#spit
I don't know how else to say it
And you don't care enough to lie
Like an over explained comedy bit
Where the attention has run dry
You hiss
I spit
We both bit
Always right about to get
Into an eye for an eye
Where we'll both find
It's far harder
To point a finger
While we're both blind
Though we'll both try
©2024
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 1:46 AM UTC
it's highschool recess and my best friend and i watch the seventh-graders
from our perch as 'older boys' with minimum-wage jobs and harder homework. one is handing around a gleaming can of monster energy like the blood of christ himself and everyone wants some. they treat the factory-issue can with such tender care, flushed fingertips on cold metal.
"why are they so excited about a monster?" i ask.
("what does it taste like?" a wide-eyed friend's younger brother asks.)
"because it's novel. it's their first taste of freedom." my friend says, and
then suddenly i remember all the times we've done the same with our friends.
first, in an airport because me and my shaking hands couldn't finish it ourselves. outside school, warm from the flesh of someone's school bag all day. under the table and the teacher's nose because i stayed up too late, comuning with other friends in the blue dark. no matter who buys it's always for all of us.
("have a sip"-"i don't like this one"-"the juice one is my favourite")
like maybe the 58g of sugar and 600mL of caffeine is okay if it's split between us. like the sharing of spit is holy. i look out at the small crowd of seventh graders and realise they are just beginning to learn:
what is communion if not half backwash?
what is holier than ingesting your friends?
what is holier than killing your hearts together?
Sep 14, 2024
Sep 14, 2024 at 8:21 PM UTC
If you have nothing to say
resourceful or respectful.
Then kindly keep your trap
closed or end up in one
Nov 25, 2022
Nov 25, 2022 at 1:46 PM UTC
Act as if I could sell dreams
to an insomniac,
Or selling broken pieces to
a crack.
Cracking skulls to think
well ahead.
Arranging my plans in serial,
on the few crumbs of bread.
Why I ask the Lord for my daily bread,
to fill all my ideas. Keep them fed.
Seem to be a puzzle piece,
trying to find my fit
As I play such games,
finding humour from my wit.
Dressed for life, suit and tie
hoping it all could fit.
But life at times feels so much
like a job, but I can't even quit.
I'm over my head at times,
wanting to be an upright citizen.
Beating on myself,
maybe because I didn't get enough discipline.
Days I'm trying to train my mind,
most days I lost track.
Picture out my life plans,
still feels like there's a drawback.
Pressing the On and Off switch
of my mind. Don't know what's current.
Haven't paid the dues of my life,
nowadays I have a warrant.
Relevance goings irrelevant,
if you're not relevant to yourself.
Relatively speaking, I don't know how
to end this piece. So here's the end. Oh well!
But no,
Why must the end of a cause
not have you all standing in your applause?
Lord only knows,
why we're quick to pick out the flaws.
The pain of hanging over your jaws,
while I'm handing you a gift of my words.
Like the non-existent Santa Claus.
Spitting words to your face,
facts of my case.
Who runs the passion of his soul,
for you to chase.
Anyways,
This is far too long,
to the point I don't know where these words are coming from.
This rant is far too withstanding,
way too strong.
So to you all, I'm now gone.
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 12:24 PM UTC
I dreamed you kissed me and when I woke, I was unkissed, and alone.
So darling, kiss me now, kiss me like you did in that dream.
Kiss me with the lips you used to spit daggers and whisper secrets, and soothe souls.
Kiss me like the sky kisses the earth when the sun sets.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 1:13 AM UTC
Recoil. And recoil fast.
She was of simple taste so He shattered her veiny lungs with his spit almost effortlessly.
Under his weight she was stunted, her limbs frozen by the constant of his blarring audioporn.
At every touch she had to brace herself for his embrace.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
hey, do ya
think ya
could break me
off a piece
of that
Kit-Kat?
real quick
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
the raindrops feel like spit.
raindrops are beautiful,
and so was your spit,
but only when it danced with
mine.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 11:14 PM UTC
Starving, bones poking out;
Unraveling, loans choking you out.
Carving a niche, trying to survive,
Struggling to find a meaning to being alive.
You lie in bed,
Thinking about the tears you’ve shed,
The sweat, the blood you’ve bled –
The tough times scraping by,
The close calls you’ve had.
Hunger, a nauseating pain;
What would you give up for a single grain?
You strain your brain,
Rack it trying to find a way –
Trying to find a way out of this life,
A life that is dull and grey.
Your soul does not see the light of day;
Your faith starts to shake,
You manage no more than a mumble,
Your beliefs start to crumble.
Concerned, disturbed,
Angry at the world, constantly hurt;
Cornered, perturbed,
Life is but a whirl, with death we flirt.
Cursed, deserted,
We thirst for that which we will not quench;
Dispersed, disconcerted,
The sewers of poverty air their stench.
You pull the covers up to your nose,
You shudder like a victim from an attacker’s blows.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:13 PM UTC
it is so still here.
until the planes
fly over heard. they dont
scare me like they did
when i was a boy.
but boy could they
put fear in the heart
of a youngster.
i never thought
id miss cowering
in the basement.
home will
spit me out again,
freshly chewed.
still staring at the buildings
like they might topple right over.
i will make the world love me
if its the last thing i do.
i dont care how
but it will.
i refuse to be the boy
in the basement.
scared of noise.
there is no crown fit
for noise.
it wears victory
like a python around
its neck.
and if noise could
die i would **** the
poison from
noise until it is but
a snake for the garden.
harmless and certainly
nothing
to go cower
in the basement for.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
Walked through a field full of llamas
Wooly babies, papas, and mamas
But these llamas were purists
And spat on this tourist
Turning excitement to trauma
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
you spit dead flowers at me
they spill from between your teeth
I put them between the pages of a book
one I’ve only read once
if you had a mouth full of fresh flowers
I wouldn’t have stopped to listen
isn’t it fascinating
to see the decay in the veins of a petal
one day you’ll spit your last petal
will you replace them
or let new ones grow from the dead
I guess I’ll find out
with a new book in hand
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Your words reek with lies
You've hurt me too many times
I'll never trust a word out your mouth
You saw me cry with my heart spilled out
Yet you did it again
After saying "Never again..."
Our mother can't see through your poison
My tolerance has been growing thin
"Stop doing this!" I scream and wail
Don't you dare spit another tale.
My soul aches with despair hidden
Anything but happiness feels forbidden
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
I never bite my nails,
the taste is just not for me.
I see others chew on pinkies
and much to my disgust
they chop on them between
their teeth.
Do you know where they
have been,
do you know you didn't
wash your hands
Now your biting the tips.
I noticed that those who chew,
have stubby fingers
looking grossly.
Use a pair of scissors manicure
appropriately.
Please don't bite your nails,
then spit them out near me.
Its not the wild west there isn't
spit buckets to collect rejected
nail clippings.
Paint them,
trim them,
manicure them properly.
but please don't chew them,
its unhygienic and is so unsanitary.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
I live by daily participating
and not by distant gesticulating.
I live by putting love into action,
not by singing for holy intervention.
I live by getting both hands soiled,
not sanitised and kept unspoiled.
If you want to follow the Nazarene
you can't keep your hands wet wipe clean.
This is life as he envisaged -
living like we're one big village.
Roll up your sleeves to each elbow,
let's serve together and not alone.
This is life as Jesus did it -
all hands-on, with dirt and spit!
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
When you left me over a phone call that lasted a minute and a half
I should've known our fate then
when you said you wanted a second third fourth fifth chance
I should've said no
When you texted me tonight asking me to see your make-up
I should've said no
because all I can think of
apart from your gorgeous eyes
and your pink cheeks
and your chapped lips
is that
he will see you today
and he will remember
that you did it for him
that maybe you chose his favorite colour
or you put on his favorite perfume
he will remember that scent on you
from that one friday
the one day which was the best of his life
maybe he waits every friday to see you
you say you did it for you
but you did it for him way before you did it for you
you gave a part of you to him
a part that you'd only given to me
and it took you a day to bedazzle yourself for him
and you didn't even know him
he met you on a friday
or so I think
but he sees you every now and often
and he will forever remember
that you did this for him
what today you say
you're doing for yourself
but he won't know that
to him
its still like that past friday
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Your teeth are the colour of off milk.
Your odour is of rancid butter.
I see you and I feel sorry for everyone that you spitter on.
I'm sorry for your loss.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Some days I like to go outside
just to spit on my way
back home
it tends to give me a special
high
that only I can get high from.
Silent laughter, growing smiles
always form when I'm alone
it's better if you hear from
someone else,
than not to hear 'bout me
at all.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
You chewed me up
And spit me out
Like a piece of stale gum.
Then you stepped on me
So you could drag me around
A bit longer.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
you are so far gone,
that
you might as well be
six feet under...
buried alive
or only half
alive
and still buried...
and i will spit
snot on your grave,
and clog my ears with dirt
and flowers
grown from your decay
say one more word,
and I might choke on
your fire
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
When in doubt
spit on the sidewalk
and stare the ******* down
This procedure works
on violent men
It also works
on your own
madness
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
Living a viva loca
Drinking ***** and coca
On a fly *** sofa
Getting money like a broka
If life is a *****
Then I’ll pok-a-
hole in her game
Stop playing
I ain’t a lame
******* step out of line
You gotta put them in their lane
Just because both breathe air,
It dont make us the same
I’m different in a lotta of ways
Thats just putting in plain
What you been saving your whole life, dawg
I bet, I spent that in a day
These dream chasers
Chasing dreams
I dont let’em get away
There levels to this **** dawg
I'll meet you at the top on my lowest day
And apply pressure like a break away
Moving up like stepping stones
Any Obstacles that step in
getting crushed along the way
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
we are not human
we are beyond
all that fits into strands of dna
we are a phone call away and just at the beginning
writhing with excitement that plays like anxiety. we are the nervousness
that turns the body right left and left right left before introducing us to becoming asleep. we are the narrative to the lives of others. our passwords don't match but I refuse to let popular radio dictate our lives. we've ****** ourselves red and sweet, cauterizing our moral wounds with *** and sensuality. we scuba dove in the bedlam of ***** intrigue where I drank the pulse of your fingertips into mid-morning blackouts.
I don't know what you do, but I bleed foreign tongues. I mince words and reconnect them, the Swedes would be proud. Inside the ribs, beyond our teenage skin, between us we are always something better going unchecked but never unnoticed. we have been enlightened, summoned, and have three unchecked voicemails that we will lie about listening to should we ever be confronted about it. I don't ever want to be readdressed by consciousness, I am unhappy there and here
the Power lines
Under
unto us both
we may never meet those quondam girl and boy bent by prurient looks
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
There is a fascicle
Of anticipation in
Labour inside my
Brain – where
Hope can spurt
And spit through
Chance. Though
I see it I can no
Longer nurture
Matters of disgust.
There is a funeral
Inside of my eyes
Which sit like the lazy
Cup of tea on my
Table. And it whispers
To me in the warning
Of a night so coldly
Scarce of cheer.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC