June 1-7, 2020: Poetry from Clyde Always and Mike Zone

Clyde Always and Mike Zone

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Clyde Always
clydealwaysthebard@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Clyde Always, (also known as the Bard of the Lower Haight) tells energetic tall tales, recites ear-pleasing verse, paints romanticized scenes of beauty, renders captivating cartoon characters, has published two novels and he still manages to wait tables in his free time. The Clyde Always Show has been featured at The Marsh, The Lost Church, Bird and Beckett, the North Beach Library and at the 16th Street BART station. Clyde Always also acts as ringleader at Cafe International every Friday night. His writings and illustrations have been printed in Hatchbeat, Poetalk, GNU Journal, the Haight-Ashbury Literary Review, Gyroscope, the Street Sheet, The Broke Bohemian and etc. etc. His book Les’ Place: A Hipster Manifesto can be found here. One of his paintings can be viewed, at any given time, in the window of Native Twins Coffee on Divisadero. He lives in San Francisco, CA with his wife Haylee the Ukulele. Visit Clyde on the web here.

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Clyde Always and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

The Tinder Date from Hell

Now I’ll never be sure what possessed me to swipe
to the right when I should’ve known better,
as I’m not really ‘into’ the arrogant type
and his smile looked cheesy as cheddar.

Like a fool, I agreed to a time and a place
for a date with this obvious winner,
and I reasoned aloud as I put on my face,
“well, at least it’ll be a free dinner…”

So, I UBERed across to the far end of town
to a dingy and dark taqueria;
standin’ close by the door was a gal in a gown
and she curtsied and said, “call me Tia.”

She escorted me back and she pulled out my seat
while my date was just sittin’ there smokin’.
But he offered apologies then for the heat:
“lo siento, the AC is broken.”

As I sat at the table I started to sweat
so I made a fan outta my menu,
and I noticed a sinister marionette
keepin’ watch from the wall of this venue.

“Have a drink,” said my date, as he reached for the jug
with his eyes nearly red as the vino.
“Oh terrific, sangria.” I said with a shrug
(I would usually stick with a pinot).

Then there came to the table a man in a vest,
our mesero who called himself Pablo,
whom my date disregarded as one would a pest
as he ordered the “shrimp al diablo…”

While we waited, I sneered at his ratty goatee,
It looked harsh as a blackberry thicket,
and I scoffed when he pulled out a skeleton key
which he scratched on a lottery ticket.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I’m leavin’!” I spat in a huff
as I reached for my purse and my jacket,
but he lunged and he snatched me and handled me rough
so, I screamed up a deafenin’ racket.

But Miss Tia and Pablo did not run to help,
they just stood by the door at the ready,
and the marionette came alive with a ‘yelp,’
it was dancin’ and flingin’ confetti…

“Please don’t go…” begged my date with a hideous hiss,
as his skin went from scaly to thorny;
he was flickin’ his tongue as he went for a kiss…
see, my date, he was ACTUALLY horny.


Mike Zone
realzoneclone@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Mike Zone resides beyond the pines…the author of Void Beneath the Skin and A Farewell to Big Ideas, a frequent contributor to Alien Buddha Press and Mad Swirl, his work has been featured in: Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press,Outlaw Poetry, Piker Press, Synchronized Chaos, The Whiskey Rye Review and Cult Culture magazine.

The following work is Copyright © 2020, and owned by Mike Zone and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

 

Everything is fucked

Writing poetry
honey-comb moon
Allan in purple dream haze
in search of toilet
he just didn’t have the heart to tell her
he wasn’t the man
she was searching for
the night before
everything fucked
nationalized pizza delivery
hobo’s hosting baby knife fights