"advertises" poems
Society moves like a bullet
And there's no way to cool it
We're not big fans of reflection
So we become slaves to deflection
Bouncing off of hard surfaces
Like limiting gun purchases
Constriction isn't part of or vocabulary
Proliferation is all we know
Watching weapon supplies grow
I live in a country
Riddled by bullets
Bullets that blast through our ****** body
Though the holes in our mind are bigger
When we can **** those we think are naughty
We become judges when we pull the trigger
But the media makes mountains out of molehills
And it is for those exaggerated reasons we ****
We are stuck in a bullet storm
When TV advertises bullet ****
This helps make bullets the norm
So we treat mass shootings with a familiarity
Because we can't acknowledge the only similarity
Is obviously the gun
We're blinded by the sun
Of defense contractors
They're negative reactors
When we purpose a change
The conversation they rearrange
By firing in every possible direction
This is the aforementioned deflection
And it works
You can tell because people are dying
Or standing in the street crying
Or watching the news sighing
Bullet time has wooed us
Bullet crimes have moved us
There are people who gain wealth
From our diminishing health
They hold society on their rope
And the only way we can cope
Is to ****** that rope from their greedy grasp and pull it
But that's hard to do while being punctured by bullets
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 3:21 AM UTC
it's time to find my old friend
(my ********
it doesn't care about making amends
(my ********
no false hopes or promises
it does what it says (and advertises)
(my ********
so back to the tried and true
(my ********
in hopes I'll forget about you ...
... there's no guarantees
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
So the other day I put on my big, black hat and hobbled down town
(Yep, hobbled as I fell stupidly playing in the yard pretending as though I was a kid and tore a ligament)
I donned my black chucks and I was hot **** again for a while
I threw on that big fur coat my grams left me And a few of her gaudy jewels
Anyhow, I went down to "L" street and sat on that bench again
The one in that make shift "park" where they lined up a bunch of big rocks and called it good
I sat and looked at that giant lady painted on the side of that falling down brick building for more than a bit
"L" street, The bad part of town where you can get anything
Not named L street because it's L shaped, but because of a pill that apparently makes you Tripp
I guess you can or could get them there, the L pills I mean
So I sat there thinking and being mad
Staring at that giant, painted, brown woman
She advertises tobacco from 80 years ago and she's almost gone
Flaking and peeling,
Pieces of her lost to the wind, and to time itself
She smiles
And she's beautiful
And I hate her
But since I was 15, She draws me to her
That Tobacco Lady, with her smile, and red dress and feathered hair
She always smiles
When it rains, she smiles
When it snows, she smiles
Hell, when half the ******* town burned
That ***** smiled
I cry, she smiles....
That Tobacco Lady
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
I am a walking contradiction. I am two souls in
one body. Twins that never split in the womb,
born with two souls, two separate streams of
thought. Two twisted hearts but only one body,
one face, one voice.
On the surface I am Moriah, everything on the
outside is simple. Moriah is the face who advertises
the product. The Marlboro Man of the tobacco industry.
SHE is the tobacco industry, the evil secret no one can see,
the alter ego.
My actions, reactions, my outer surface does not
correlate to the world in my head. My mind is a
complex, infinite universe all of its own functioning
within this universe we call home. On the inside SHE
is angry, powerful, strong, reckless, primal. SHE doesn't
give a flying ****
On the outside I am sweet, powerless, weak, careful and
I care way too **** much. I am day, SHE is night.
I am a simple smile, a kind hello, the occasional laugh.
SHE is an evil grin, a cold **** you, the frequent thriller.
I take the snide remarks, close my lips and sink away.
On the inside SHE is screaming, ***** and throwing
fists. I am quiet and meek. SHE is loud and in your face.
I am plain.
SHE is vibrant.
Vanilla.
Habenero.
When the sun slips away and the world is asleep that is
when SHE is alive, a creature of the night. SHE calls to
me begging and pleading, "Let me out. I want to play."
SHE teases me and taunts me But I hold her down, shackled,
imprisoned. Locked her up and threw away the key. I must
find that key, I have to let her free.
I am so tired of holding her in, tired of looking for
a part of me I have been vainly searching for in a
broken idea of love. Only SHE can find the pieces
of my past that I left for dead.
Drowning my regret in a vast ocean of medicated
anxiety. Floating through this life with an eerie fog
clouding our withered hearts.
Empty nights spent lying awake. My heart strings
strum a soulful song as my father's faded touch creeps into
my mind. His words cling tightly like a noose around my neck,
suffocating me. The sick, twisted words, "I own you." slither and
hiss into my core. Nights spent with wrists aching for a razor
to open them up and release the heartache I have buried,
spilling regret and unsung apologies out into the world
like wandering spirits.
Only SHE can heal those wounds, replace the pieces of
me that I can't seem to bring myself to face.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
A drive-in fast-foodery advertises
Its golly-gee new signature cheeseburger
But what in 'burgers does “signature” mean?
Who signs a cheeseburger, and how, and why?
Maybe…
The Artist Known as Nihil composes his
Signature cheeseburger, customized for you,
While waiting for his big break in Vegas
And then he’ll show all you little people
But for now he needs to sign your cheeseburger:
“To Customer 362,
Best Wishes,
Nihil”
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
I love you
is only a darkened whisper
between two souls intertwined,
until one leaves.
In the end, it’s
Just a false alarm.
I’m pregnant
is the resounding silence of a
shattered relationship where
commitment was only a curfew.
Turns out to be
Just another false alarm.
I do
is the pristine moment when the world
dissolves around two hearts alone.
Yet, doubt was on the guest list.
Now what? It was
Just another false alarm.
It’s going to be okay
is the mantra of this generation where
hedonistic lives thrive under bridges,
in the bushes, on the tram, behind the door.
So really, it’s all
Just another false alarm.
I’m ready to die
is the cry not of children, but of the aged,
whose tokens have been spent on the lottery
life advertises at bingo games.
Despite their withered wisdom, in the end, it’s
Just another false alarm.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
Stop meddling in other people's business
They dash their words against the walls
As if to advertises, hatred of the human race.
The higher they climb,
the more you can see their disgusting parts
They comes off as useless quacksalver,
A waste of energy, a waste of space,
Words, words, mere words no matter from the heart
They form clichés, and spin the bottles
An idle mind is the devil’s playground
They smile in an annoying self-satisfied manner.
As if bitterness would bring them happiness
Who Am I?
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
i'd like to know how staying in a hospital
is described as a "comedy drama".
my "red-band society"
was nothing like the show depicts
these kids
these kids are happy
they're joyous while they're flirting and making out in a closet
for fuck's sake, that's not even high school
the nurses aren't your friends
they aren't there to hold your hand while you die
they have jobs to do and lives to save
my red-band society was me and my moms
but i was the only one who participated in the activities
i laid in bed with stickers and clips taped across my body
and the sleeve on my arm constricted
every fifteen minutes
i didn't hear laughter in the halls
i heard heart monitors erratically beeping
and hurried footsteps whenever someone was dying
i wasn't laughing over cancer and anorexia
i was laying awake at four in the morning getting my blood pressure checked every hour
the red-band society
is a constant EKG with a prolonged QT
that may lead to arrhythmia
you don't get to go to homecoming
you don't get to run or race in the hallways
hospitals shouldn't be romanticized
cancer isn't fun
anorexia isn't a phase
there is nothing happy about being checked in
about being sick
i was miserable
and this show is glorifying disease
kids are going to want to be hospitalized
there's no knowing what they'll do
to achieve what the program advertises
i'd like to know if the maker of the show
is in their right mind.
granted, people's experiences differ
but kids shouldn't be promised damaged friends
if they stop eating
if they run away from home
a hospital isn't a ******* playground
or a child's domain
the fact that they are showing doctors being this irresponsible is nauseating
nothing revolves around you
there are other people who need help too
and children will harm themselves
with the expectation of of video games and relaxation.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
“You’re a rookie
You think you’ll be the first to put those words in that order?
please write more about how you’ll die if someone doesn’t come over
Your entire privileged life advertises itself in one ******* hand
smartphone buzzing, your keychain that comes with a whip and a home
clangs and clatters ‘I am I am I am’--a brat.
and a mimic. Did you catch that Bell Jar reference?
Of course you did, you yearn to be more tortured than you are
Better to be a reflection of true artistry than…
wait, what is it you think you are again?
‘You have to really love the process’
tell yourself that sweetie
the ups and downs of putting pen to paper and words to ideas
writer’s block is probably a shocking hardship for you, talk about a struggle!
what the hell do you have to say?
Telling me I should listen to your opinion?
You don’t know anything about me
I’m not some character you created and can control in your brain
--I don’t like you! And there’s not much you can do about it because
“real world” people like me aren’t always what you want.
And you’re probably not used to that
Well?
Why aren’t you saying anything?
You’re the one claiming your words have weight
so use them!
It’s the only way you’re going to get ******** like me to shut up.”
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
You found the truck
attractive enough to her
to keep her standing up after each time you ran her down
Each time she saw you coming
She smiled in hope
And ran to the street, stood mid-lane, waving until that moment when
Your metal smashed her smile
Your rubber broke her fingers
and you had won.
Knowledge: My meager roadside curio is more to her than the fastest automobile hatred can build
And now, you do not drive this way very often, and nothing much makes me happier
But we both know the saying, "If I can't have her..."
And you managed that:
braces she has to wear now
slipped disks
scars all over her body
and heart...
She is a different person, and in that,
you have won,
as you couldn't have her,
and now neither do I.
But there is something else:
You forgot that my love is nearly unconditional.
Unconditional love does not exist.
My love is honest, pure,
Not the hardly-unconditional love most advertises as unconditional.
Not the kind that is plastic, and
flashing on a sign on the side of your vehicle
The one I read through tears
Each time
Her hand slipped from mine
as she ran to meet you.
I love her,
no matter what damage you have caused
no matter how long it takes to heal
no matter if it never heals
and in that,
you will never win.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
The day is sunny.
The time is a little past noon.
The red door casts a small shadow over the green grass.
If you stand there and close your eyes,
You could swear you hear a river as it dove through the forest.
But the river's not important.
What's important is the door, or rather, what's behind the door.
The door is never locked.
The **** is always loose and fits nicely in the palm of your hand.
You can look around the door.
There's nothing special about it.
It is painted in the most ordinary of red.
The molding on the frame is nothing to admire.
Its importance is almost never recognized at first.
Everyone will see this door in their lifetime, sometimes more than once.
Some even grasp the **** and give an tiny tentative turn.
But many, too many, will turn away.
Fear loves to sit by this door.
He will take the hand of anyone who'll embrace him.
He never solicits his services.
He never advertises.
Yet people flock to him like flies to honey.
Funny how flies also gather around garbage.
But if you ignore him you will find your hand on that doorknob.
Give it a turn and extend your arm.
Close your eyes.
Remember what it took to get here.
The door gives a satisfying creak.
The dour man besides the door gives a barely noticeable frown.
You notice how it almost seems to glide open on its hinges.
A small bead of sweat carves a path down his forehead.
You gently let go and allow the door to open.
Like it was made to do.
He looks ill.
Step on through.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
A monster waits for me
He sits.
He, the only gender a monster could be
He entertains the tantalizing prospect of his
tongue and teeth dancing over me
not just in my head
not just under my bed
not just there when the lights are off
But when I step outside my bedroom door
I can hear his roar
in my father's snore
This monster advertises what he'll do to me
on billboards, magazines, and movie screens
the scenes he paints
his paws on me and my kind
on us on we
begrudgingly our faces, our bodies on our hands and knees
below him, below it, that monster that thing
How the hell did we let him control everything
he makes us change our shape and size before
taking us to our demise
the siren mermaid framed to be an evil creature
merely just refusing to be prey
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
A kid makes a finger gun
With hammer thumb
To fire at passing traffic,
From the cover of his bunker bus stop;
In America he’d be an active shooter
**** they have names for it over there,
Here he’s just a ******* nuisance;
His shelter advertises a deodorant
Shaped just like and called bullet
Perhaps some subliminal message
Has entered his head
The power of advertising, the power of death.
For a deodorant that advocates love and attraction
It’s a strange message.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 5:45 PM UTC
I’ve been eating popcorn
out of my hat.
It was a freebie that I picked up
at the Gower town fair.
The hat advertises the
centennial anniversary of some local bank
that I’d not heard of until that day.
It was a hot day.
The sun was brutal,
trying to beat us down.
(Pops, the boys, & I.)
We’d walked the perimeter
of the park,
the town square,
in our efforts to see what was what.
We eventually settled on some
kettle corn,
a couple of BBQ
sandwiches apiece.
We’d brought
gas-station fountain drinks
with us;
sneaked ‘em right on in.
My sons found the rides
straightaway.
They spent about $20 of
mine and my own father’s
money.
They masked up,
were cautiously carefree;
stopping for squirts
of sanitizer between
swings, bounces, and bumps.
Pops and I
found a bench
away from everyone else.
I’d gotten him a hat too.
We used them to shield
our heads, our eyes
for the afternoon.
Today,
mine’s an impromptu,
improvised popcorn
bowl.
I’d lined it with a couple
of unfolded brown paper napkins
first;
proud of my ingenuity.
As I poured my first
cap full,
I could almost hear
my wife’s chiding
words.
I chuckled to myself
and
didn’t write them down.
I wrote these instead,
while I munched another
handful of popcorn
from my hat.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 8:11 PM UTC
And now the British heart foundation
advertises on the TV
a scenario where a ghostly dad appears to his son
his son in the middle of lessons at school
and says goodbye ..... basically im dead
son if only everyone would have chipped in their dimes and Dollars
Pound notes and Euros, pennies and inheritance I would have survived
to be a Dad this side of Hell for a few days more, if only everyone would pay up for a new fresh uncomplicated heart to live with
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
It was coming on darkness,
It was a Monday, the place was
closed, no lights, but 'say for a
neon Blue and Red Budweiser
sign flashing in the front window.
My father had built this place
over 72 years ago, his dream,
a Fried Chicken Restaurant in
a one trafic light, logging and
two mills town of 2800 souls.
Dad's "Chick-Inn" thrived for a time,
everyone loved his friend chicken,
this long before anyone out West
ever heard of the Southern Colonel.
Dad cooked and Mom ran the front.
On Saturday nights when the hard top
races were on, it was standing room
only. Even the railroad crews stopped
on the tracks and walked crossed the
Interstate to get a bite, Highway big rig
Truckers parked all over town to get a
good home cooked chicken dinner, or
chicken fried beef steak, hot biscuits
and gravy, best coffee for miles around.
That place nearly killed my parents,
opened at 6AM all three meals served
'till around 7PM, one day off on Mondays.
I was around 6 years old, I did not know
or appreciate how hard they slaved.
They persevered for a few years, then
sold the place and we moved on to a
bigger town and they to jobs less stressful,
they even bought their first home ever.
I remember the good smells from that kitchen
and sitting in one of the booths getting pleasant
attention from all the town folks. For my brother
and I even in old age, those are pleasant memories.
The old place looks pretty good, some new paint
and remodeling, the horseshoe counter is gone,
the seating is all different, no booths just tables.
It's now boasting "Fine Mexican Food Served Here",
and now some other family, one of many over all
these years I suspect, toils, mired in their dream of
restaurant ownership. The little town has not changed
much, one Mill closed down; one remains. It has
three traffic lights now and a population of 8000.
The sign outside the Fair Grounds a block away,
advertises "Hard Top Races this Saturday Night
Come One Come All."
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 7:29 PM UTC
When you walk into a little store
And spend some money on an item
If somebody gladly does this chore,
Does that mean that you should then like them?
Are their eyes a clever trap
That advertises their workplace?
Are they making you come back
By placing a smile on your face?
Can a stranger enjoy providing to
Someone who’s manipulating their skill?
For them, this kindness may not be new.
It might be their simple natural will.
Is kindness born of gratitude?
Are workers grateful to their flock?
Are jokes common and blank stares few?
Is this unique or is it not?
Am I worthy of this kindness
Or have I stolen offered grace
By acting like a normal person
And going to a normal place?
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
I just need some time away
To remember why I stay.
I dig my grave- a lifeless slave.
Busting away at earth
With my plague
Of words.
Build me up
To shoot me down
In the street with everyone watching.
You cannot **** the idea of peace,
Only the people who march
To its immaculate tune.
Leeching off of teachings
Of those who fought
These same battles
Before us-
In yesterday's’ pages of history.
You cannot ban words
From the herds
In a country that advertises
Freedom of speech.
The summer peach
Is turning grey.
Can you tell me
Why I stay?
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
Passion's root is in suffering.
Ecstasy's root is in exiting.
Orgasm's root is in ripening,
and none of this is convenient
despite what the pornographer
advertises.
Most sins are silent,
We garnish them quietly.
Desire and the devil deal
so subtle in the mind.
Seduction after seduction,
upon every glossy image we say,
'I'm not satisfied,'
till finally we consent to our slavery
in the service of The Emperor.
No voice, no vote, no volition -
It becomes a dry comfortable place
as we wait upon the occasional
splash of imperial fluid.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC