Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2013 · 4.5k
nose
AJ Robertson Oct 2013
the child recieves his paper
****** backward by the one in front
flip the three pages flippantly
one : intimidating . . two : boring
the third adorned unexpectedly
a longer -than seems can be usually- grown hair with a clump of green root
sprung out and slaughtered, down across the width; stuck above the questions beneath

how could he not have seen?
a pile so viscous and obscene?
does everyone else have one???
are they holding their disgust beneath?

he looked up at the teacher.
A look of vigilance his face bequeathed.
B  ut now it sprung out almost pus like
a faint smile,
        a teachers calm reprieve

he then leaned back on his chair in comfort
drooping his head back
his nostrils flared now toward the child
the hairs brustling from inside, all locked up in a ***** days remnants
all foul
           and long
and dehydrated
    like a swamp now sunned crisp; reeds on a stale bank

drawn in he felt uneasy
unable to cease to stare
incased inside the world that spawned
in the swamp that lay up there
in the cavernous orifices there

then he saw the teachers eyes, his gaze it
stuck on him, the teacher began to grin
further back his head leant
his eyes jaundiced
his teeth tanned
his face pale
his grin outstretched and thin
Sep 2013 · 542
moving
AJ Robertson Sep 2013
Feels strange to vacate
A place I hate
But in retrospect
Might come to relate
To, for reasons are undecided.
  Not dissimilar to others
the reasons : ‘I’m elated!’

to be elsewhere
more Common.
  To what I feel I /proper/ know
And want
And will have as of
fri/6thofseptember 2013

But why-----or to --  what
Do I desire
                              – other –
                                                                ­   or
                                                       -------– is –---------
Time will tell I suppose; even if, it previously hasn’t.


I wonder whose money I’m justifying the investment for
May 2013 · 4.9k
Legs
AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Mar 2013 · 3.7k
the barbecue
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole

the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin

without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated

the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds

the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole

empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger

your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****)

just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 2013 · 3.3k
festivals
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
***** feet
***** of them ache
they're dry
all dried out, moisture to face and digestive tract make little difference
but comfort a little sort of; maybe
subdue to replenishing
skip the pain with a drink fucken, fucken drink fucken
dust lingers in the brain, it swirls
a cloud of ground envelops the shape of u
u become covered
u have a layer,
salty,
and dry
and 'organic'
(surely bio (though im not sure what is or why are))

full city boy, suburban boy, not particularly gritty boy
along side hippies
and volunteers all tripppy
and unwashed, and un plastic
yet forcefully hemped
drunk of micro beer
and burnt brown and blotchy red
and wire-y

and dry

and matted
as if nothing really matters except for principles
misguided and randomly enforced

feel like a husk; peanut shell
insides swallowed by the mouth of the party embodied
a monsterous sweaty man tanned and thickly bearded
and beered
fat dreads fall around and surround u; a forest of hair
a circle encroaching of fuzzy pillars in fibres
entrapped inside them; feel their lingering time matted hold
a wealth of effort to become unkempt; they are bars
they are walls
and the FACE!
………………………   ………………………………… oh
looming down, wafts of armpit vapour cloud; a looming puft that surrounds
engorged by the scent as it circles u, the mouth that lowered onto u
chews u and spills bits of u
chomp chomp
protein for vegetarians; u; ur rigour ur vigour ur guts
  
eaten in a flurry of chomps and slurps and it crunches
and it grates
like the rocks on the ***** of ur feet it grates

u are digested
and reused
as they would like
but for them; for a collective u dived into
for fun
2 days to peddle ur wares
to progress ( admittedly through some days of regression…)
for all humans, and Humans; for fun

on monday we will repent
for the damages waged on the inside of the body
and the outsides too
for some gain
i guess on this which we settle
for always for display for fun
Feb 2013 · 1.4k
Heirlooms
AJ Robertson Feb 2013
laying on the table
burnt out,
contorted fossils
your lineages penises

dried up artifacts
lying in wait,
lined up neatly
                 10 in total
                 a collection regal
arranged for a visitor to see

my father
his father
& his before

crispy yams worth their weight in gold and in favour

'As you see Douglas was exceptional. . .
If you've ever read the first chapter at least of Virginia Woolf's 'Night & Day', this might make sense to you.  But maybe still not. .  .
Feb 2013 · 1.6k
Love poem no 3
AJ Robertson Feb 2013
It had been 2 weeks
She assumed the kids were asleep
Because he entered
He must of thought seductively
(making sure to shower first)
with an air of cool calmness
a scent of beer with a new thirst
for another type of refreshment
not fulfillment
but refilling

not romance
mere maintenance

she sighed & looked up
    through her glasses at his swollen frame
like a balloons tied to a clothes horse,
    left there for a day
so they sagged and lost their colour
    & the frame had become visible
  but only at its peaks
through the sheer power of gravity
his bones became seen
  through his collar of his van huesen shirt
he thought so debonair (had a classy air, sleekish air)

she smiled acceptingly
as he pretended to be sincere
  when he told her that he loved her
    even after all these years
  she was still a **** momma
she tried not to laugh
when he kissed her on the neck
& rubbed
her breast like he wanted milk

she spread her legs
when he pushed them
  & waited for the steering
of a trailer into a garage
in reverse
at midnight
  under influence
with the subtlety of a steer

it reminded her of years ago
when she had laughed at the austere
teachers that had enraged her
with their frigid sneer

& she smiled to herself an thought
of her *** like a rare fruit
only to age and watch it be eaten
by a once charming now savage brute

who turned into a blob of sorts
& she aswell had sagged
at least they sagged happily together
there's some comfort to be had in that
so she waited for the ******
with an image impressed in her
   of a smirking withered teacher
arms folded & a smug grin
with a look that proclaims
     ‘here u are
     it seems we’re on a par
     an existence so far
  from what u saw in dreams u had
  of supple limbs & knowing grins
  to dry skins and droopy things'

a flower wilted & smelling a bit funny
the faded colour of pale brown

in the end she felt lie a jug of sorts
he rolled over & went to sleep
she eventually did also
thinking about wat to cook next week
Jan 2013 · 927
Love poem no 2
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
‘I prefer it dry’ he lied
& proceeded to try
& impress her with a story
about his income & his busyness
& his car & his business

she pretended not to care
answered a phone call
& laughed
cos her & her troupe
were ever so proud
of being real crazy
& funny
& busy
& they found
that people wouldn’t notice
unless they told them
so they made sure they did so
when there was someone new around

she then hung up the phone
&  listened to him drone
about the perks
& the jerks
he worked with
& how
he could do much better
if and when he was in charge

he then talked of which countries
he had been to
all over asia, these last 4 years
& how he had got drunk

she didn’t care about the details
but the stories strangely aroused her
but somehow moreso in her *****

she could see her kids now
with blond hair & cuts like Beiber
well clothed
& out of the way
while she stared at day time television
& the lamented the angry day
   that April told her to ‘get ******’
   &  so she slapped her across the face

he was pleasant
  wasn’t smelly
  wasn’t fat
  wasn’t asian
& as for the meal he did pay

the waiter brought the bill
& they quivelled
so for the drinks he didn’t pay
they left together
and slept together

he didn’t call her
but she didn’t care
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
the closer we looked, the less we were impressed
but ultimately still would ****
Jan 2013 · 1.2k
Love poem no 1
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head

when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight

but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide

During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived

He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night

He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk

The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned

the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong

one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own

like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa

in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade

a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard

she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Jan 2013 · 1.4k
A box of Matches
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
The way the clock ticks
Smooth away
Spirits dry
  Slightly tender ears
Become another breath

A breath a sigh a mess to deal with
A test of zeal
& a box of papers
  strewn left
& right
  torn & strung about to conceal
  the floor
the door
the walls
& the ceiling

naked peach & sweating
standing still like a post, but turning around slowly internally
putting on graces & smiling, sniffing the glass
before frowning & commenting on the values of waiting,
or diving right into the chasm of debt,
    he looks handsome
& brutish
  like a man best used for feeding
  himself, feeding someone else
  mere feed
    he was food
  a cow in a pasture
devouring to continue the feeding
for some dollars each day increasing

‘no worries mate’
a gesture to continue moving
there’s less to do
ensuing deadlines
wave beside the days arrive
sequentially,
enduring through them dutifully

    like you must

red stars of sparks string off his limbs
& burn holes in the papers
brown cigarette burns widen & envelop
the papers that are small, the bigger
ones catch alight & fall to the
floor & it spreads
to the door
the walls
& the ceiling

now naked & blue & burning
the red & yellow flame rises high
a candle stands spinning
screaming & fighting & running from foe
who will eat him,
or **** him
he sleeps shivering under stars burning brighter than his own
& the papers are gone

  so few left to feed the fire
    he collapses
in a heap of soot & ash

he lies naked & black & steaming

panting & huffing like a kid on a balloon
on hands & knees observes the wreck
& sighs to clean the mess before
he becomes accustomed
or bored
  he swings a broom around
  and a dust pan handily collects the
soot & the wreck doesn’t seem so bad

it still stands & he stays there

in a darken pit, a hole of charred plaster
& carpet,

  it seems OK so he stays there

all along the street the candles are snuffed out

they still stand so they stay there

in a row
toe to toe
all together
in compartments
of a box
of matches
Jan 2013 · 1.1k
The Bee
AJ Robertson Jan 2013
A bee whistles past his ear
He feels the sound . . he doesn’t care
Averts his eyes in case there’s others
Raises his hands to fix his hair

Divorced from reality somewhat: from feeling.
Or at least extremes of:
Never exceeding amounts unfeasible:
Pertaining to the limits thereof:
Plateaued at governable levels in present:
Exempt from enth
Kept in check
His whistle wet & he’s well fed

Real words strewn along the ground
Discarded leaves fallen
Left decaying: mostly forgotten

His pants look to him pantaloons
For the good they do representing him
the man chases an end necessary; resenting
not waning, he feigns stoicism
then his creeping cynicism clouds his eyes

‘u know what buddy, u can honestly get ******’ he says ‘the 1st world cries the loudest; but is softest.  Thinks it is toughest; it is weakest, smoothest, creamiest.’
‘u know what buddy u are honestly right’ he says to himself not wanting to admit to himself that he agrees with himself,
but despite this all, his gaze’s focus still lowers
the edges become softer
& he does what he does

he wraps up in his blanky
with his bottle; safe under cover
among some big ******* to feel warm
but the swarm of bees they circle
twitching fever; rippling waves

hope to god that they don’t sting you
as u hide & feel their sway
lapping closer swooping hawk like
collective wind; they rearrange

and then

they push left !swoop! they raise u up,
( a cloud of black and brown and yellow arches and hums, hums like a razor on steroids, seeping potent purpose, pushing, coming: close your eyes for impending hell)
leaving bumps that swell and burn, they grab, they encase, they consume, they drive, they raise and they push
and they deliver u
and u obey them
and u relinquish; u fold enslaved
they push u forward  !the buzz! it wakes
it makes u groan,
u can’t ignore it
u know u need it
u’ve got to do it
u need to go


toil on & reap the spoils
another set with the walking beige

go here go there: be happy
u have no reason to not this day
just keep on going, mate my mate
lulling deep into the beige

— The End —