Three Prose Poems By Brad Rose

Straight from the Horse’s Mouth

Dr. Voodoo promised me I’d heal faster if I shaved my head with a taser. The Devil drives a Prius. Hey, did you see that? Thanks to those lightning-themed humming birds, now there’s one more hole torn in the sky. It makes you wonder, if a song falls in the forest, do the trees hear it? I may look like I’m wearing a disguise, but under my skin, I’m really preaching to the choir. When I come to, I’d like to monetize my makeshift capabilities. After all, how much can a poundcake weigh? Thanks to that courtesy call, I’m a creature of habit, so running in circles just keeps me in the loop. When I ran into Daisy Mae, yesterday, she told me she’s designing a brand-new robot husband for her upcoming honeymoon holiday. Evidently, her current husband has a horse like a face. I mentioned to her that Neanderthals are very popular this season and that I might be interested in a franchise opportunity. Well, if you insist, she whinnied.  


Let the Good Times Roll

After lunch in the shout-a-torium, I have some new pumpkin carving ideas. By several methods of locomotion, a cement truck mixes its load. When I get a little taller, I’d like to replace some of my family with furniture. Napoleon may have been poisoned by his arsenic-laced wallpaper. At night, are my atoms arranged differently when I sleep? It’s hard to tell, because I’m the fastest sleeper on the ward. Whenever I open the mystery portal, I change the subject so I can better hear the pretty messages. Usually they say, It won’t hurt, if you use the little torches. There are so many things that might catch fire in a room. I’ve got the credentials to prove it.


The Break-up

I suffer only-child sibling rivalry, so whenever a party needs starting, I wonder aloud, Are there vegetables on other planets?  Of course, the ozone layer traps all the giggles. Now the mailman refuses to stop at my house. I try to find enough time to procrastinate, but like Einstein cautioned, Never trust a bald barber. When I unbuttoned my shirt to show Marjean my incision, she yelled. Those damn beavers!  I can assure you it was not my most fun moment. Not to mention the wide-spread contamination, gangrene, and other activities. No, we aren’t going steady. No one does that anymore.

Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles and lives in Boston. He is the author of three collections of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015), de/tonations (Nixes Mate Press, 2020), and Momentary Turbulence (Cervena Barva Press, 2020). His fourth collection, WordinEdgeWise, is forthcoming in 2021 from Cervena Barva Press. Brad’s website is: www.bradrosepoetry.com

Categories: Poetry

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Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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