A most recent Distant Castle found poem:
I am so sick of tying knots, and that smell
that can tell
when someone’s been outside.
Look at this beautiful actress who walked in
with all the wood in her hands.
Why are you even chopping?
The fire’s already out,
The hatchet’s head’s come off.
As long as you’re the dominant personality–
right angle grinder, crinkle cut,
cute and helpless, anchored to a couch–
Anything in there will get stuck.
Does she have anything good to say, over words, clean?
“Red Phoo’s father is Sky Bloo’s golden girl, sick of being a rock star.”