The Color of My Blade Is Chartreuse

by Leslie Binkle

June 9, 2003

Who can compare
the green of a sunset
to the gray of a ham?
Or the scarlet water that trickles down
very nearly without a sound
as the brown sky spans overheadâ€¦
Have truer words been said?

The vivid purple blood
that gushes from a wound
is beautiful on the crimson grass
and the amber skin of an expiring lass.
Striking, like a baboon's blue ass.

When a black sunset burns your retinas to crust
as you admire the canary yellow of a marble bust
and remember all the other girls you've known
and how they never call when you sit home alone.

You know why the orange robin sings
as you bitterly eat the magenta pudding it stings
like a note from a lover penned in turquoise blood
like a body hitting the floor with a thud
or a heart cavity all encrusted with crud.

She never calls like she said she would
and she probably wouldn't even if she could
even if you hadn't chopped her like a violet lemon rind
after that bitch said you might be colorblind.

Quote of the Day

“Fascism is not the devices and mechanisms that force us to our knees, but those who operate in the shadows and convince us "on our knees" is the place we're born. And the first seed of fascism is rent.”

-Crosby in 3F, every first of the month

Fortune 500 Cookie

Today is not your day, buddyâ€”by a horrible bit of luck, your day was exactly six weeks before you were conceived. The good news is you look a lot like William Daniels; the bad news is that doesn't pay much these days. Watch out Thursday, when you're nearly buried in a deluge of Fangoria magazines that have been building up in your closet. Lucky numbers? You want luck? Eat me, sadsack.

Try again later.

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