tell your past self
that the only effective birth control
is stabbing the man who would be
your father and fingerfucking the wounds.

Oh your mother, such a peach,
rather than live a life of luxury
free from stretch marks
and your fingernail imprints
in her vaginal walls
she chose soccer practices,
junior high dances, Halloweens
catching you masturbating
to the Discovery Channel
during Shark Week.

All jokes aside, you’ve a face
made for tentacle rape,
a smile that asks for earthquakes
to fuck it until the only thing
that would ever ask you for oral sex
are transgendered Gummy bears.

Your underwear is a black flag,
a bio hazard symbol made
of shit caked tire treads
and sperm so desperate,
it could turn piranhas
into heroin chic bulimics.

Read my lips: don’t
have children. Original sin
isn’t just an abstract concept
when it comes to your seed
and three bottles of expired Bacardi.

The only thing you’ll ever wrap
your arms around is “Sorry,
I don’t normally finish that early
with quadriplegic mannequins.”

So we shred the drawings you did
in third grade of Kimberly Johnson
touching you in your danger place
so your mother has the confetti
she needs to make the triumphant
walk of shame she should have made
before the condom decided
it was time to conceive you.

Don’t forget when you stop taking
Happy Birthdays in the face
like so much bukkake
and the birthday cake sours
in your stomach to pull your mother
aside and tell her, “Thank you
for having me.”

Good Morning And Your Name Is?

The mattress digs
shallow ravines
into my stomach.

My mouth makes
swimming pools
on pillow cases.

The snooze button
never dials 9-1-1
in time.

Some mornings,
the bathroom mirror
grabs my ankles,
shakes questions out
like lunch money.


<strongJ. Bradley is based out of Orlando, FL. Some of the magazines that took in his work include Word Riot, November 3rd Club, Ampersand Review, Prick of the Spindle, decomP and will appear in upcoming issues of Poetry Midwest, and The Monogahela Review. Read about his misadventures here.

Posted in: Poetry