CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

 

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

CROP DUSTING AT WALMART

 

“Clean up in aisle three.”

My Daddy is the Red Baron—
the crop-dusting ace of Walmart.
AKA the Terminator of ass gas.
AKA the human flamethrower
of weaponized regret.

Flying low with the eagles,
he releases his payload
by bending over, grabbing his knees,
clenching his jaw,
and shoving his soul out his asshole.

Bombs away.

This is the same mustard gas
that haunted the trenches of 1916.
Men screamed. Lungs burned.
Eyes wept.
History repeated itself—
only this time it smelled like
beer farts, bad decisions,
and three days of gas-station chili.

Bombs away.

Daddy takes position.
He waits behind a family
arguing over artisanal French bread.
He leans slightly.
Just enough.

Then he detonates.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Daddy shouts.
“This is my aisle.
This is my moment.
Leave now—
because cluster bomb,
codename Big Boy,
is coming in hot.”

When it comes to crop dusting,
my Daddy is a stealth fighter pilot—
silent, patient,
deadly in close quarters.

He feeds on the fear.
The coughing.
The confused eye contact.

He curls his lip.
Bloats his gut.
And lets Satan finish the job.

Old ladies gag.
Toddlers cry.
Veterans flash back to war.
Priests lose their faith.
Businessmen abandon their carts.

No one is safe
from the Red Baron of aisle five.

Plug your nose.
Cover your mouth.
Say goodbye to your dignity.
Grip your dentures like they owe you money.

Because this isn’t just a fart.
It’s rotting cabbage,
burnt beer,
and pure ass-spawned evil
that scorches nostril hair,
seals eyelids shut,
and makes you question
whether shopping is worth it anymore.

PLAYING DOCTOR AT 8 by robert margetts

 

www.robertmargetts.com

PLAYING DOCTOR AT 8

“I have a tummy ache,” said Suzie.
“What do you have to prescribe for me today?”

“Well,” smiled Bobby,
“for upset stomachs, may I suggest
lithium or Prozac and some estrogen.
I found them in Mommy’s top drawer,
and she is always happy.”

“Are you sure that will cure my upset stomach?”
asked Suzie.

“Did you graduate from third grade
with a C+ in meth and a B-
in spilling?” replied Bobby.
“No, sir, you did not.
I earned my doctor’s degree with
hard work and eating all my Jello at lunchtime.”

“Okay, don’t get so upset, Dr. Bobby.
So, what do you suggest for a headache?”

“That’s an easy one,” smiled Dr. Bobby.
“I would strongly recommend
50 grams of Cialis,
followed by 20 grams of Viagra
and six tablets of Lunesta.
I found them under my daddy’s pillow,
and he never has a headache problem anymore!”

“Wow,” exclaimed Suzie.
“It sure sounds like your parents are drug addicts.”

“Yep, they sure are,” said Bobby.
“Lucky for them, I am a doctor.”

 

www.robertmargetts.com

Daddy left me at the zoo by robert margetts

 

www.robertmargetts.com

Daddy left me at the zoo:

 

Daddy took me to the zoo today
so all the animals could meet me.
I didn’t know what they would think.

I don’t like to eat bananas,
and I don’t like to chase my tail.
I can’t swing from a tree
or howl at the moon.

I made some faces and waved my arms,
grunted and pounded my chest
like all the other kids were doing.
The primates just gazed back at us.
Some scratched their heads,
while others scratched their butts,
just like my daddy does
when he comes home late at night.

Some snarled and others howled,
while a few just sat motionless,
staring back at us
with pitiful expressions on their faces.
I thought one looked at me and smiled,
a sarcastic grin at best.

A mother sitting on the ground
appeared to be crying
while holding her baby firmly to her chest.
He clung to her
for fear of the strange creatures
behind the iron fence.
I felt panic in his stare,
tears in his eyes,
and boredom
in his body posture—
just like my daddy does
when he comes home drunk at night.

And I felt hatred from everyone
locked inside that dirty cage.
They looked terrorized,
like prisoners in a Russian gulag,
not knowing their fate.

Yes, they lived in a cage,
and yes, we lived in a house.
One had bars and cages,
and the other had doors and windows.

Daddy always felt trapped
in a life he never wanted.
Mommy said the door wasn’t locked
and he could leave whenever he chose.
“Open the cage and leave,” Mommy screamed.

I heard her tell him more than once
that marriage wasn’t a prison sentence.
He was not obligated to hang around
with tarnished, heavy chains
weighing him down to a sad life.
“You are not a simian,” she said.
“Open the cage and just leave.”

Yep, Daddy took me to the zoo today
to see all the lonely animals
huddled together inside a concentration camp,
with degrees of depression
on their wrinkled faces.

I grabbed my daddy’s big, cold hand
and looked into his eyes.
He was sad, just like the monkeys in the cage.
I thought he was going to cry.
He attempted to smile,
then pulled away from me,
turned his back, and walked
towards the exit.

That was the first and last time
I ever went to a zoo.
And that was the last time
I held my daddy’s hand.

I hate the zoo,
just like all the monkeys do.

HOMEMADE PERFUME

 

HOMADE PERFUME FOR MOMMY

 

I don’t have much money, so I’ll start from scratch,

With scissors in hand, I unhook the latch.

No time for permission, no reason to wait—

A seven-year chemist must master his fate.

Beneath the old sink by the wobbling drain,

Lie treasures to tickle my curious brain.

Bright blues and yellows and purples and reds,

In bottles with triggers and plastic heads.

There’s Brillo for pans and sprays for the bugs,

And mystery liquids in dusty old jugs.

First, blue Windex for sparkle and shine—

Two tablespoons… maybe I’ll make it nine.

Then green Drano for soft, youthful skin,

I swirl it and twirl it and watch it spin.

Three spoons of Pine-Sol to sweeten the brew,

A fragrance to knock a mortician askew.

It still needs color, a festive delight,

So I stretch to the cupboard and flick on the light.

From deep in the corner I grab the bleach,

Four steady pours— just one for each.

Perfection is close, I can feel it ignite,

But something is missing to make it just right.

Ah! Viagra beside a can full of lard—

A splash of that blue should make it hit hard.

Strange Daddy would hide it down under the sink—

It makes his whole face turn rosy pink.

What else shall I add to finish the trick?

Caustic soda? Glue? Something thick?

No— just a dash of good Clorox cheer

To crown this perfume of the year.

The potion now trembles and starts to awake,

It burps and it bubbles and quivers and shakes.

It sloshes and thickens like frosting on cake,

A masterpiece only a genius could make.

The color! The scent! So bold, so divine—

Like sommeliers swirling a vintage wine.

For Mother this Christmas, no gift could be dearer—

No finer perfume has graced this year.

MY ONE INCH LITTLE HORN

 

MY ONE INCH FRIEND

 

I came into life—

They said I was cute,

By barely age three

I resembled a flute.

At ten I had grown

With a curve and direction,

They promised me joy

And future affection.

And sure as they said,

When show-and-tell hit,

The pride of my youth

Was the star of it.

By fifteen it stirred

With a will of its own,

When teacher leaned forward

It rose from its throne.

A twitch and a jump,

An adolescent flip,

It bounced into action

At the flash of a slip.

By fifty years old,

With some battles long won,

The mighty old poker

Still dreamed of its fun.

It slithered in denim,

Less eager than seen—

If my wife wakes the dead,

That remains to be seen.

By eighty it slept

In hibernal repose,

Too weary, too small

For the feats of old shows.

The beast once so bold

Now withered and worn,

As small and as soft

As the day I was born.

Then laid in the earth,

Still silent and forlorn,

Till chemicals flowing

Revived my small horn.

A final stiff triumph

In coffin-bound bed—

The only time lately

It truly felt “fed.”

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

THE NAIL BITTER

 

THE NAIL BITTER

 

Crunch, crunch

Yum, yum

Tasty dirty nails in my tum.

 

Oh look here

What do you know

Only 3 more nails to go.

 

Nibble, nibble

Chew, chew

Alas no more

Now what shall I do?

WWW.BATKAR.PIXELS.COM

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

 

GROUNDED FOR LIFE

 

I’ve never seen Mom so furious yet

As the day I flushed our dead hamster pet.

Her loving face twisted, sharp as a bat—

From gentle old mother to sewer-side rat.

I feared swift justice from old Sparky’s swing,

That Louisville Slugger she keeps by the swing.

“Get me the plunger!” she thundered on cue—

Like a roadrunner blur, off I flew.

“The other end, boy, if you please!

This goes in the toilet— not for your knees!”

Then plunging and pumping with warrior might,

She battled the bowl in a porcelain fight.

Clank and bash, dink and thunk—

The pipes protested with metallic funk.

But all of the plunging just wedged him in tight—

Poor Lucky was stuck out of sight.

“Fetch me a bulldozer! Plumber! A crane!

We’re not losing that rodent to sewer domain!”

“We’ve none of the above,” I timidly said.

“One more word and I’ll use your head!”

She grabbed up the pliers and started to twist,

The pipes groaned low in watery mist.

They gurgled and burped and shuddered in pain—

Then water exploded like indoor rain.

It sprayed from the joints and soaked her through,

From slippers to curls— catastrophe brew.

A giggle began deep under my ribs,

It bubbled and wobbled in mischievous fibs.

It rolled like green jelly, wobbling free—

A laugh that refused to stay in me.

Mad as a hornet she reached for a knife—

“Keep laughing and you’re grounded for life!”

She plunged a cleaver into the bowl

For one last heroic rodent patrol.

But porcelain cracked and silence fell,

No hamster rose from sewer hell.

“I give up!” she shrieked in plumber despair.

“Where are the Yellow Pages? Are they under the chair?”

And there we stood in the flooded room—

Lucky at sea in a porcelain tomb.

BILLY THE BULLY

 

BILLY THE BULLY

 

Billy the bully lived on my street,

And whenever he needed a little retreat,

He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made,

Then hang me upside down till I paid.

He’d steal my allowance and beat me till blue,

Then laugh through a snort like villains do.

With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,

He’d glue my hands to my ears for fun— not funny.

I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”

She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.

She’d threaten a lawsuit in stern monotone—

From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.

This lasted until I turned ten years old,

When fate intervened both fierce and bold.

Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block

And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.

At ten years old and built like a tank,

Six-foot-three with a temper rank,

Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,

She ended his terror with one solid push.

She snapped his foot bone clean in two—

A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.

His reign of terror met its doom,

Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.

And I, being quick with survival’s knack,

Stepped right in and secured my back.

I befriended her first— a tactical ploy,

Then married her fast— smart little boy.

And here we stand, years later, unstuck—

Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.

WWW.ROBERTMARGETTS.COM

dragon with the green thumb

 

(Bicycling Through Haight Ashbury in 1969 by Robert Margetts)

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

 

Pot the Spruce

trim the Pines

Crush...stomp....Down to nine.

 

Edge the grass

water the dates

Wham..crash...Alas just eight.

 

Fan the willows

and clip the tulips

Whoosh...thrash.  7 down to six.

 

Hoe the maples

and de-flea the dogwoods

Bounce...bump.  Five to four.

Soon to be no more..

 

Pick the carnations

and fluff the roses

Squash...splat.  Down to one.

The dragon may have the green thumb

but all the girls giggle at his black and blue bum!!

The Chopping Block

 

(The Time Machine by Robert Margetts)

www.robertmargetts.com

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

 

A blacksmith’s anvil,

An editor’s block,

The blade and the basket

Await the cock.

Steel meets the neck,

The hinge gives way—

Blood arcs bright

In a crimson spray.

To sever the spine,

To spill what must flow,

To purge the sickness

From stone below.

The calloused palm

Of a wanton hand

Stroked frail manhood,

A fragile command.

Slowly inching

Toward that crest,

Pulse upon pulse

In a tightening chest.

Flesh against flesh,

Friction fed,

A swelling crown

Of aching red.

Beneath the rise

Of the mushroomed hill,

Heat climbed higher,

Relentless still.

One final stroke—

A failing spurt.

A breath half-caught,

A fleeting hurt.

Soft talons closed

On withering might,

Clutching the last

Of fading fight.

And so it ended—

Not with a cry,

But in the hush

Where endings lie.

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN, KIDS PICKING THEIR NOSES, DISGUSTING BEHAVIOR

 

(the bat signals by Robert Margetts)

(wrote this one about a little boy fishing for goodies)

BOOGERS FROM HEAVEN

 

Lickety lick

Picket pick

Ram that tiny finger up the hole

And grab that delectable sushi role

 

Green and gooey

Tasty and chewy

No rhyme or reason

It’s just picking season

 

Hold that booger high in the air

Twirl it between the fingers and rub it on the chair

It’s a treasure trove, an endless pot

A cornucopia of delicious snot

 

Open wide and tilt head back

Here comes some salty crap

Not the first and definitely not the last bite tonight

I’ve got two nostrils, one on the left and one on the right.

ARE WE THERE YET

ARE WE THERE YET?

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

Stop the car

are we there yet?

My drawers are soggy

and awfully wet.

Pee is seeping down....

Speed up and turn down the heat!!

I feel wetness in the seat.

Pull off!!

Detour now!!!

Stop over there

I see a rest stop.

Come on, Come on

Hurry it up.

Oooops...TOO LATE.

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

THE CHOPPING BLOCK

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

A blacksmith's anvil

an editors splicing playground.

The guillotine and the basket

befall the head of the cock.

To sever the spine

and spurt the blood

and drain the virus from the rock.

The callused palm of a wanton girl

stroked the manhood of her frail lover.

Inching towards orgasm

ever pulsating

never relenting.

Flesh against a tender organ

as friction teased the enlarged taste buds

under the mushroom hill.

A last stroke

a dying spurt.

And the gentle talons

latched onto the withering muscle

as one life came to an end.

THE FISH AND THE HOOK

THE FISH AND THE HOOK

On a sodden bank at the edge of a stream,
Gramps and I with a paper-wrapped lunch,
He—an octogenarian reed in the wind,
A thinning emblem of once-roaring spring.

He raised the bamboo rod—
A slender peninsula
Cutting into morning mist.

Casting.

The line uncoiled like a silver thought,
Sketching cursive across the water’s skin.
It kissed the surface—
A dragonfly whisper,
A teasing incision in glass.

Ripples widened,
Concentric secrets trembling outward,
Inviting the dark below
To rise.

Beneath, in the cathedral green,
A body hovered—
Gills breathing hymns
Of silt and light.

Hunger flickered.
Instinct bloomed.

An eager mouth
Pierced the mirrored ceiling,
Swallowing the glittering shard of dawn.

Then—

Lightning in the throat.

Not metal,
But a sun with barbs.

The river convulsed.
Water shattered into fists of spray.
The silver body became
A thrown blade of muscle and terror.

Pain—
White and blooming.

Pain—
A furnace behind the eyes.

The hook, a crooked moon,
Tore constellations down the tender tunnel,
Carving its claim
Behind the veil of breath.

Scarlet ribbons
Unspooled into current,
Turning the green cathedral
Into stained glass.

Above,
The bamboo bowed like an old spine,
Gramps steady as weathered oak,
Teaching tension—
How to hold
And not let go.

Below,
The fish burned with one thought:

End it.

The line sang tight between two worlds,
A thin horizon
Between air and oblivion.

The river offered no answer.
The sky offered none.

Only the pull.

Only the unbearable brightness
Hooked behind the gill.

Must stop the pain.
But how—
When the sky itself
Has teeth?

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

DRAGON WITH A GREEN THUMB

Pot the spruce,
Trim the pines—
Crush… stomp…
Ten down to nine.

Edge the grass,
Water the dates—
Wham… crash…
Alas, just eight.

Fan the willows,
Clip the tulips—
Whoosh… thrash…
Seven to six.

Hoe the maples,
De-flea the dogwoods—
Bounce… bump…
Five to four—
Soon to be no more.

Pick the carnations,
Fluff the rose—
Snap… crack…
Three to two goes.

Rake the ivy,
Sweep the lawn—
Smash… bash…
Now there’s one.

The dragon boasts a green-thumbed grace,
Leaves ruin blooming in every place.
He tends the garden with fearless pluck—
Yet limps away from his own bad luck.

For all the girls can plainly see
The black-and-blue result of spree—
A gardener bold, perhaps too glum,
With blossoms bright… and a battered bum.

CHRISTMAS FOR JIMMY

CHRISTMAS FOR JIMMY

www.batkar.artistwebsites.com

The house looked ever so merry and bright,
With a tall spruce glowing in candy and light.
Bulbs and ribbons blazed in the sky,
Guiding Santa and reindeer on high.

“To that house there— yes, that’s the one!
The rest can wait— now onward, run!”

Down the chimney with scarcely a shimmy,
He signed every package neatly, “To Jimmy.”

My mother and father watched with delight
As I danced in wild, pajama-clad flight.
I yanked and I tugged, I ripped and I tore,
Starting with the biggest— then hunting for more.

Paper went flying in red and green flurries,
Boxes burst open in feverish hurries.
Laughter and ribbons lay strewn on the floor—
Till at last there were presents no more.

It’s too bad Christmas comes but once a year,
A season of wonder and genuine cheer.
Of love wrapped tighter than bows tied near—
If only we kept that spirit all year.