"belch" poems
Pinto?
No, not the wild-spirited, color-splotched mare
with mane streaming like flames-thrown
behind in the wind
Taking desert inclines
with scuffing hooves on rock
catching her balance in mesquite
curbing?
The sage, dust
All
that nature throws in its pathway to knowledge
toward treachery of crosswalks?
“P-l-e-a-s-e don't slow down!
Stop signs--?
”No!
Just keep going!
Don't slow down now!”
“They'll hear us coming
3 blocks away!”
Pinto?
Clogged carburetor--?
No one much-mentioned
rear-end inferno reputation??
A mere twinge in my signature
Woman-without-a-clue
“Hey, it runs, right?
Gets where we're goin'?”
Kids duck in back seat
so as not to be seen
In the cloud of smoke
We make our approach
Hiss Spitter, Belch, Pop
and--
BANG!
--Like a gunshot
Kids take cover
on street, in backseat
duck down
so not to be noticed...
“Oh Ma!
MA!!!
Not right here!
Farther down!”
...so not to be seen
...by friends that matter...
in this ride
from hell!
Backfiring Beast--
“Friends”
skitter away
from what will emerge from the smoke and fumes
of high-risk-situation
Kids spill out through jammed door
to unexpected accolades
onto equality's curb
of laughter
Public school's
wake of exhaust and relief
I drive mercifully away
Start of another school day
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
You're a flower-child,
spread on the bed with
flowers stuck to your little
head,
with Ginsberg & Whitman on
the shelf & feminine mystique
dripping from the
ceiling.
Moon-lady,
Venus,
tides rising & crushing
the shore,
while I snuggle
my flannel for warmth,
trying
not to be a bore.
Framed pictures as you
reminisce on when we
were younger &
untamed.
"We can still be untamed,
we've been framed
for uninsanity!"
But you call me a fool
& put your
porcelain head in my neck
& I feel foolish.
In the damp light of a cloudy day,
muscles aching, waves
crashing,
uncontrollable urges.
Stranded in the pregnant
belly of a ***** secret city
drawing
the red rose of secret union
& we are sheltered
in the ****** warmth of the
blankets,
cocooned like little monsters.
The calming ocean
& the calming whispers
& the tiny kisses
surround me, blot out my thoughts.
You sing me to
sleep & run little
fingers
through my knotted hair.
Your tiny dollar store
Buddhas belch incense
over
the backdrop of your perfume.
The wind chimes
twinkle & whimper on the
porch where the swingset
rocks in the rain.
"I wish you weren't
engaged but I don't mind
breaking a few taboos."
You laugh like a soft mad fairy
& look down
at your phone & I turn over
on my naked side.
You laugh a funeral
giggle & I know I should have
worshipped you sooner
at the pillow-altar.
Show me Heaven without
death &
the Garden of Earthly Delights
devoid of sin,
show me your sharpened fox
grin &
the way sunset ripples
at your breath,
I will show you sacrifice
& the hidden light
of our lives
in the damp of the night.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
read me that passage once again
you know
the one about the guy
who’s got his finger
stuck where it shouldn’t be?
spinning it all the way to the top
and shocking anyone within his view
sammy was his name
and his friends called him
the swami
you would see him often
biting the wing of his chicken
(and shaking his head)
the captain would ask
“you call this a pastime sammy…you call this a pastime?”
sammy would say
“it’s fine…it’s fine…yes…yes…it’s what i do”
and no one seemed to mind
(save for the chicken)
he was a descendant of the eastern block
a shipol they’d say
fingers pruned
eyes red (and full of hope)
toss me one of those medicine balls…and let someone else call the show! today’s line up; boulder dash and surfboards of death! (for they always seem to keep the captain amused)
a big belch
from the little man
has sammy grinning
ear to ear
un-kept teeth
and blackened nails
do not cross his mind
(for he’s all about pulling compliments from the day!)
hey wait, he’s stomping now…and mad!
hey wait…it’s passed (look at that, he’s already moving on!)
catch you on the rebound swami!
catch you there indeed!
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC
always be surprised
be cautious of words
and how you affect others
love him
cry when you are sad
never lose your sense of faith
love and forgive when you are wronged
touch baby animals and live your life
remember that you were small once
be grateful for your life and the opportunities given to you
go to school
don’t lie
be mindful of yourself
stay healthy and exercise to make yourself happy, not for others
cry when you are angry
compliment strangers
give small gifts to those who deserve them for no other reason but that.
swearing is a waste of a language
spend your time sleeping and you will wake up full of dreams
belch and **** quietly.
apologize to enemies, move on.
drink tea
enjoy simple pleasures
don’t watch tv or read the newspaper
except the Sunday funnies.
smile at people when you pass them in hallways, make firm eye contact
have children and love them for who they are, no matter what
make a difference in the lives of people around you
giving is a bigger joy than receiving
flowers need appreciation as much, if not more than people
write poetry and live your life
don’t let people insult you.
stay safe
drink merlot because it tastes good, not to get drunk
offer help when someone looks as if they need it
don’t pass up chances to meet new people
cry when your heart hurts from being too full of love
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
Our bare, brief escape begins at the dance.
Steaming, smoking animals moving chance
that this ***** dancehall can yield loving.
Drug crazed pickers rev up their machined
Six string-ed orchestral Gibson guitars;
Yow! All the hipsters are making the scene
just now arrived in their late models cars.
Adults aping adolescents boldy down
drinks, belch bad beer and sweetly perspire
while you seething, hot and so sensuous
put my hand to your breast showing your fire.
Baby let's dance! Let's have our fun!!
Our brief escape has just begun.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
When I say I’m a nudist
I am told I’m disgusting
But then, I keep forgetting
It’s that “people don’t **** thing.
And people don’t ****
And nobody ever craps.
They just keep their napkin
Tucked safely in their laps.
They don’t belch, not ever,
And nobody picks their nose.
It’s the way of polite folks
And that’s just how it goes.
Well, let me remind you
Where you were born,
And where you came out of,
And that you were shorn
Of any kind of clothing
Both mother and the child.
You were born like the animals
Both domestic and wild.
You are naked one assumes
When you shower your body
So, please quit acting like
****** is something shoddy.
Your parent put such madness
Inside of your innocent head;
Things like getting re-dressed
Each night when you go to bed.
The insanity of Europeans
Who came to American soil
And wore LAYERS of clothing
In the heat while they toiled.
Then they went to other lands
And warped the people there
With the strange brand of madness
They had been taught to share.
They were taught to be ashamed
Of what god had given them;
That their private parts were evil
And turned you into a golem.
And when asked for a reason
For this weird kind of crazy
They started talking about god
When their logic got all hazy.
So you “people don’t **** folks
Can just kiss my naked ***
That thinking might work for you
But for me it won’t pass
For anything but brainwash
And the programming of the sick.
So wake the hell up, the rest of you
And get on the natural stick.
If I want to be naked all day
And you want to wear clothing
That should be each of our choice;
A personal ‘go or don’t go’ thing.
I mean, for a perfect example here
Think of laundry bill savings
So, you can just stop harassing
And gnashing and raving.
Brent Kincaid
4/12/2015
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
The bartender says “It’s time to go”
“Because the moon has clamored high
And the sun was banished low.”
They were only speaking to me
I raised my glass, took a swig
belch, “i’m not even empty.”
They grab and toss it in a bin
The crash of glass, the waste of gin
Pollutes the air and that is when
They spoke. It was stern it was cold
“Get out right now! Before I leave
Your chest all gaped. Your chest all holed.”
“I’m a patron,yet you’ve decided
To push me out into the darkness
Lonesome and unguided”
“There are other bars out there,”
“No need to bother us, They said
I bit my tongue so as not to swear.
I made a choice, a simple choice
To sit and stay at the counter.
I cleared my throat and raised my voice:
“Do what you must. Let it occur,
But understand this, we will not be deterred.”
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 4:04 PM UTC
Writhing, the screeching leviathan demands
And I cave to save the aching from tricky time slopes
Pained craving
Wavering but
Hit and
It’s all loosey goosey goodness
Sensing silent magma pulse, whoosh the tummy tingles
Droopy ears gape-face giggle no more nowadays
A stern turn in old age the silly phase of
Too bright, neon common numb tongue rambles
Secedes into introspective
Crowded walks, broken talks strung into threats clustered and
Flung like monkey **** at many-stabbed ego, Brutus?
Strangers will eat you
The professor thinks I’m funny because
I know the answers in class
The other day Dingus
And Whoseewhatsee tried to alley mug and hurt and end
And money!
No, rocked nose ran dude! Fine
Trying not to fear the outdoors, though
The arthropods and phantoms tell me ***** jokes
And not to eat my candy
Books melt into soupy mercurial elixir
I slurp them and belch
Educating myself in a barn ******* knowledge
On loud faces; empty meat
Where you can hear the jingly metal
Thing when you shake it, it’s dead no flower
They don’t always like me
But
I’ve got the jeepers creepers behind my peepers
And a million lightyears to burn
Truth is worth dying
Four **** sow
Izzeny thing these daze
Maybe it was a bust from the start but there’s
Always art
Quieting the plague that revealed
Not so good after all
Tiny thorns and all-consuming
Waves of red-get-out wrenching, gutted like a fish
Overcome, that never went away or found
A place to sit
Memories arthritic grind a grim gray whetting stone
Reduce with juice-cloud, grape teeth cough will never find a home
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
Gwuts on gwanilliagax
Ready hot gwip
Trill on the vibrant note gabeeboh
What a thril it is to be in nice gazeebo
What a punk that doused on the free zobe
What punctillious panagax that frigged all the wets out
And when the trip to the sausage make didnt pull down alaz
Alaz, I am the wet tug.
Alaz, the sprig of wheat ***** taint.
Didn't you say you loved me?
Well, the bruts on the wagon sauce now
Didn't me have a big one, tug one, sauce one?
Well elemayo gwit gwits gwit gwits gwit gwit.....gwit
Embryo collecting on the branch of a saggy
My baggy be ripped, dripped all the can out
Me step on a puddle, the wet one, the biggy
My pets on the leg, rub, all on it sticky, how ******
He chugs out a wet belch and creams on the gricky
How quaint is his fat bristle comb, of his **** I am assured
This great honkulous tank sub that brits on my dimbo,in limbo my ship
It greats on the grates treat me to a sub snack ship ***** ***** factory get e
Tag me on your webpage, then **** me silly
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad
Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son
Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people
Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish
Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
At the edge of morning--broad sky fine
And soft as peach skin--
The sun, a round, sweet skinless half--
Rilling water washes through gullied gorge,
Cresting fig root and tongue of cobbled stone,
Lazing into lacquered lake or placid pond;
Squat and pooch-bellied on flatly floating leaf,
The idle toad croaks his great guttural,
Glutted belch.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
Or
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
I still feel you
in my heart.
what wrath visited on me,
perhaps I see in your eyes sorrow
the green sea swells with life
the lone seagull cuts
the air,
scanning the waves
which belch and break
on the gray shore.
a fisherman thinks
drowned by the white noise
his rod cast aimlessly
he considers tossing off his
anchor and crashing headlong
into the rocks,
****** underneath
legs shattered as hes dragged
along the bottom,
his thick blood like oil
curls in clouds around him
his lungs burn
he screams and isn't heard
hurt but not forgotten
he drags his sloop ashore,
snaps his rod in half and casts it into
the foam.
fishing makes for terrible metaphors,
he thinks.
the seagull screams in reply.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
Human skin pigment ranges from pale yellow, cream, pink to dark brown.
There is no black or white.
Some African tribes are charcoal grey, but not black.
There is but one race, the human race.
Beware anything that Divides us.
We must Unite for the Common Good.
Welcome to Planet Paul.
The fictional “Prisoner” of the sixties said,
“I am not a number, I am a person.”
He also claimed he was a “free man”.
He shouted defiantly that he would not be pushed,
Filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed
Or numbered.
I couldn’t agree more.
Nor will I be labelled or classified.
“My life is my own”.
I’m an individual human being.
Not Working or Middle Class,
Nor white nor religious nor atheist,
Nor racist, sexist, feminist, chauvinist
No Tory, Liberal. Labourite, Corbynista,
Remainer, Brexiteer, Remainiac, Remoaner
Or whatever.
I don’t do labels.
We are each born as single living entities,
Without asking to be who we are.
All in the same “boat”:
A tiny planet on the far edge
Of a spiral galaxy.
My bowels work like everyone else’s.
I belch and ****
From time to time I’m ill
Or injured.
A man of many moods.
I’ll live and die like everyone else.
For the bottom line is,
We need to Unite,
As We are All the Same.
Paul Butters
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 6:23 AM UTC
The weeds belch forth from
every opportunity .
The marbled marmalade has lost
all it's glazed perpetutuity
Ductile iron lace , once dreams ,
covered in mist and rust
Petticoated ghosts of little girls
Swing from chain linked imaginations
A wearied moon plexiates
The trees tier the moon away
And I am missing you
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
It was his birthday, his fourtyninth year,
sat at his computer, he hadn't a clue.
Our son placed her on his chest without fear,
but, his big hands, didn't know what to do.
She looked up at him, with eyes dark and clear.
He fumbled to hold her, his discomfort grew.
She gave a big yawn, then gave a small belch.
I could see, that his smile, he tried to squelch.
He turned his attention then to our son,
who pointed at me, trying to shift blame.
Said, "Maybe you'll tell me just what you've done!"
"Happy Birthday" we cried, playing the game.
She then licked his thumb, with her pink tongue,
He tried to look stern, but his heart she did tame.
With her tiny black nose, she gave a shove
and just like that, he was in puppy love.
**Authors note: This little 1/2 pound Chihuahua
melted his heart and let him love
a dog once more. Not since our Siberian Husky
died over 8 years ago, had he even looked
at another dog. "Precious" allowed him to love anew
without fear of a broken heart once again.
Dec 17, 2010
Dec 17, 2010 at 12:37 PM UTC
No Goodbyes
Tonight
The pores
Of this bed
Shall unleash
Streams of sighs
Like one of the stricken storms
Of the summer
And
The very
Of a cold
Shall twice
Smoother its naked whole
Even
On the
Most part
Where we kindled our impiety
Or
The centre
Where we rowed and cloven
On to each other
And inflamed ourselves with delirium
Will not be left alone either
Sleep
Shall be
Belch on the outskirts
Of the ceilings
By the rains of my tears
And in their moist warmth
Shall I seek solace for your absence
Alas!
That which I hate
Had come again
To take the honour that dignifies me
Verily
Many parts
Of my bones are broken
And crushed into many piece
Yet
All for a reason,You
But
Then
Even as I
Watch you leave
I shall still hold on to the ticks of time
Till you retrace your steps back
For I know this no Goodbye
No Goodbyes
©Historian E.Lexano
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
You raised them
You should keep them
And pay all their bills;
What you raised spills
Over into the common weal
And fears become real
As they are ignorant
Greedy and mean
Worst we’ve ever seen
And no hope of salvation
From your creation.
Are you afraid of your kid?
Is that what you did;
Let him or her do whatever
And you never told them
What is wisdom or whim?
Let them do what they please
As long as they don’t sneeze
In church or belch loudly
Then you can go on proudly
Bragging about your good child
Until they run totally wild
And get themselves arrested.
Then your lies are bested
And your laziness outed.
No wonder you pouted.
When things go wrong
You want someone to come along
And take care of things
And pay the fines that brings
Because they are sweet, down deep.
Then you go back to sleep
Because life should be easy for you
And the things your kids do
Are not your fault, so back out to buy
More magazines about movie stars
And slobber over newer cars
And ***** about the schools
Not teaching them the rules
And how to pursue them
Then you go out and sue them
For teaching what you do
And not what kids should do.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC