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JW Mar 2013
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
My boarding pass and passport are over checked
Student ID,
Admission letter four years old,
Father's death certificate,
My marriage certificate,
Endless documents,
To prove I'm not a threat.
He  waltzes through without a blink.
No boarding pass checked,
No passport in hand,
No red flags raised.
I'm sure it's illegal,
But they don't ask
Or maybe they won't.
I'm the one they check,
The one they search.
3 hours.
Are these your suitcases?
Unpack the suitcase
who packed the suitcase?
Each item scanned
Where was the suitcase after it was packed?
swab,
wait,
second swab,
wait again.
third swab,
That had better be for good luck.
(more attention than the blarney stone)
Did anyone give you any gifts to bring?
Repack,
Rush through check-in.
Second security check,
Go to line 3.
Unpack hand luggage,
Laptop, tablet, phone, chargers, data cables
Scanned individually,
Take off shoes,
Walk through metal detector,
Three swabs more for good measure,
Repack,
Rush to gate
Already boarding
Finally in my seat.
He takes 15 minutes.
It's funny how his time 8-tuples,
When we travel together.
I may be his ben zug,
I may speak their language without the dreaded Mivtah*,
but I still don't belong.
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
*Mivtah: Hebrew word for accent.*
ConnectHook  Oct 2018
Take a Tip
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Q-Tips raised! Their storm approaches.
Swab those ear-gates free and clear.
Thunder frightens the rats and roaches.
Looming clouds are drawing near;
Audible anticipation
Waxes with our rising nation.

Hope-**** is the thing with feathers
flying low, right before the gale.
Strident left-wing get-togethers
Do their best to countervail.
Tribunals herald something worse . . .
Enjoy some popcorn with my verse.

Martial law—a new diversion,
Flapping wings on the Left and Right
Disturbs the coop (or coup?). Subversion
now displays its plumes outright.
Deep-state angels prove satanic
sparking upper-level panic.

Rumors can be quite arresting.
Cresting waves on the Psy-Ops sea
Break and roll, now manifesting
Dumbed-down mobs, conspiracy . . .
Some citizens awake to truth;
The rest rave on, benighted youth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfrGbax6j9I
Martin Narrod  Jun 2014
Strep
Martin Narrod Jun 2014
Strep throat. Out of nowhere really. I went to a meeting on Friday, interviewed at PaperSource on Saturday afternoon, and then just slightly later an awful toothache. I never suspected anything so out of the ordinary to occur. Saturday night, two to four a.m.ish, i thought it was caffeine pills, or not drinking enough water, or even, worst of the worst, an attack of hypochondria. I kept lighting up Marlboros though, tasty red branded things that make writer's mouths happy. Two days in and I'm pretty sure my ***** are a fever below my body, droopy like snoopy. Super soft droopy *****, that's a sure sign of a fever or a great BJ they taught us in 6th grade science, and I wasn't getting my favorite ice cream social.

I hadn't talked to the gf in a couple days, and missing her company I made the phone call only discover that my voice had turned into a baby turtle shouting English from the bottom of a stuffed baked potato. Garbled. Discussing. Useless. I promptly hung up, and began texting. But it was too late she heard me and called back, and I had to give it all I had to put together a few words.

An hour later I was dropped off at the ER, the benefits of Medicaid at 30 is never being able to just go to the doctor's office. Within 2 hours they told me it was strep. Four nurses, two residents, one first day resident, and a 2nd year resident, and the ER doctor for a swab and a spray, and the take home Z-pack.

Then she said she'd come over even though I was sick. That's real love. "If I get sick from you, it's still worth it." 3 days on antibiotics, no more sore throat, I feel great- I think tomorrow I'll be having an ice cream social for someone who I love dearly. Maybe we'll even skip the ice cream.
Ice Cream Social: slang. When a girlfriend, boyfriend, partner, spouse, or significant other offers you a certificate for a free sundae and non-reciprocated oral ***. Eat vegan ice cream, receive ******* or mix and match. But that should explain that.
Steven Hutchison Apr 2012
A stripper does not command the same feelings
when there is no music
when there is rain
when there is **** beneath their feet
when there is no stage
when they are
naked.

Step off stage,
peel their eyes from your skin.
Layer after layer
of pervert,
of bloodshot,
wipe the trails of loathing
they leave behind.
Take a cotton swab to your navel
to dry your mother's tears.
These are nothing you haven't seen.

Find glass where it is not broken,
Break it.
Pull on your face until you can see your cracks
echoed in kaleidoscope reflections.
Let your tongue swipe your teeth
and slurp down the dollar bill smile.
Chase it with the cat that was
swimming in your eyes.
Imagine what you would look like dead.
Make silly faces in broken mirrors.
Turn away before they fade.

Shake your head in your hands
until music flies from your ears.
Shake harder.
Spill the hypnotic equilibrium they sold you
Watch the room start to sway.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Find your legs.
*****.
Heave,
feeling there is much more poison
than will ever come out.
Cough into the air,
knowing your hands are sacred.
Wipe your memory on someone else's sleeve.

Walk to the door.
Let your profession slip from your shoulders.
Become human.
Become blending into the crowd.
Become busy with something in your hands.
Open the door, then your umbrella.
Do not breathe.
Take five steps forward and wait to exhale
until your hear the door slam behind you.
It isn't healthy to mix the sight of rain
with the smell of broken pianos.

Walk forward.
Out of your shoes.
Wince as the concrete speaks to your heel.
Bathe your toes in the nearest puddle.
Let your umbrella slide from the warmth of your hand.
Watch it fly.
Notice the people.
Move your sight from the ground
and rest it on their chins.
Realize you're wearing no clothes.
Pull the confidence down and off of your walk
and turn to the closest alley.

Step off stage.
Peel their eyes from your soul.
Become an individual.
Forget "the people."
Notice the persons
wrapped to their noses in professions and smiles,
confidence and ignorance pouring from their eyes,
heads tucked low beneath charcoal umbrellas.
Smile.
Without trying when you hear the clouds roar.

Stop when you find there are more walls than bodies
and the smell of ***** is stronger than your own.
Forget your smell.
Open your mouth.
Forget your taste.
Bend your knees and raise your head.
Close your eyes and feel it rain.
Scream.
Strip the religion from your prayers.
Scream the ineffable confession.
Forget your body.
Drink the rain.

there is no music
there is rain
there is **** beneath your feet
there is no stage
you are
naked.
Day 23
ShFR  Jun 2013
Contrast
ShFR Jun 2013
Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,

but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,

her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest

wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
  
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****,

the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
 
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,

she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
 
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,

you a bad *****,
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,

her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***.

In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,

that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,

that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,

that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,

and he never means to hurt me.

Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,

he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:

Ms. *******, control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.
© 2013 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
zebra Jul 2016
do you have a dark secret
my darling
a terrible brain
instead of nice ***** pink
girl things
you ache for ****** insertions
cutting edges
menstrual swab mouth plug selfies

while you pretend all is well
loving Mother Mary
at the church with mummy
knowing
deep down inside
your a ***** *****
god dam the boys look good

do you have the courage
to admit it
first to your self
and then another
or shall you live
muzzled
as you finger *****
obsessed with flying *****
and devils teeth
pigs nuzzling mud and ****
strewn at a *** trough


you love playing with fire
hot toes and ****
oh yeah
turn up the ****** heat
your craven desires
to be a **** toy
and then the pleasure
break me break me
twisted broken
little **** toy

if you could only find me
your
Lover
Linker
Licker
Sucker
Thinker
Maker
Shaker
Breaker
F­ucker
Burner
Cutter
Shooter
Impaler
the one who glorifies
your *******
insinuates kisses that tear
who adores your
midnight whimpers
howls of pleasure
cries for help
no safe words
bending bending
broken
mutilation gasms

you smiling
succubus
hobbling over
for another hard blow
your **** drenched
******* zinging
from razors play
blood red rivulets
falling on pretty feet
while good people
dream of angels
you dream of
big cocked men
and merciless gang bangs
a sweet ***** of Babylon
hard justice
cruelties ecstatic
being beaten to death
by 100 buttered *****
legs and arms piled high
and **** and **** and more ****
your holy trinity

no you say
there must be some mistake
thats not you
your on gods leash
burying yourself
in black rocks
crypt of normalcy
your goody goody goody
time to cinch up
veil of the nunnery
hinge on the death mask
no honey
theres no gorilla
in your cave
crushing girlie's soul
pride will out shine all
til last bloom is no more
then learn laments fury
EROS AND THANATOS

My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
#death  #***  #adult  #explicit  © zebra    love poems • death poems • sadomasochism poems • ****** poems • explicit poems
#poems   #******   #explicit   #sadomasochism
Sumina Thapaliya Oct 2015
Ohh My life's Companion

It is better that I take my sorrows with me
Or,
Let me narrate the story of my heart
Let me douse you with my tears
And,
Let the tears swab down to your feet
b for short Aug 2019
“To us, white girls are exotic,”
says my Arab American boyfriend.
At that moment, my brain ceases
to make sense of those words
in that order.
Exotic? White? Girl?
Me? Me. He means... me.
So this is what I say
to my Arab American boyfriend
who has
more culture in his pinky
than all of white America combined.
From what I can tell,
to be white in America is
boring static,
AM radio on a Sunday morning
with a broken dial
on a back road in the boonies.
It is the culture born by everything borrowed but wrongfully claimed
as its own invention.
To be white, in America, tastes like
cream of wheat
with no hope of brown sugar.
It is a tumbleweed-kind-of-rootless
and just as desert dry.
It is colorless, odorless, tasteless—
and will choke you slowly
if you don’t build up a tolerance.
But
if you’re lucky enough
to be white in America,
for about a hundred bucks
and a swab of the cheek,
the Internet can tell you
where you came from.
Even if that makes you feel cultured,
tomorrow you will wake up
and still be
white in America.
To be white in America, I thought,
was as far from exotic
as the self-loathing, middle aged guy
behind the counter
at your local DMV.
But white girls, he says, are exotic.
Perhaps it’s because pumpkin spice
oozes from my pasty pores,
or that “there ain’t no laws
when you’re drinkin’ the Claws.”
Maybe he couldn’t resist the fact
that the Starbucks barista
knows my order
better than my name,
or that my hair blowdries pin straight—
no matter the time of year.
I wonder if it’s the combo of
black leggings, messy buns,
and work out tanks—
or the fact that I think I’m saving the whole ******* sea turtle population
with my stainless steel straw.
Exotic?
Maybe it’s my compulsive nature
to buy in bulk, to pet every dog I see,
and to cry over Queer Eye episodes.
It couldn’t possibly be
the steady diet of rom coms,
my collection of Birkenstocks,
or the apple cinnamon candle
burning on my windowsill
that reminds me of “fall y’all,”
but then again, who knows?
To me, my whiteness is a privilege
that will forever be misinterpreted
as entitlement by every person
who checks that “white” box
on the form
without checking themselves too.

“To us, white girls are exotic,” he says.

White girl is just happy
he likes her in spite of it.
Copyright Bitsy Sanders, August 2019
Poetic T  Apr 2014
To Be A Pirate
Poetic T Apr 2014
To be a pirate the things I,d see,
the high waves as the ship goes
up and down, down and up on
the sea. Arrr I feel sick over the
side I will mostly be.

Swab the decks so they be as
clean asthey can be, **** this
boat of wood the splinters I be
getting, I  be needing tweezers
and me mummy.

I want treasure, I want to bury
it where no one can see, I,ve done
this many times but I keep forgetting
as I have a poor memory.

I want to be a pirate, the things
I would see, but I want to put my
flag on themast a smiling skull it
would be.

I,m not a normal pirate as they
seem to say, I be to nice, and
I,m not very good at sea As I,m
always over the side giving the
fish food that comes out of my tummy.

I,m a pirate all can see, I  dont
have a sword as I always  be cutting
my tummy, I dont think I,m cut out
for this life upon the high sea.

I think ill do kids parties with my
ballon sword, no more cuts for me just
out of breath, as it keeps popping in me.

My choclate coins I must remember
are not to buried or to eat, there for
the children arrr no choclate for pirate me.
hope to write a third one make them a book for the children
Erin  Dec 2013
Getting Miced
Erin Dec 2013
You're here.

We don't talk,
but I'm quietly watching you,
so when you make eye contact shyly
it's easy to know what we are doing.

You approach me,
sanitizing wipe, Band-Aid, and mic
(complete with wires)
and peel the plastic.

Swab my cheek gently,
and I smell the alcohol
but it's a pleasant
smell now.

Put the mic over my ear,
position it against the side of my face,
tape the Band-Aid to my cheek,
fingers brushing my skin.

You send the wire down my dress,
pull up my skirt and reach up for the end,
soft fingers lightly skimming over my back.
Adjust the mic in its belt, and lower the fabric.

Tell me in your sweet voice:
"Look right"
I do, "oh, hair", you say, and I pull
my ponytail out of your way,
thinking of your soft short hair.

Then, "Look straight"
and as I do, and you tape the mic tape
against my neck, I'm thinking
"I do."

Backstage I think to myself
that you haven't done anyone else's mics,
and this makes me feel good.

I know later I'll be watching for you
to be free, so I can feel your hands
near me, watch your eyes rimmed
with liner as they study the mic
hooked to my face.


Crouching slightly as you are up
on tip-toes, and we can communicate
silently once more.
December 8, 2013 /itsjusterin
.how does one spell theatre terms
Bogdan Dragos Aug 2019
Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs
sitting by
the mirror
It's pointed at me with the side displaying
the 'Don't insert in ear!' sign
And I push the swab further
and give it a spin
and I think to myself
I should write about this
I should...

Yeah, and then the eyes that
read
would say, '******* too'
and 'why do you write if you have
nothing to say, ******?'

Perhaps I am no different
from a box
of cotton swabs
somebody swears at
and what I write is equally frowned upon
as is the warning on the side of
that box

Yet there's something else
we have in common,
the box and I,
we display our message anyways
because we can't say it aloud

I put down the swab and
pick up the box with
a lot more
compassion this time
and walk away from the mirror and into my
room where my girlfriend is
reading something

I place the box of cotton swabs by my notebook
Open the notebook and start writing.
I write 'Oh well, ******* too,
I say to the box of cotton swabs'

“What you do?”
my girlfriend
interrupts
me

“Writing,” I say

“Pff, why do you write if you have
nothing to say?”

And I put the pen down and pick the
box of cotton swabs up and walk over to her, look
her in the eyes
and say, “why don't you go to the bathroom and clean your ears?”
Prabhu Iyer May 2013
Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.

Too tight to wear,
the ring
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.

A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.

I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.

It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.

In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.

You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.
A mid-summer reverie...!

— The End —