Rogue cloud wedding
The marriage I want.
Dolly Jolly Blessed May Be the Elf and His Cheeky Silicone Bride!
Skimming the muffin tops of the vanilla clouds,
where the birds scatter and flee
like a hastened sprinkle of raisins and almonds on batter,
a waxy brown-haired,
red pen nail manicure admiring doll
giggling against
a pink cardigan gown flowing elf,
rode away in the jingling motor of the parade breeze,
swinging by the shriveled tips of the parched red balloon.
“So long! Or a hearty goodbye-
filled with biscuits,
candies and gooey with the gravy of bubbling toffees
in the middle of its crackly stirring
-to the tonsillitis-ridden uvula of the earth
and a tilt of my carved buttock in its cottony frilly odor
to the grinding enamel of its moon!” exclaimed the doll,
letting the wind upturn
her cotton blouse stapled skirt
like it was as stiff as a pancake
tossed on a buffet’s hot plate.
“Cotton candy, my pink orchid, rose toffee,
swirling candy cane delight,
sweetie, I’ve got to go sell
some mined Christmas jewelry
outside the sidewalks of the church,
so, I’m thinking,
instead of chewing
through a fine wedding’s candy stash,
how bout you dry clean and
stitch your wedding dress
into a butterfly dreamcatcher’s blouse
for the caramel drizzle of vivid dreams
in silicone psyche
and iron me my best sales suit
for the hour
when the sun comes rapping at our doorstep
and drops us a newspaper on our porch step,
as you lather my clown hat in grease fit for rusty bells
and scratch my ears with that veil
and that god gaudy
eyes startling
flowers you stitched on your wedding glove,
huh?
What say, dolly, Cotton Candy?
Then I’ll bring home a litter full of candy
and we can nestle, snug, warm, melt,
and suckle parenthood,
like I promised you
in the alley of the crayon box within the nursery?”
Said the elf, as he patted the curls
of a cloud starting to melt
into the bronzing blue,
like starch on a salivating, ravenous-ridden tongue.
His new silicone dainty wife
with barely a daycare’s foster scraggly
sketch pen loving on her plastic skin,
twirled around the licorice, sour patch sticky
coloring smog,
like it was seducing
a jabberingly charming salesman con
of a butterfly model’s exclusive cameraman
or the stripper pole of a water fountain
in a rancid feathery fondant of swan porno.
