"balding" poems
Neat orderly lines of chairs,
Rattling biro pens in sweaty palms,
An echoing hall of icy airs.
Exhaling teens failing to stay calm,
A balding figure pouting sternly,
Glares over nervous beings.
Announcing the rules that concern me,
Gulping down that sinking feeling.
A monotone drill bellows out,
I open my paper to 1A.
Oh Christ, what is this all about.
Questions so vague, I don’t know what to say.
This theme remains to continue,
Frying my brain, gnawing at my wit.
A piercing doubt seeps through,
for the rest of the exam I sit.
Seconds to minutes, minutes to hours,
Developing the skill needed to cope.
But my heart persists to cower
Falling lower, as if on a slope.
A bell calls out to signal the end,
I place down my pen somehow.
“How’d it go” asks my friend,
“Alright, double maths now!”.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
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
Fred Gorgeous works as a Valet
at a reputable tall hotel
with pools
with marble bathrooms
and those marble bathrooms have marbled ********
marbled sinks where the elderly pinch out blood from their lungs
Fred Gorgeous is balding
he wears glasses
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous listens to love songs in spanish alone
Fred Gorgeous has a Dog
his dog barks at nothing
his dog never sleeps
his dog is ugly too
his dog has brown black eyes and a blue collar
Fred Gorgeous has eyes too
his eyes are green
Fred Gorgeous lives in an apartment downtown
Police sirens quake through the city atmosphere like World War 1 **** chemical war fare
Fred Gorgeous submerges himself underwater in his un-marble bath tub
Fred Gorgeous can still hear the Police Sirens
they have tainted the water too
Fred Gorgeous was in love once
many times
but mostly once
Fred Gorgeous smokes cigarettes
Fred Gorgeous listens to Spanish music in the afternoon
while the city is at work
while the kids are at school
while the drunks are drunk in drunk encouraging residents
Fred Gorgeous buys cheap wine
3 dollars a bottle
Fred Gorgeous isn't gorgeous at all
Fred Gorgeous is 34 years old
He is bored
He is not tired
He has 3 pairs of shoes
All of them leather
Fred Gorgeous gets drunk and lays in his closet
the size of a Coffin
and smells his shoes
Fred Gorgeous enjoys the smell of leather and shoe polish
Fred Gorgeous isn't special
Fred Gorgeous isn't great
Fred Gorgeous isn't brave
or a hero
Fred Gorgeous isn't anything at all
Fred Gorgeous has a painting of a tornado on his wall.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
some balding angels weave together the soldiers
of god the work of a spider the star of despair
local insects, tennis players in
spite of the nets in spite of
the insolent blue which limits us
which nonetheless continues to charm the readers
of english magazines
3.5k
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Now that it's past the time
that all reasonable people go to sleep,
I warm my engine
and roll alone through sick slickened city streets.
Roads rise up in strips
there polished black backs reflect up a red ribbon of road
beaming down from the two electric eyes,
telling me where to head to next.
With concentration my eyes pick shadows from the dark
and i slide past them
breaking there delicate images
with the water that whips off my balding wheels.
The radio blares stupidly
because he's a ladies man
because they aren't going to take it
because he has 99 problems
because Jesus loves you
because...
There is no reason for this.
For burning fossil fuels
as i rip through the frigid night.
No reason,
for singing the tune
to the words i don't know.
No reason,
for speeding up
and letting go.
No reason,
to let myself spin at last
screeching,
screaming,
and finally smiling,
through that final crossroad.
They will find me,
broken and content,
blood pooling and painting,
a polished portrait of my shortened and hurried life.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
She's blond, sleek, and hot--
Complaining about failing
A tough college course.
Busy barristers,
Make lattes, teas, and smoothies
On Valentine's Day.
She's quiet and shy;
Holds head down, sips a mocha,
Reads romance novel.
Nice, pretty women
Without candies or flowers,
Not looking for love.
Old, balding, obese--
He does not look too happy,
Wonder if he smiles.
Nice Asian features,
With a body to die for...
Still, she's not my type.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:44 PM UTC
I killed myself today.
It was too much.
The debt,
The expectations,
The hippies,
The stonefaced
Unsympathetic Vietnam vets asking me if I was a *****
To tell you the truth, Gus,
You've got to be pretty **** ******** to slit that throat,
To pull that trigger,
To hang that corpse from a rafter high.
But I did it classy.
Yeah.
I died like a Roman who had plotted against great Caesar.
I went home,
Slipped into the tub wearing a suit I pieced together from Uptown Thrift.
As the scorching water flowed,
I sipped wine and read the bible.
King James Version only, mind you.
As the water approached my neck I shut it off.
I laughed at the hypocrisy:
A suicide scene with a bible strewn about.
I muttered,
Then took the knife and opened up my veins.
I bled out.
My thoughts drifted to depressing things:
My 2 year old brother working a night shift at Walmart holding back his tears while being yelled at by a balding middle aged man who never did anything with his life,
A dog corpse ***** and mutilated by some *******
A banker smoking a cigarette and laughing in an infant's face,
And the world turning on.
As it always does.
As it always will.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
A Tribute
A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….
The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.
The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.
The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
I'll love you
From silky smooth
To wrinkled,
From sane
To senile,
I'll love you
From sandy blonde or brunette
To ashen grey or balding white,
From twenty/twenty
To glaucoma,
I'll love you
From hushed whispers
To hearing aids,
From skips and hops
To rascal scooters,
I'll love you
From fast food and coke
To ensure and depends,
From broken fingernails
To fractured hips,
I'll love you
From baby boy
To great grandchildren,
From skydives
To rocking chairs,
I'll love you
From glitter
To pill reminders,
From off the lot
Until rusted into the ground,
I'll love you
From now
To forever,
From hello
To the grave...
APAD13 - 058 © okpoet
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Moving through the night, feigning sleep,
eyes closed mind open to the possibilities
that all we thought was known, is now not true.
That we are being cared for too, instead why
is a balding wolf chewing at my pain in the neck.
The pig is a snake and has a forked tongue,
fattens you with comfort as long as you like
blood tipped sharp barbed wire, ***** coated
to guarantee you catch something, even if it is
too late, to recognize the calamity.
Don't blame the pig, "all animals are created equal
but some animals are more equal than others"
So on the morrow we may become as unglued as
what we open, hopin' for a merciful gated pasture
rather than a lamb for the slaughter as fast as
it can be manufactured.
Oh sorry to disturb you,
I know you don't understand,
I mustn't either as then I would
not need poetry...to lie with me
and dry my tears each one wet
with fear that I torture myself,
sadly I know already that I am
right, but I am not up for
this
fight.
I will lose...no honour in this, against my beliefs,
my grief a failure will erode my will to breath,
so sorry go about your night or day, I don't
mean to disturb, let me fester, let me rot,
you all are, all I got Hello, goodbye.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
I bought some Dr. Martens
a leather jacket to go with
T-shirts, logo'd
Nirvana, *** Pistols, Incubus
but what I wanted to buy
was the swagger
the intense feeling
of not giving a ****
I'm going to live forever
and there's nothing you can do
about it
invincible
with attitude
spitting in the street
I used to watch The ******
Motorhead
Conflict
I was there as the Police
went in hard on horseback
but the only attitude I found
was the young kid serving
looking me up and down
thinking
midlife crisis
you fat, balding
grey haired old ***
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
I despair
I’m losing my hair
No girl will care
I’ll just have to use that line so corny
that us balding men are extra *****
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
hot
volcanic
spewing volcanic ash over the
toilet
that cheesy bean burrito wasnt a good idea
hot springs
sooth my buttox
so does
the
brown
family
there are 17 glorious children
4 old wives
and one balding man
we call
god
master
father
***
POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP
(rap voice)
kody brown is comin to town
wanting to turn his frown
upside down
lookin for da kids
lookin for da girls
lookin for an ice cream truck for da swirl
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
b a b y l o n
babylon tigger thats where ill always ben
success every plate
my last name was christ
grindin dreams
one
pun
smoe quest
ever1
connely
receeding forehead
meadows of lava spewing fro m my a s s
PEACE
####################
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Part 1
"How about some long beautiful hair" the Santa says
The little girl rubs her head bald and veiny
She looks like a baseball
"No. It doesn't get in my eyes anymore when I play basketball" she says
The bunch of us
Sunken eyed and balding
In wheelchairs and on crutches
Some of us holding our I.V. stands for support
I can only imagine how the Santa feels
The tiniest zombies
All waiting for a turn
Me
I have silver caps on my top front teeth
And dentures
Look like an old Cadillac
Insides all rust and rumble
We all want to know if we were good this year
Part 2
Cut to the bunch of us
Watching the Blue Angels air show
All getting pictures with a man dressed as Shamu
He is supposed to write something on the backs of all the pictures
I try to imagine
What you could possibly write
To a group of kids that looked like us
Each photo
In shaky black ink
Because whales aren’t prehensile
He writes
I love you
Part3
When the circus came to the hospital
We all gathered on a balcony
The news was there
Clowns painted our faces
I asked if they had room for me
Told them I could be like that guy
From the 007 movies
With the silver teeth that could bite really big stuff
They said I might miss my folks
I told them I wouldn’t
Then took off my gown
To show them my scars
They weren’t impressed
Ever since I’ve wanted to join the circus
Part 4
Despite our qualifications
We could not join the circus
But that is okay
All we wanted really
Was to know if we were good
And that somebody loved us
We were
And somebody did
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I miss the look in your eyes,
The excitement in your smile,
And the touch of your hand,
I miss the sweet smell of your morning breath,
The way your hair sticks out in every which way, it possibly can,
And you twirling your leg hair into tiny little pine trees,
While passing the time away.
I miss your two front teeth,
And being calmed down by your voice,
I miss your billions of self-pics,
Let’s not forget you leaving your stuff everywhere,
Yeah, I can’t believe I miss it either,
And the ridiculousness of your lovely, barely noticed Canadian accent
I miss you fretting over balding,
I miss hearing about the way you love your family
And our awesome God talks, I miss listening to you pray,
Hearing you practice guitar,
I miss seeing you every freakin’ day!
I miss our weirdness,
I miss you knowing exactly what I’m trying to say,
Filling in my broken sentences,
Filling in the gaps to my half-sung songs, singing the parts I don’t know, loud and clear,
And agreeing with my odd observations, as if it was a great one,
I miss you giving me the benefit of the doubt, just being so sweet and polite, listening,
You were always good at listening,
I miss watching funny movies with you, and telling you you’re wrong, when you knew you were right all along, and then me coming back to you and telling you how right you are!
I miss being near you, and laughing with you,
I miss the way you half laugh at something silly or dumb I say
And half-rolling your eyes, the way you do, when I am ludicrous!
I miss the way you are, on your good days, on your reserved days,
On your sad days, on those awkward days, on the days I couldn’t be near you,
On every single day I ever had with you, I miss those days…
And I miss your face, and I miss your heart, and I miss you more,
Every day and every second, I am missing you, when we are apart.
…even if you never know, if you never care, if it doesn’t matter, if it never will, I still, am madly in love with you and am missing you like Jesus misses those lost souls.
I miss you, here, now, forever, and I will always love you, and be fighting to forget you, always…always, my dear.
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 8:38 PM UTC
Blue jeans worn for days,
slick with grease and filth
hung around the
hips of my step-father,
Caterpillar-brown boots
coated with dust
Hanes t-shirt hung loosely,
sweaty and smelly,
his big ears and balding
head that would
reflect the evil
light of his soul-less-ness,
blue eyes glazed over with
lust for helpless
12-year-old girls
and a smile that
could coat my heart with ice
Now he is old
Afraid of death,
My icy smile gloats.
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
Back when I was a follower
I had a good friend Ed
He grew up amongst the Alps
His Pops worked for the Ambassador
Details left unsaid
Ed could climb the steepest crags
Like a mountain goat on ****
And ski the steepest slopes
Like a rocket on a sled
As I said
I was a follower back then
And my friend Ed
With his prematurely balding pate
Would chuckle at my dread
Following him up a sheer rock face
Free style climbing into outer space
Rappelling down the other side
No belay to slow my glide
I remember the first time
Ed led me wrong
Clinging tightly like a lover
Halfway up the face
Hugging tightly a giant rock
Like a gambler hugs an Ace
No holds left or right, up or down
Too scared to breathe or shout for help
Till there was Ed like a monkey scurrying round
A smile of reassurance
Laughing at my plight
“Left hand here, right hand there
“Right foot to the left, left foot to the right”
Till finally at the top
Sweating, swearing, trembling
Lying on my back
He sitting there without a twitch
Thanks Ed, you Son of a *****
And then we hit the slopes
Ed starting with the Black
Piece of cake he said
I thought I had the knack
First mogul flying high
Second one I kissed the sky
Third I began the tumble
All head and *** and skis
Face buried in the freeze
I knew it would come one day
Ed asking me to dive
He didn’t mean the water
Ed loved to dive the skies
Finally I decided
No more the follower to be
I repeated the grunts number one rule
The only things that fall from the sky
The snow, the rain, bird **** and fools
We shed our uniforms
Said our goodbyes and headed home
Me to the South and East
Ed further West and North to roam
Last I heard my friend Ed was dead
Jumping from a bridge
The final dive for my friend Ed
Deep into a river gorge
I think he just got bored
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
i am a damsel in distress
not the fairy tale kind of an unknown princess trapped in a tall tower hidden from the world by their evil stepmom, waiting for their one true love to save them, but the modern kind
just like the princess i need saving from an evil stepmom but this modern day evil is in a different form.
this modern day evil stepmom is not a person but people and their mindset/views on women
i need saving from the stereotypes people have created about women
how we are weak, “moody”, and just an object with a pretty face
i need saving from the fact that i don’t have the right to my own body for what i should like is determined by balding, middle aged white males who photoshop every picture ill ever see of a woman
i need saving from the fact that women have their own catagorey when it comes to jobs.
if we were in an office job setting stereotypically the male would be the boss/CEO and the women would be his assistant/secretary, but in reality the roles could be reversed for womnen can do exactly what men can do
i need saving from the fact that women get paid less than men, and yea its a $0.22 difference but thats not what i need saving from i need saving from the fact that women arent viwed as equals to men
i need saving from the fact that women cant wear what they want for they will be cat called by men who have no personalities
i need saving from the fact that it is my fault for being sexually harassed because my skirt was too short or because you could see my bra strap, like really?! COME ON! all women wear bras its nothing special!
now i bet youre all wondering the really inportant question…
who will be the one true love to save me and all women?
trick question!
its yourselves we are the one who must save ourselves by changing our viewpoints and spreading the word on why others should change them too
so then eventually there will be no such thing as a modern day damsel in distress
but for now there is
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
for me it's still the memory
of travelling on the no. 86 bus
to school, really
loving robert plant's song
darkness, darkness
and morning dew reading
voltaire - both songs from the
album dreamland -
a compensation for the last album
by led zeppelin having exhausted
their togetherness of stating something,
i don't know why i sided with
collecting the oeuvre of led zeppelin
and not black sabbath -
but still that bus journey that took
about an hour and two buses -
across cold crisp green belt, just sitting
there listening to music and reading
a book, while the same of rosa parks'
effort sat in the back (as usual) jabbering
like parrots and not stoic enough
to place all our supposed origins -
rosa parks, your effort became futile -
your kindred still preferred the back
of the bus, where they could get rowdy
with girls who'd not **** me, thanks,
i can't be bothered to live a white girl,
i'll stick to the art,
now i couldn't walk down a high street
eyeing shops' content holding her hand
without being too irritated and wishing
to run into a forest
and swim in fallen autumnal leaves
smelling the sweetness of death
where death sweet, the only sweetness
of death is among autumnal leaves fallen,
this strange Aphrodite, this
strange autumnal Aphrodite sea, this sea
of leaves, and i have, fallen into it
and swam in it in the brisk cool of night
when this sea is most porous to
secrete the perfume a dead body of a man
or fox could never do;
O the sweet scented dead sea of the
autumnal Aphrodite balding and shedding leaves,
to litter the forest floor, and me
slain in it nonetheless still living -
parisian perfumeries can hide and squalor in shame
compared to the odour of the autumnal Aphrodite sea
of dead leaves beneath the craniums of alveoli
sketches of the naked trees.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
In my house there is a cupboard
Full of VHS tapes
One of them is a recording of a news broadcast
On it I stand
Hospital gowned and smiling
Clowns are there on the terrace where it was filmed
Painting our faces
They all smile
I smile
The other kids smile
None of us over 4 feet
But balding
Black eyed and missing toothed
A clown takes my hand and begins to paint
It is cold
The paint
And the Terrace
I tell her how I want to run away with her
She smiles
Maybe
On camera
You can see my back through the open gown
The bones make me look like a brontosaurus
I turn to the camera
Remembering I was told never to smile with the paint on
or it will crack
The circles under my eyes are gone
My lips are red
My cheeks are tan
I look normal
Off camera
mommies and daddies are crying
Off camera
the clowns are crying
On camera
There is a terrace full of dying children
In a hospital
And we all looked normal
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 11:25 AM UTC