Poetry

No Lactose-Free Escape
by Tom Bishop

The terra-forming aliens have landed
in a peculiar coffee spoon shaped craft.
My culinary group and I just ranted,
(the aliens dished us aside and laughed).
Then oceans turned to jello, seemed like grape,
as mountains mimicked rocky-road desserts
there wasn't any lactose-free escape
(be lucky if we clean our messy shirts).
The aliens have turned out to be sweet,
indeed, much too expansively caloric.
They feed us cake right after each new treat
and each new meal is July 4th historic.
It's not that hard to figure out their glee,
I think perhaps their dinner might be me.

Twister Fun
by Tom Bishop

My planet's in the doldrums as it slunk
out of the contradicted mausoleum
and though the ghosts were much too ripe to see,
the rites were paid for by a friendly monk.
It was religious in a gay parade
of slimy Twister fun down on the rug,
onlookers spit, and gave a paisley shrug
as if to offer genitals in trade.
The stargate opens every day at ten
and it can fly us through the needle's eye,
controlled remotely by a she-male sin
of glances fretted lower than the thigh.
If you've the mucous love, then let us blend
into a song of never knowing why.