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To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine--
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
...in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers...
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
Software job
80k salary
Potbelly
An apartment plot
with 20 years of loan
Yo yo sounds

Yea, you're a hero
Many a parent claim
Your hand in marriage
For their daughters

And for your parents?
You're a model child

Deviate from it?
Yes you are the parasite :D
This is how other professions are treated in most parts of India. Either you're an engineer in an MNC or a docky in a Multi-specialty hospital
Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Toweling off in the steam room after having my *** ripped apart
by the wet thistles these Greeks seemed to think constitute a good time;
I was to meet Agent X, but I didn't know what he'd look like;
I assumed it was a 'he' - - I was wrong;
the N-[company] had managed to disguise
the voluptuous big-breasted blonde
as a nebbishy little old Jewish man;
but how was I to know...
I thought he was measuring my inseam
when he came up for air & swallowed:
thinking this was my best shot,
I said: "****** only had one ball."
"Geobbels had no ***** at all,"
Agent X correctly rep-lied:
her voice barely disguised; her pursed lips
spoke a smooth smoky baritone;
Agent-M was stark naked but u'd never
guess in a million years that beneath the
*** belly & yalmakah was a 5'11, 42-33-37
Russian woman; her Old World accent flawless,
"We better make this look good,
I better stick my finger in ur ***..."
"Why don't I stick finger in ur ***?" she shot back.
"Okay, go ahead."
"We'll both do it. That'll look really gay."
There we stood not saying a word, completely forgetting what we were there for; "oh, yes..." she said suddenly.
"What was that?"
"We should report in. The chief will want to know what's going on here."
"What will we say? That we stood around w/ our fingers up each other's *****?"
"Yeh, that sounds nuts - - u'd better **** me in the *** to make it look good,"
said she, leading me back into the steam.
Keeping her disguise on the whole time I had to paw at her hunched, hairy back & deal with the pasty potbelly & skinless pinky-sized *****.
"Oy! Oy!" she cried.
"Take that, u **** *****! U like that ****?"
"Oh! **** me! **** me hard! Heil ******! Oh!"
"Yeh, *****, get down there & choke on it," I said really loud, so they could hear me all through the place & pretty soon **** were beating down the door than each other outside the door.
I had to keep pretending to be ******* the little old Jewish man by carefully avoiding her **** & inserting eleven inches into the drooping, spotty hemorrhoidal backside; gripping the skull by the cap & jamming my pork down the Kosher throat; the truth was Agent X was one the world's greatest mistresses of disguise, & had impersonated Queens & Presidents, even small dogs & once an entire family of migrants to infiltrate a terrorist ***-ring;
"Watch my Thrombosis!" she whined in character.
"There's blood everywhere!"
"Oh, ****, my period started."
"There's blood everywhere!"
Quickly wrapping Agent-M in a sauna towel which rapidly accumulated blood from between her legs but looking like it was pouring out of her ***, l
threw her over my shoulder and ran past the rabid pack of un-dead *******, who dare not follow me into the daylight, lest they burst into the hellish flames of gossip & publicity.
I hope it's appreciated that this is a dormant & long-suppressed idea
Joe Cottonwood Apr 2015
Raccoon tapping on the windowpane
Fuzzy beggar, growing tame
Evenings longer, midnights colder
     My love and I
     Just a little bit older

Quarter moon above the trees
Wind blows softly, rustling leaves
Would you love me if I lost my hair?
     No, my dear
     And don't you dare

Dog curling up by the potbelly stove
Whiskers peek from the old mouse hole
Grandma's quilt has a brand new patch
     No more cookies
     Or I'll get fat

Rocking chair got a squeak again
Sniff the air, smells like rain
Horned owl hoots from out the wood
     I believe
     All life is good

Before I die I want to know
All the winds and why they blow
All the forests, every stream
     Why you smile, babe
     When you dream
- Jul 2021
The soft edges of femininity,
Round, *******, complements,
Heels, ***** of the feet, sockets,

Soft eyes, soft hearts, soft hands
Tinkering, thanking, crossing, legs.

Girlhood is enclosed in a silver box
With mute pastels and a heavy soundtrack of strings,

Strings which bifurcate, dissect, divulge,
Horrors, bells, instruments and lush melodies.

Girlhood smells of iron, hot animals, heaving,
Converging, pin ******, the sharp alacrity of Knowing.

Eyes are wet, armpits go black , round edges
Protrude into a potbelly, grow and stagnate,
expand and collapse.
Barton D Smock Jul 2012
a potbelly
scarecrow
itching
its backside

on a tree
in a wood

where aliens
grieve.
George Krokos Jun 2020
It'd be nice to have a *** belly stove
to sit up close to like a treasure trove
in those moments when you'd be alone
depending on no one else who's prone;
and sit there beside it in its afterglow
with nothing to think about or to know
for its warmth would give you strength
in cold days where you'll be at length
to immerse yourself in another world
that would open up before you unfurled
and where you'd be safe from any menace
lurking behind all the darkness or surface
of those places hidden in your child's mind
to wander about in with some friendly kind.
____
Written early in 2020 after thinking what would it be like to have a potbelly stove in the house?.....hmmm
Joe Cottonwood Feb 2016
so naturally I would do anything
when she invited me to her room
bolted the door
sat on the bed with legs crossed, chin on fist
a studious frown
told me to strip
but don’t remove your eyeglasses
those ugly black frames so perfect, so typical
stand against the wall
no, sideways, in profile
yes, like that
Your **** is so big
like two pumpkins squashed together
odd on such a skinny guy
Is your **** always crooked
or just when it’s soft
You should paint it red, that would be cool
No, better paint stripes to emphasize the curve
Your little potbelly gives balance to the ***
but you should work out, develop your chest
Okay, put your clothes on
For this evaluation, no charge
but please, more basketball
less poetry and maybe someday
somebody will love you
Just reversing gender roles here. What if women evaluated men this way?
Jude Rate Mar 2013
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.

in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
   trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road

— The End —