J.W. Frogg Poems

The Holy Grail
The Holy abstinence
We are all going to places no one wants to admit...
not the Christians, not the Atheists not the Buddhas or the Jews
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This is my zombie sex slave...
She never again needs to shave...
Someone sees me after the veil has closed...
But, she is not quite the same and her body feels froze...
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My mirror is in my way
my mirror, my dear, is in the way

My dear is in my way
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A woman once told me the most romantic sound she'd ever heard was that of a train in the night, in the far-off distance. She likened it to a powerful yet sexy force, reliable but dangerous, pounding away into the unknown.
I began to wonder... What is the most romatic sound I've ever heard? Could it be the early birds of a new dawn, welcoming the sun, teasing a lover and I after we've spent the night talking and laughing, all the while engulfed whithin each other's arms and our own autobiographies? Or, maybe it is that of an angry honeybee passing over two naive kids as they roll naked and shameless in a field of tall grass, hidden from their parent's watchful eyes? Could it be the ringing of my phone the next day to tell me she is at least interested in another date? Or her voice whispering in my ear, reassuring me that she likes the cut of my jib?
Maybe it's more vulgar than that; the sound of a woman, whom I know little of, moaning with surprise as I touch the areas that her lover has neglected. Or, the clammer of my headboard, as it triumphantly slams into my bedroom wall.
Suppose for a moment, that I appreciate the the sound of my flabby thighs smacking against the derriere of a woman from my dreams, or the woman of my last call.
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We'll play in the road with matches...
We'll drink the Drano down...
We'll run with scissors in our hand and...
hide in the fridge where we can't be found.
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9pm, the screaming starts
fighting sleep, the world might not wait

10pm, the Magic Boob only stunned you for a spell, a nap in the PM, a Parent's nightmare
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Nothing bouncing around in here tonight
nothing new to report

it seems that way most days
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I'm a peeker. Not to be confused with a Peeping Tom or some other kind of deviate.
I'm simply a peeker.
If you approach my abode, I peek. As you pass by, I peek. While you go about your lives, I peek. All your coming's and going's are witnessed by my peeking.
I have witnessed many things with my peeking; things only a peeker could appreciate. I've peeked as men's hats have blown away and women's skirts have blown up, I've peeked as the elderly fell down and as children climbed up. I've peeked men peeking at women's bosoms and women peeking at the men to make sure they are peeking.
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Tick-Tock...
Baby's spinning like a clock
memories and Superstitions hanging on the wall
the shrieks don’t Scare Me anymore...
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Don't cry baby,
don’t be sad,
I’m not the monster you think I am.
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