"aired" poems
Off she went all dressed up to meet the guy she swiped left upon.
Five feet 10 his profile said but that's where all the lies began!
In she walked in her killer heels, eyes wide and bright to look for him.
But not a sign of him to see had he stood her up? How dare he!
Then at the bar worst for wear she saw his face and balding head.
How had he aged so much, so soon from the photos that made her swoon.
Well the truth aired and shots were fired, Napoleon's descendant had clearly lied!
The CEO of a successful business would be up at 5 for the newspaper deliveries.
His holiday home was a caravan, in the **** of Wales where no one went.
His hair had gone south long ago and his belly was chasing it now as well.
But in all of this, had she lied? Was she 48 or 55?
Had those lips been rendered too? With botox and the wrinkles smoothed.
At 48 or 55 that dress had some riples inside.
The parts Spanx can't control, where age and love handles roll.
She stayed they drank. Then drank again and laughed and talked of other things.
They danced made shapes for all to see like watching a form of epilepsy.
They left at one her shoes in hand, holes in her tights, lipstick smeared upon his cheek and a room to find to seal the deal.
Promises made to meet again and drink and dance and meet their friends.
Next week he was sat at the very same bar, watching the door for her enterance!
She? Oh no, nowhere to be seen. Across the town at another scene. This time an accountant, chartered too!
But we all know it isn't true.
Fairytale endings nowhere to be seen. Just nights of ****** and living the dream.
All in all is this all that they want? Repeating the cycle over again.
With another fool in fancy dress?
Viewed from the bottom of an empty glass.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 8:49 PM UTC
Before you talk behind my back
Know, that I am a human being
So are you
Surely, I am
flawed, messed up, broken, scarred
but I bet, so are you
You and I arr very different,
whether I know you, or not,
whether you know me or not
my ***** laundry, is mine
and so is yours
and I bet that you wouldn't like it if anyone
anyone
aired your laundry without your knowing
or approval
or created laundry, that was not even there
your jealousy, is not my problem
your anger isn't either
surely, i understand
people react in different ways
but please,
before you go around talking behind my back
know that i am human
that i have feelings
and i bet you do too
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
I was born
In metal and machines
Taken from my innertia
and used for anothers gain
until I was discarded
floating lifeless
useless
But then I came to rest
Here, among the golden sands
In this salty aired serenity
Away from the torment of man
and I once again found innertia.
and my peace resumed.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
My momma always said
"it's not how big the suitcase is, it's how much you're willing to carry",
and I carried your bag, with its patches
knowing inside was your ***** laundry, that you slowly aired over time.
Even your broken bits, and holed jeans became sacred to me-
the smell of you left after on my skin,
but, you never let me unpack the whole bag,
always kept a side compartment up your sleeve.
And my arm slowly became numb,
when I realized that I still held mine,
even though the clasp was broken-
bits of me strewn about, laid bare for you to see
Though you did help fold nicely,
you handed my pieces promptly back to me-
I wonder if some fibers stuck, some little bits of me,
like your neighbors dog's hair on your shirt
does my smell come back to you in a rush,
the feeling of our fingers brushing as I handed back your bag?
We are parting at the fork, both taking our separate things,
but are you giving up, or is this a temporary farewell,
before you fly through my door,
throw off your shoes,
set down your things,
and proclaim "sweetheart, have my bag, I'm here to stay!"
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
A hand on a throat, where if all fingers touch, the throat
turns to ash. The villain of an anime I now watch
clutches the hero with his middle-finger aired
before the vital moment. I jump
on holiday off a cliff
and my chest stumbles with simulations. My body angled
poorly as I could slap headfirst. I was warned that my feet
should sink first if I merely fall. If I dive, my fingers
should first touch the water. I am depressed
the months before. College student, America. So far off, so cold
from the landlock of my birth. And the summer
study-abroad, double-abroad. In Italy
I was watching the Creation show itself on old ceilings
in marble-rooms, looking for some culture
that might have been ours if not for the pillagings that brought
gold and bodies to shape that gold into buildings like this. So I jump
and fall. And shiver emptily. It is the same feeling as the nights
on the bed thinking of futures without this self. Thinking as if
I did not exist. Ignored emails from therapists. And here *this
feeling!*: it made me want to live. So I jump again
on the higher ledge. My friend afterwards asks if I'm okay.
I'm shaking slightly. I'm without words. I laugh
with the same absence as any birth. A baby's confused cry
without tears. A long way down. What blue-green water,
as if dug for in the earth and sold for courtyard dances.
It glimmers all over my body, frizzes
up my hair as my ****** curls soak it, squeezes it down my face,
down towards my neck like fingers.
The villain walks away. The next time the hero sees him
he should be careful. He will have decided to **** me by then.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.
Now let me lie down, under
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel-faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.
For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it-
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.
3.1k
Can peanuts breathe within their shell?
When they’re eaten, might they go to hell?
Or are they, truly, lifeless nuts
No sadness, madness, or stagnant ruts
Perhaps the peanut has a king
A mighty ruler that makes the law
Or perhaps the peanut has a queen
A tender mother without flaw
Who knows, the peanut could be grand
With magical tales of Peanut land
Castles, Wizards and Warrior hunts
Pursuing their foes, Macadamia Nuts!
Galloping upon their steeds
Peanut’s charge! Peanuts Breathe!
Screams so loud the birds doth fall
Pulverizing the enemy’s wall
Now the Peanuts have an “in”
They focus their gaze upon the ****
Hoarding together & funneling thru
Macadamia nuts receiving a chill
Piercing shells for 3 long days
Injured Peanuts in gruesome ways
Mournful moans of agony
Numbers declined, so tragically
Is this the end of Peanut land?
Why couldn’t the Peanut still be grand?
“Get up I say and finish your quest!”
The Peanuts did and fought their best
Above the smoke, white flags flew
The Peanuts emerged victorious!
Striding thru familiar front gates
Returning home, so glorious!
Perhaps, in fact, this story is true
That Peanuts breathe like me and you
But one might wonder of Peanut land…
How Peanuts ride with no hands
And if you truly wish to know
How Peanuts talk and Peanuts grow
Open your ears and do come hither
“Duh! The Peanuts have a Wizard!”
Oh, the tales and jokes they tell
One day, they’ll be on TV
Perhaps in films known by all
Like, “Harry Peanut,” aired by BBC
Or, maybe they are just meant for our bars
And smashed and spread upon your bread…
But next time you eat this salt sprinkled treat,
Ponder, “am I sure this Peanut is dead?”
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
With frenetic horns he gores
The limp woman
Nipple-aired
Draped on his bulging forearms
Undoubtedly bronzed
By Mediterranean suns
Or paled
By subterranean shadows
She is either praying or panting
Fainting or fawning
Framed
In an unimagined tense
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 10:48 PM UTC
A flickering illumination in a damp-aired room.
This lonely, glowing aura is the centerpiece of a dark abyss.
Crevices of this dungeon hide walls adourned with filth.
Suddently, wax drips from the candle reverberating an eerie echo.
This startles the only creature thriving in this everlasting, sinister darkness.
Awakened by the cease in silence and intriguied by the flame,
The moth leaves the safety of darkness and innocently begins to fly.
As he gently flutters towards the flame the moth feels something foreign --warmth.
Instinct tells him to continue flapping towards this otherwordly glow.
As if blind from birth and finally given sight, the moth now feels alive.
The combination of heat and light is addicting, he carniverously lusts for more.
Once innocent, the moth has now been corrupted by sheer ectasy.
Now, ceremoniously circling the flame basking in its heavenly glory.
Drunken with greed, the moth hastily swoops within inches of the flame.
A snakelike hiss consumes the room. --Darkness.
Its ravenous haste extinguished its short-lived salvation.
Now, cold as one-thousand winters, the moth can only dream of his lost savior
It can only wish that it had gone up in flames along with the candle now. . .
that pain would last a millisecond.
This pain is eternal.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:13 AM UTC
...
And this palpating heart beats so
quickly for the thirst oh
the thirst for life in its purest and impurest forms
to run quickly through in glittering veins oh
let it find the music to drown in the vibrating rhythms of the earth,
and let it experience
the surge of a beautiful madness in heart
a first past midnight kiss upon a moving train
or shared ringing laughters of a cluster upon a mountain top
with its twinkle of a foreign city lights as if pausing to say
yes, this night, this city is yours, and so is the world-
no matter
it wants to drink it all
in hurried golden gulps for it ignites the colored sparks
illumination in the fire-aired sky
for celebration of us;
of the gift of youth and age because our seconds are only receding and
it is only here and now
so when you take one sip you cannot help
but savor and
embrace it whole again and again and
take all of it
in its whole glorious madness
P.K.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
I'm writing on my feet
I'm writing on a sheet
I'm writing on a budget
Feels like writing in a closet
Yeah, a budget of air
Limited oxygen's a dangerous affair
I scribble like the last seconds of a test
The words come tumbling out
Like bees from a nest
And then suddenly its over
My mind's been bared
It's like my closet's been aired
I breathe easy and I smile
I put my pen down and walk the last mile
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 4:43 AM UTC
“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”
They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,
Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’
They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,
They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.
Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Streetlights illuminate early morning fog
as night passed it's song down river
to the open sea.
As the curtain lifted
in this center of town,
those who are curious
peer through broken slats
to catch his eyes fixated on possibilities never realized.
Within this thick aired and desperate
theater of the round,
he was a tall man even lying on the ground.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Miss America 1977, the 50th Miss America pageant,
was held at the Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City,
New Jersey on September 11, 1976 & aired on NBC Network:
Winner Dorothy Benham, Miss Minnesota,
became a singer,
on the Crystal Cathedral's
Hour of Power;
Among the other contestants in 1977
was Miss Florida,
TV actress Nancy Stafford,
&
actress Karen Kopins,
Miss Connecticut;
Another was Patsy Paugh, Miss West Virginia,
who later became the mother
& in 1996, suspected killer
of postmodernist icon Jon Benet Ramsey
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.
My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.
Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble
Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
Trying to mend the cracks with this battered ***** Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.
Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.
It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!
You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.
Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
Crush.
crack.
Crunch.
Reassemble
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.
The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running
The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.
The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight
It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.
Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes
The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
As zeptoseconds strike
their matchsticks against brick
walls, the pith of this waxy
body gleams.
Stiffly unsound in its granting,
vitally huffing its gangly ghost.
As heavy in sound as the weight
of the world unmoved, trying
the vault of heaven.
Scaring birds across the parables
of clouds, eyefuls are swept away
by closed lids.
Wedged between dreams to ooze honey
fuzzy from the bee's buzz.
Of freshly aired confessions
that pre-box their black, after
violently shaking the perfume from
flowers to place upon.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 12:28 PM UTC
Do you ever think of me?
And the friendship that we shared
And when the next Dr. Who’s aired
Will you ever think of me?
Do you ever think of me?
When you're playing on your phone
When sitting in your room alone
Will you ever think of me?
Do you ever think of me?
When you're playing with your toy
And when the dragon you employ
Will you think of me?
Do you ever think of me?
When you read or when you write
When there's a poem within sight
Will you ever think of me?
Do you ever think of me?
If you do what are your thoughts
Are they of a friendship lost?
What do you think of me?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Sometimes I find it amusing
that all our ***** laundry
is aired out on two webpages
for all to see, if only they
could connect the dots.
But then, this is far
from an ordinary clothesline.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
Even if I never
write another piece
of my garbage that I call
Poetry
I'm still a reader of such
and stagnant pieces
are just a *******
for contemptuous lust
and soul *******
forms part of the Universe
as such
I absolutely refuse
to read something
Untitled
It ***** me completely
that you can sit down
and completely unload
Emotions uncontainable
Not just on a page
Ink veins open and dripping
but by making your fingers move
making your brain communicate
with extremities can be
exhausting
and still you lay bare
-
all your nakedness
and angst
and your happiness
wrapped inside sadness
and refuse it a name?
What?
You think after you've aired
all your ***** laundry,
hung your intestines
out to dry, as you stitch together
the cavity that once held your heart
It's okay to simply expel your breath
take a look at what you wrote
and call it Art?
Even though its nameless?
I call it irresponsible
to that which you gave birth
and left it rotting in the ether
with no title to ground it to earth
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
Aton sa liwat handurawon
Ang isa ka maragtason nga tini-on
Tini-on kon sa diin naghugpong kita
Agud tapuson ang diktadurya
Diktadurya nga sa aton nagpamigos
Naghatag sg kahadlok kg pag-antos
Gamit ang kamot nga salsalon
Mga krony naghari sa gobierno naton
Ang kahilwayan sa pagpahayag
Hinali nga natiphag
Naglala ang komunismo kg terorismo
Kg pagbayular sg kinamatarong sg tawo
Gani kita nagsinggit sa mga dalan
Nga ang gobierno dapat na islan
Kg sang ginpatay si Ninoy Aquino
Kg sang sa Sanap Election kita ginunto
Minilyon nga mga tawo naghugpong sa EDSA
Kg nagsinggitan nga “Tama na! Sobra na!”
Sa tunga sg mga soldado kg tangke
Imol, manggaranon, babayi, lalaki, estudyante, mga madre
Matawag ini nga isa ka mirakulo
Kay wala sg gamo kg nag-agay nga dugo
Isa ini ka rebolusyon nga mahidaeton
Inspirasyon sg tanan nga mga nasyon
Amo ini ang legasiya sg mga Pilipino
Nga dapat ipabugal sa tanan nga tawo!
-02/11/2014
(Dumarao)
*written this Evelio Javier Day in Panay…aired on Bombo News Analysis in Feb. 24, 2014
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
On the first night of the Festivus All grievances were aired
But after a few cups of *** our feelings were repaired
The Festivus pole shone brightly, illumined by a single light.
The alcohol flowed freely, this would be no silent night.
Cousin Jerry in the corner was caught snogging with Elaine.
George’s girl was laughing as he struggled to explain
The cause of her disappointment (shrinkage was to blame).
Cosmo Kramer danced around the pole, making spirits bright.
Newman spilled the bowl of punch,( he never was too bright).
Frank and Estelle were doing well and feeling little pain.
She pinned him in the feat of strength, not that he complained.
When the meal was over and the holiday was done
They all made their donations to support the Human fund.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
A flower,
Blood-red, fiery, blazing yet not burning,
Grows from the earth
Watered by the blood and tears
Of dying children clutched to the
The ******* of their mothers’ skeletons
Planted in soil
Rich with the bones of soldiers, of warriors,
Of fathers, brothers and sons long dead
Aired by the final breath
Of a thousand innocent souls
Crying in anguish
Screaming in pain
Fading into nothingness
Dying away.
Growing
Developing in all its beauty,
All its deadly beauty,
Death’s flower of doom,
The lily of the valley of death
Death’s ever beautiful
Ever lovely,
Ever deadly rose of sharon.
War.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC