Meghan Punschke


Love in Translation


I have gambled more than I have learned;

     my endless compromise for Lust


Have you ever seen this show before?

     Jupiter, she's the lead dancer.

few know that she's diagnosed with cancer, it's all

     corporeal, and it's still indecent for the condemned soul

to parade around in a Victoria's Secret thong,

     George touched her breast once;

it was as if Iron Maiden was a goddess,

     Centaura is half Puerto Rican soltera;

Mercury will eat out Barbie under

     the condition that Brian gets to watch.


I remember, those days, when we would fuck until dawn

     Ida was the best lover I ever had!

I guess I have matured significantly since then,

     but that sweet Candy is always on my mind!






Rotten grapes, feeling angry—

That's what dreams are made of.

Driving through the stake of impurity

to those souls that were lost

on their way to the stores.


Drop down.                A handmaiden

distraught with love's dimensions,

sings of chances

 of modern disgraces,

fallen upon deaf minds.

Dream on little poppy and follow

drink's lust.

Run wild on facets of kindness.

Gesticulation draws masochism near

and dandies can master their trade.


As we thrive on past glances,

   forward movement can't kill,

too much over-rot led to this

in the first place.




Confessions of a Cuttlefish


I am no more than large grey-matter—

A mere system of neurons scattered

over a mass of malleable electric skin.

Yet, these tiers of pigment and melatonin

give me no discernable character.


My octopi brethren too have eight members.

Yet, in this expanse of remarkable nature,

it is I who fail to make a novel impression.

I am no more than…


a weak mimic of a reef or seaweed. I fire

off synapses with some deficient desire,

and think, It is of no use… this great vision!

It is limited by my methods of communication,

these florescent flashes, mere fading flickers.

And so, I am no more.