"beater" poems
I’m running in circles
I’ve got a scattered brain
Does this look normal?
Or have I gone insane?
I tired of the 9-5
Just look in my eyes
This job is draining me
Of my creativity
And happy vibes
I come home and I just wanna die
It doesn’t help that I live
In a lions den
Every morning I wake up
There’s a beautiful silence
And then
Noon comes around here comes
Big mama with a big ole frown
I thought I’d just chill on my day off
Rent is paid but it ain’t enough
I think I need some air
Maybe I should go to my moms house
And see if my family cares
Ha Ha
I needed that laugh
Look at me
I’ve begun to chaff
Anything to just break a smile
People swear I’m crude or ******* vile
Yet we got fools praising a dead man
A woman beater a native to gang land
I’m just trying to get my head straight
Don’t bother me now
No time to contemplate
Tummy’s hungry
And I’ve got an empty plate
Jun 21, 2018
Jun 21, 2018 at 6:24 PM UTC
Stuck to the wall
with a pirate cringe, positivity illegal as sin
good vibes that almost hurt
like a wife-beater's undershirt
Tough to clean, hard to keep
even when the ground is getting steep
going up
They say it doesn't slam, gives you chance
it lays the land ahead
But I find the blue skies like to turn scarlet
and slip faithless from my wake
It's all me, all me
driving a stake through every chance I get
At regaining decorum--
which is hard to keep, tough to clean
after a massacre, a true disaster
The lawful bickers
of a girl curling in disgust because...
Because positivity feels counter-productive
Not to mention a little too...
Seductive.
These words are brought to you by a petty fit,
not a frolick, nor even
a moment of in-betweenness--
A damned-darling particulate fire
going up
I'm a lost soul, fingers cold
Stuck to the wall and let out a pirate cringe--
why don't you--
satisfy me with positivity legal as sin
Give me those good vibes, make them hurt
like a lover's wife's lacy undershirt
Nice and clean, hard to keep
especially when you're in. Too. Deep.
But you're only going up.
From. Here.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
The race isn't for the fastest,
But for those who can endure it until the end.
Boy like a cheater and a world record beater,
On the running track with his sponsored spiked sneakers.
Ready for the race and the crowd's screaming BOLT!!
An athlete's little secret later on was unfold.
Deceiver in the eyes and loyal in disguise.
A proper pro player, with heavy bonds and ties.
Not in it for it but in it for the fame,
Forgetting about the hard-work, sweat, loss and pain.
An athlete's little secret, later on explained.
People, can you trust in the one you trusted before?
Or even the one who stand among you today?
Their lies and deceits are like roaring storms,
And they are like animals that are very hard to tame.
But they took it upon themselves playing a dangerous game.
An athlete's little secret, later on in shame.
They took drugs like all around the clock.
The more drugs they took, the more enhanced they got.
But then they got exposed and hid in shame.
I guess that drugs didn't help their strive to fame.
Left in the dark and loss all but everything,
Can people still trust? Can a second chance be given?
An athlete's little secret, later on forgotten.
An athlete's little secret, later all on the news,
An athlete's little secret, so much they had to loose.
A athlete's little secret, once a try and a glance,
An athlete's little secret, there is no second chance.
An athlete's little secret, there's no more to say,
An athlete's little secret, the bed you made to lay.
The world once had great and untouchable athletes.
Who had admiring levels of personas.
Who truly understood what hard-work brings,
And who went through pain and unbearable things.
But there are some who stoop really low,
Just so they can bring a medal home.
Bronze or silver, none or gold,
An athlete's little secret later on was told.
Based on this topic and what I have learnt.
The lost of young athletes made me felt hurt.
But it's not fake it's all reality.
This fight isn't against powers nor principalities.
But a fight to teach honesty and give all of your heart.
An athlete's little secret, a fight to make it last.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Hey young man, wanna join a frat?
Cool wife beater and a backwards hat?
Come with us, be one of the "bros"
And help us pull some cute little hos.
All you gotta do is follow our rules
Play along and we'll provide the tools.
To be one of the coolest kids here.
Just take a shot and slam a beer.
******* come your way as soon as you join.
All over you like you got loads of coin.
Scoring ******* left and right.
Getting ***** every night.
Frat boy Brad must have forgot since he was drunk.
With this kind of attitude, you'll surely flunk.
But if you don't care about your future, stand up and say:
"I compromised my morals, but it's O.K.!"
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:08 PM UTC
I pull into my driveway and
my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a
wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with
his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small
and he's owned since 2005.
nearly every part of him is
large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes
from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from
his perpetually messy house
(his door is wide open, all the
cold air is escaping, it smells like
cigarettes and being ******* over it).
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before,
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid god forsaken piece of **** apartment
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all
standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
I wonder why you want to row
When there are just so many terms to know
Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water,
Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to
Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces,
Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t)
So forgive me if I leave some out.
Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell):
The seat you sit on,
slides, backstop, shoes and riggers.
The skeg that stabilizes the shell,
shoulder, saxboard, and pogies.
The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place,
swivel, stretcher and rollers.
Now for the oar (or rather the scull):
There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade,
Smoothie or Tulip.
Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ?
An Airstroke (in the air) ,
backsplash, backwater, or body stroke,
Go on bury the blade, check the cover,
but don’t catch a crab!
Mind out for the drunken spider,
watch the feather and the finish,
Inside hand, outside hand,
hands away, miss the water,
Leg back, lie back,
pause the paddling, watch the pitch,
Release and recover,
don’t shoot your slide,
Swing the stroke rate,
and space those puddles.
Careful there’s no skying,
and absolutely no washing out.
Ready for a repecharge?
Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater?
Ask the *** to call a flutter.
Easy oars
Hold her hard
Ship oars
One foot up & out
Waist, ready, up
Shoulders, ready, up
Way enough!
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
He tosses in his sleep
He never gets a good night's rest
He tosses in his sleep
He never gets a good night's rest
His mind is tired but can't control what's in his chest
She tosses in her sleep
Dreaming of a better place
She tosses in her sleep
Dreaming of a better place
She gave up looking and now she's got tears on her face
He wears a cigarette
She wears a bayonet
He drives a beater and she drives a swift Corvette
He's not a cheater and she's one he won't forget
He's got a plan
But doesn't know how to start
He's got a plan
But doesn't know how to start
He's too young to understand the language of his heart
She's got a picture
But hasn't developed it yet
She's got a picture
But hasn't developed it yet
All she sees is a silent silhouette
He wears a cigarette
She wears a bayonet
He drives a beater and she drives a swift Corvette
He's not a cheater and she's one he won't forget
He wrote his name and number
On the missionary of his hotel
He wrote his name and number
On the missionary of his hotel
As he laid it down he felt his heart begin to swell
She called him up
And they talked over a drink or two
She called him up
And they talked over a drink or two
Now all their reservations are made for two
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
Move rack to lowest position,
Set to three seventy-five.
Pour in one and a third cups water,
Sprinkle egg whites (package A),
Blend on LOW till moist.
Beat on high (but remain patient)
Stiff peaks will form when gently
Dunking a spatula into your batter
(Be sure beater is AT REST before checking).
Sprinkle in cake flour (package B)
A little at a time on LOWEST setting
(Don’t forget to scrape the bottom and edges).
Pour batter into your ungreased tube pan,
Cut through batter gently with a butter knife
In a circular motion
To eliminate air bubbles.
Bake for at least thirty minutes
Or until top crust is golden brown
(Ovens vary so keep your eye on it at all times).
Cool by hanging tube pan upside down on bottle,
Loosen by making up and down strokes with spatula or knife.
Gently remove your cake.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC
Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in ****** plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs
a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
Let's go grab the money
Hidden in the Christmas Tree
Shoppe mason jar with the
Frosted stencil designs,
Ornate and resembling flora.
Let's take that money,
The three separate wadded
***** of once crisp
Green pieces of paper
That somehow reach the
Arbitrary total of one
Thousand, three hundred and
Twenty dollars and
Fifty lonely cents.
Let's take that 1,320.50
And go see the desolate
Stretch of sprawling
Humanity deferred between
These hiked peaks and the
Dangerous mountains
Separating the west
From the rest.
Let's go there!
Let's go there!
We'll make it across,
Be sure of that,
Be sure of nothing
But that!
Let's use the remaining
Seven fifty
To buy some
Seven Eleven sustenance
To have while
We walk backwards
Down backroads edged
With the encroachment
Of the wild back into
Negative space some
Long-ago engineer
Carved and paved.
Let's tell the driver of
This beat-up
Time-worn down
Overcast grey
Buick LeSabre
That we can pay her
Ten dollars to replace
The juice necessary to get
Us back to our sick aunt's
House in Poughkeepsie.
At the gas station
We'll tell her to stop
Real quick
And hope she leaves the
Auto to go
Pay the schlup at
The teller's booth
And jack the beater
And hope we won't
Have to bolt
Again if she doesn't.
Let's call my cousin
And find out who will give
Us four hundred dollars for
The stolen used parts store
And take that four hundred
And buy:
Two (2) greyhound tickets to get us
Back to our ****** apartment
In Stamford: 64.50 American
Three (3) damp-bunned flimsy
Beef patties glued between
Pieces of government-issue
Yellow American cheese
With all the fixins we please: 3.24 American
One (1) zip of dried out
Seeded and stemmed breaks
From the boredom of
Our own conscious
Processes: 120 American if lucky
At least eight (8) servings
Of amphetamine based
Pressed little buttons
Of confused energy: 200 American
One (1) bouquet of
Red yellow and oranges
Mixed on the petals of
Your mother's favorite
Species: whatever's left American.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Tonight, I cannot sleep because
I am too hot.
My face shines like wax
With sweat and oil
And the heat is like wet jellyfish in my clothes
And I must *** so I get
Up and when I see the dark me-creature in the mirror
I think of myself not as human
But blood and bones and fat and meat.
Just a biological fleshpile.
Chalk and butter and copper juice and pink slime hamburger.
I won’t turn on the light because I
Like to pretend to be blind when it’s dark.
I pretend that blackness is just water to swim through
And I feel my way to the can.
I leak yellow
And think of hospital catheters
And how I’m just a bag of warring fluids
Propped up on sticks.
I get up and vertigo swirls my brains
With an egg beater on low
Until my inner ear is quite confused
And I go whump on the sharp tiles like a dropped onion.
Before I flip the light switch,
All I can get through my greasy three-pound brain is
"Maybe it'll need an X-ray."
I slaughter
And mangle myself in this manner
Every five minutes.
All night.
I don’t want to be a thing that dies.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 4:22 AM UTC
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
I examine your mugshot
in the domestic abuse records
of Palm Beach County.
I find your eyes bloodshot,
red veins bulging with realization.
Your forehead branded with the lineage
of your rabid male ancestry,
now another criminal, wife beater,
another deadbeat drunk slithering
through the dialogue of strangers who now
know your name but will never see you
face to face, perhaps a potential employer
or candidate for your new wife.
The reputation you crafted
so rigidly, tarnished in your naked expression,
the cyanide of your psychosis
summoned with the smack
of a camera flash.
And I cannot help
but break a smile.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC
My sister karen was a manhater
she hated all men
deliriously
she would sit on the top
of the bunkbed she shared with sue
and with one finger curl her hair
then pull it out by the roots
it was quite disturbing
she would spend hours
every saturday doing this
until she had almost no hair left
the family worried for her
During the week when I would
come home from school (I think
I was around 7 or 8) karen (being
older and bigger) would run up to me
kick me in the gut
push me to the floor
jump on top of me
grab me by the ears
and pound my head
on the floor until
my brains fell out
this went on for several weeks
until I told my parents and
they finally put an end to it
One night sue didn't want to get caught
eating an apple in bed
so she put the core in the toilet
and it clogged it
we (all four of us)
were awakened in the middle of the night
and had to line up so my mother
could beat us with a belt
until someone confessed
I was tired so I said okay
I did it
I got a good belting that night
I was suspended from school
for a week because the teacher
complained that the welts on my back
were bleeding so profusely that
lt was interrupting the learning process
of the other children
One day I was coming home from school
and I got caught in a hailstorm
I got pelted really good
Lucky for me Mr. Doty was home for lunch
so I took cover under
his light blue ford f-series pick-up truck
hail as big as golf *****
some the size of baseballs
continued to rain down
I don't know for how long
because I fell asleep
"What were you doing under there?"
he questioned as he was shaking my arm
awakening me
(I quess he thought I was messing around
or something)
I came to and stated
"THE GOLF ***** WERE FALLING
I NEEDED A PLACE TO HIDE"
"oh" he said
"you mean to tell me you were in THAT?"
"yessir" I replied
"well, your schoolday's almost over,
maybe you should go home and rest"
"yessir"
And I went home and rested
When karen turned eighteen
she married a wife beater
for nearly ten years he would
ugly 'er up
finally she couldn't take anymore
and divorced him
But she was only following tradition
my grandpa beat his wife
my father beat his wife
and al beat karen
Yep, those three knew
how to really take a beating
But, not from a hailstorm
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
I once was so much socio
I had a list and ratio
My mind did swarm
With ****** mass
Of who could be
The first to pass.
A lover,
A cheater,
A drunk old wife beater;
Oh,
Only then
Did I realize
I was first on
my list to die.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
After a string of my relationships didn't work,
And I had dated **** after ****
I realized something was terribly amiss,
With the blokes I was choosing to date and kiss.
So I decided that my standards had to be revised,
And a grand dating checklist had to be devised,
I wouldn't be superfluous about this list,
Instead I'd cover points that I had hitherto missed.
I will not date a man who is already dating,
and for whose commitment I'm kept waiting.
I will not date a man who is involved with his ex,
Who turns to her for sympathy & sometimes ***
I will not date a man who is constantly lying,
Where trust has diminished and is almost dying.
I will not date a man who has been a criminal,
Even if the offense was small and the sentence minimal.
I will not date a man with a violent streak,
Who's ability to control his anger is very weak.
I will not date a man with no career aim,
Who thinks having a physique is cool but a job is lame.
I will not date a man who disrespects his father and mother,
lets face it, if he's mean to them, he wont be nice to any other.
I will not date a man who is abusive and who swears,
Who lacks empathy and who never cares.
I will not date a man who lacks humility,
Who is arrogant, rude and has no civility.
I will not date a man who has been a cheater,
Or a man who is a girlfriend beater.
I will not date a man whose mouth is lined with empty words,
broken promises, shallow tales that he uses like swords,
To cut open my insides and get my defenses down,
only to walk away and never turn around.
Did you see what I just did there?
I will not date a man just because he has glossy hair,
Or just because he has pretty eyes,
because pretty eyes can also tell pretty lies.
I will not date a man who cannot see,
What a flying dragon I am, figuratively,
I am a phenomenally phenomenal woman, that's me,
And I won't date a man who tells me any differently.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
Hey it rained today
Here on Rehoboth Beach
I don't have much to say
As I laugh at each
Of the idiots on this beach
Twas not just rain
But a storm
And unlike the norm
People here claim the terrain
As would a leach.
One in particular
Was strapped...with a baby.
Above the law for sure
On bath salts maybe
Did run to the shore in agony.
Life with no umbrella
Must make one sad fella
For such measures of magnitude
To ruin the attitude
Of everyone here on Rehoboth Beach
All dem beach biddies.
Yoloswagin up in here
Gettin my swag on it cities
And all over dat pier.
Rockin dem flippy floppies
Engage slomoswag
Drunk on lemon poppies
With my gift shop bag.
Soak it up ladies
The wife beater
The shadies
Come on over here
Mmm taste that retainer
Of champions!
Can't contain her
Sweet two ton European.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Had to hang up the lead foot
for a while, hopefully for good,
after a near crash the other week.
I was pushin the red line
vision smeared, thumbs angry,
voice sharp- wild like prairie wind.
So tonight it's just beer,
nothing that can cause combustion,
I've retired the horn,
and traded my brights
for a moon roof,
cause with her I like cruising-
and all I want is to enjoy the breeze,
drop her off safely, and remember
where I parked the beater.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 8:26 AM UTC
She delivers
guacamole
from an old
beater cop
car daily.
Dead head-
lamps and
missing
hub caps.
Spinning
from café
to deli to
restaurant
with tubs
of her dip.
Recently split,
her old man
left her for a
road worker—
one of the
ones who
flag you.
Now she’s
alone with
just her
avocados
and this
old B&W
prowler.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 8:49 AM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
my dear fellow human,
you have been wintergreen against my heart. a sharp brilliance of blinding light captivating me within the infinite breadth of a wandering moment. my lungs frosted first freezing figures of frozen firs upon the memory of each breath. my blood ran cold like that winter river and I was a fish beneath its icy exterior and you have been wintergreen against my heart. a cold slap of circulating change penetrating each layer of protection. you have been wintergreen through them all and now you are wintergreen against my heart. a fresh perspective from the core of my being to the scales of my skin. a permeating resolution of piercing glacial coolness frosting the valves and chambers of this brumal beater. you have taken my breath from gelid gilded gills and scattered the shattered pieces of peace across this boreal landscape. from the hiemal heights of arctic aurora aura's to the lower polar valley's suspended in diamond dust--you have been wintergreen among them all and now these roots are too--cool, clear and growing--and i have never been so grateful for the cold that pierced and kissed this wintergreen heart.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
twitters and tweets
pictures are sweets
keeping you hooked
on the tabloid elites
just out of bed, hair on his head
matted and messy, way better than said
your public is waiting and verging on vexed
"stay tuned for more selfies", you casually text.
stand by the mirror and pose for your followers
leading them into the worship of men
drawn to the sight of your bare naked belly
this bowl full of jelly is quaking, and then
this one, her *** just after the baby
she's worked out like crazy, perhaps she just clazy
spray-tanned and bare butted
tattooed and nare studded
back in the crack but her tact has been share gutted
no worries, it all comes around
in some hotel bathroom you click at your Iphone
like all of the rest of us, yet so alone
trying to snap one both **** and manly
the wife beater t-shirt, the boxers and phone
we can't really blame you, your business, your life quest
but fashion is funny right down to the jewels
both earlobes sport earrings, just like mommy dearest
whatever your pleasure, some little girl drools
and she scantly clad there, for all of her viewers
could not give a **** about "ahhers" or "ew'ers"
but don't stop, you're on top and making your money
and laughing right back, since we're also quite funny
we once wore our hair all pulled up or with mullet
thought no one was laughing, we knew we were cool
and now all the stuff which we wore gone forever
or passed off as costume, just vintage, old school
where somebody bought it from some smelly thrift shop
and wore it again with a sense of true style
the polaroid pictures we took at the bus stop
that camera is back and will be for a while
Stand at the mirror and smile for your camera
not really getting that folks can be odd
some are perverted, while others disturbed
and still others are cranky and smelling like cod.
Someday you'll grow up, a mommy or daddy or maybe
a granny once shaking her *****
or maybe a pop-pop
and scoff a their moptop
and laugh with your grandkids
it all comes around.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
the wife beater sings with all his heart
his mournful song of love
the tremolo of his voice brings shivers up the spine
his mistress is **** beautiful
shining like the moon
with rosy cheeks and cheeky smiles
she waits for his lover every Friday
when her man goes fishing
at sunset he goes home
whistling along the way
his grumpy wife waits him on the porch bench
hiding her tears in her apron
crossing her milk leg feet
he strikes her
she curses him whispering between her teeth
……………………………………………………….
the wife beater’s mistress raises her cheeky grandchildren
her ex-lover sings every Sunday
glory to the lord in the chapel
his throat aches his chest fills with pain
he crawls home like a sick worm
sits down on the porch bench
looking astray near his wife
and she curses God between her teeth
for taking him slowly away
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC