"bim" poems
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll **** you instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
\
Your beautiful heart has a tiny little hole
Goin’ b’bap-bim-boom boom-bap...b’bap
The mitral-valve-prolapsed leaky little hole
It goes ba-bum-bap, bitty-bap, rat-ta tat tat
Instead of the traditional ba-dum, ba-dum
And aside from the fact that I like the beat
There’s another reason, baby, I like you, (yum)
Why I lay myself down at your ivory feet
It’s not because your heart sound like a drum
Or the fact your soul shines bright and true
It’s not just the *** tuh-tum tum tum*
...It’s because I have a hole in my heart too
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 7:34 AM UTC
I am so tired
that I can’t sleep
I am so exhausted
that my eyes
wont stay closed
I am ridiculously sure
that I am not human
not to say
I know the mothership is coming
I don’t know that
Truthfully
I don’t know much of anything
I am a child
in an aging mans body
which
I am pretty sure
has a lesbian living
underneath its skin
which probably doesn’t make sense
to you when you hear me say it
but nothing inside my head
makes sense to me
so why should you
have the luxury to understand
anything I might say
but it is to say
I will never be a manly man
or see or understand
that way of thinking
that macho drink and ****
as much and as many
people as you can in life
dont get me wrong
I love everything there is to
love about women
which is just everything
their great
well...
most of them at least
or maybe just some of them
I mean that they are no different
in the way we are all the same
we are all
just people
some are great
and a treasure to have in our lives
and others...
not so much
and I have done more
than my fair share
of drinking
A lot more...
enough to never have
to drink again
but I probably will anyway
not so much now though
and, well... yea...
I've liked
the ******* parts too
most of the time
its just that I like
the love
part of *******
more than the
bim-bam-boom ahhhhhhh
I’m sooooo sorry part
that never but sometimes
and almost always
happens part of *******
that awkward moment when
oh **** my ****
throw up on you moment
it always gets nervous
around pretty girls moment
that I don’t know what to say moment
that...
d’oh!... moment
but I do know
I’m not suppose to say
thank you...
moment
even though once you’ve gone
I will get down on my hands
and my knees
and thank every name
of every god I have ever heard of
for that painfully beautifully
awkward moment
I was lucky enough to spend with you
I guess I’m just a little too quite
a little too shy
a little too nice, maybe
a lot too sensitive
emotionally speaking
in that sense that everything hurts
and everything is beautiful
and the world is ****
but still there must be something
here worth living for
someone who will cringe
and roll there eyes
every time I write
and read another garbage poem to
someone who will love me regardless
no matter how bad things get
no matter how broken my heart is
no matter how horrible
I may look when I die
someone who I will love
as much as I loved
to hate everything about life
Oh, I hates it soooooo much
someone who made
every miserable moment here
worth the madness of it all
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
I knew that it was always there, only about a block away
The Ocean
I could see the Single Ferry sailing with piles of wooden boxes
my colleague whisper to me
“Those are cadavers inside those crates: heading toward
Hart Island Potter’s field project
to the unknown graves.
The seagulls and the wild birds enjoy the ***** sandy
While taking in the early sunshine here in Coney Island
I remember a long time ago, when I had the sea fever
I would walk bare feet in the sand, and tossed small pebbles in the ocean
Rex my dog, would chase the seagulls and wild birds away
As he enjoy his morning walk with me
The cool breeze would massages my face and the hot sun
Would quickly dry up the salty vapors,
which made my soul rejoice each time we took that stroll
along the white sandy beaches on the Island of Bim
Seeing with the eyes of a poet’s is a gift
my thoughts, and my unusual language,
The world sees us poet and author as liabilities
A true emotional poet has a way of making you believe that the
“Sky is falling,
so he or she may suggests that you prop up sky with the clouds
What’s in a word, besides noun and verbs and adjectives?
A poet’s heart, and they emotional torrent
So once again the sky is falling
While the rain turn to sleet ice pellets
A poet ways of seeing the beauty of it all
Through her work
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
One must take charge of his or her own life
Someone once wrote that
Life, like marbles block is given to all,
However, everybody doesn’t know how to layered such blocks
Even if they read the manuals on life and survival skills
With careful observation, it seem that the local
women spirit cracks so easily on the small Island of Bim
as the men moves on to other women’s
Leaving many on suicidal watch
I visited my old friends, on the island as time permits
And nothing seem to change, they older folks
Weakness still shows:
they lives seem to be on a standstill,
The little island girl in me Grieves within for them
Over the years, I have grown into a stronger woman
I demand respect from my friends,
especially the men
Its more women and not enough men to fulfill
Their ****** appetites, so life on the island become a *** war,
Infidelity is higher than ever,
where the flying fish is plentiful
whereas, some of the women seem so pitiful.
Older men with younger women
The middle-aged women either have to join a church
Or unfortunately,
lined the walls of the dance hall,
or pubs
While looking for love in all the wrong places,
The nights slowly moves into the wean hours of the morning
while the Barskeepers promotes the beer three for ten dollars
Snip snaps sounds is heard throughout their establishments
It seems more like humiliation than enjoyment
In the meantime broken hearts merges all over the place
The only patronage that seem to be having a time of
their lives was the tourists from abroad, who show
signs of unsteady gaits; but were having a wonderful time
On the Island of Bim
The barbecues grills filterers golden spark,
the music
Entices the air
the salted breeze, balm our lips even
Merging with the taste of the Bank beers,
and it was all well
on the island for that short period.
However, with all my finding and frustration, nothing
Can beat cold, cold coconut water
or a refreshing Bank Beer
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
What a palava
Plip plop drop
the bomb has popped
Bim bam boom
the paint tin looms
Two three four
bonus at my door
Push mush gush
what a rush
Next stage for me yaay !
On I go, wait for my mates
to unlock the next gate
And to Give me a Life ...
Oh, how ironic .. bahahahaha ...
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
*Abracadabra
With nothing up my sleeve
Watch me carefully
As I try to be
Something that I'm really not
Someone other than me
Abracadabra
With nothing up my sleeve
Hocus Pocus
Trying to not own this
What's behind the curtain
Is a bit out of focus
You'll never guess what's behind my back
It's best if you don't notice
Hocus Pocus
Trying to not own this
Sim Sala Bim
No more than slight of hand
Watch as I pull out of my hat
Less than life demands
Some say it's magic
Depends on where you stand
Sim Sala Bim
No more than slight of hand*
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:44 AM UTC
not until you have felt erotical goosebumps
running through your body with the northern wind,
a may so called it could awaken you
skeleton to prance, outside your body...
such cold of
a spring...
but such that there is any eroticism
in that sensation? in that
springtime cold?
and that there is such a "thing"?
it almost feels like the antidote
to the western concept of
st. thomas' gospel
and the nag hammadi
entries...
you want a *** change"?
o earth, yawn and take these
poor souls to their graves,
but sacrifice their lot, not,
for the living next;
of those that ask: and what of the children
to come?
are we all really bore
people whether we grow a beard?
and don unapproachable ideas?
what's that? is that even fashionable
these days?
cougar mama! what now? what now?
dunno... grow a beard and start
deeming yourself a philosopher,
a vampire, a werewolf? huh? where who aloof?
as bad jokes go... that was a crusty pancake
of a joke, so don't mind it;
but i'm dead serious about
the cold of a may spring...
it's not about the scent of flowers
suddenly oppening and going all
berserker with an opulence of scents...
which could make anyone into
a psilocybin-induced viking warrior,
or so they say.
but it's the cold, it's the cold...
it's so ****** ****** in that it gives me
goosebumps...
geese bim bim, bim bá tá too?
alt. ba(h) ta(h) tow in two?
is this becoming a jewish joke?
am i going to deep-fry some bread to get
a bagel out, as if i was scottish and deep-fried a slice of pizza?
come on!
all i'm saying is that i find cold air ******
my ******* get hard, and i'm thinking about
the hair on my abdoment and my eden region;
what's wrong with equating cold air
with a "mild" form of eroticism?
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC
i shot some **** and
wrote 15 poems
smoked some **** took some acid
and then wrote 10 more finishing up
around 4 am in the mourning
*a ***** deed done dirt cheap*
cumed like juke box music
playing "tonight's the night"
in a sea of big *** ****** Babylon's
playing dead with psilocybin eyes
looking like spilt eggnog
in some hyper metallic transcendental flash
*** mutant ray gun ****
you're a serial killer in a good way
she muttered
after a long **** of gag and spit
from mouth to ****
*gregarious **** pistols*
only to send me on my way
after cuming in multiples of various hazardous materials
with a how not to **** pamphlet
written by Bim Bim
along with her reverie
about the origins of the universe
and how black holes are just
future life giant *****
**** poet martyr of the future*
her best friend
the blow job queen with a strangle fetish
slapped me on the wee wee
with a paddle after I filled her midnight madness
with a kiss and a jumbo jar of Vaseline
*dial a **** poem*
"There's a hidden epidemic of men who are ***** by women.
According to a wide-ranging study, around two-thirds of men who report ****** victimization say their assailant was female"
"I met a man who who was victimized by a woman when he was a child. He is, to this day, afraid to be alone in a room with a woman."
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 5:17 AM UTC
Psstt...
*** bim bam
Rawr roar ruwr
Beep boop biip
Bzz booing bssst
There’s a whisper
“You’re weak, disgrace, a failure”
Von Gogh ?
Tesla ?
Napoleon ?
Wondering...
I finally understand
I really do
Maybe its true
We were really dead when no ones remember us even blood still flows in our body
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 10:57 PM UTC
He was not my type at all
I thought how ordinary he looked.
Not the prince charming
I had in my mind.
Yet he waited
under the old street lamp
In the endless Seattle rain.
Day after day
just to catch a glimpse of me.
Finally I relented and said to bim
What will it take
to stop you waiting.
Just one date he said.
I don't know why on earth
I married him.
Perhaps, because he made me laugh.
Or, because
he would never try to control me.
Or,
maybe because he cried
when Bambi's mother died.
He always knew
how to shake me out
Of my frequent dark moods.
Or bring a smile to my face.
Or tell me how beautiful I looked
Even when I had a cold.
He has gone now.
When the sickness came
I knew I knew I knew.
And my world is a darker place
I have as time rolled by
Danced the choreographed
movements of love
With other impostors.
But when the twilight
Faded into the blue of darkness.
It was always you honey.
Only you.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC