The Color of My Blade Is Chartreuse
by Leslie Binkle 

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 overhead…
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.

Mom
One of these days I will have a million dollars one of these days I will have a house on the hill one of these days mom will need money for medicine or clothes or food or shoes or walkers or old people things

Party Bus
Vincent Van Gogh, where did you go? If you’d have just waited for me I’d have been your buddy. We could have got sandwiches and drove around in my van. That would’ve been pretty fun, sorry you missed it man.