"bouts" poems
So he said to me one night
Submissive is not what's right
He said to me one day
You've to command and make your way
You cannot be quiet
You cant be a riot
You have to be you
And not let destroy'it
He calls me his friend
Say, when will this end?
He says he don't care
It goes beyond repair
He says I mean nothing
Without the slightest grieve
"You are my closest"
Oh, I wouldn't like to believe
But I've known better
And not made up a pile
Fed it to the skies
Never failed to smile
I've grown as a human
I've grown as a friend
He's been a pillar
The crave will never end
He's helped me in ways
Helped find my forte
He's helped me mature
Never enough to sway
But now that he's changed
I'm hit by numbing rain
Now that all's deranged
Major bouts will reign.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
Tied up because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
The strike of the rainbow warriors
After a few hours in the dark cages of horror we suddenly see a sharp light in the sky of evil. The golden goddess notices another ship coming towards the devils spike city.
At that moment the orange and black pirates run towards their ships in dock and sound a long dark horn of terror. The golden goddess notices a large rainbow type ship sailing in firing laser rays at the pirates vessels of evil.
The ship sets into the dock of spike city while some remaining pirates get cut down and captured with blue laser nets of torture. Our eyes open with horror when rainbow type creatures with bows and arrows jump out of the ship and circle our cages of horror.
A few of the black pirate in the purple bushes try and shoot the rainbow warriors but get cut down with their laser fast arrows. The commander of the rainbow warriors suddenly jumps down from the ship and lifts up the cages with power and ease while the warriors round up the captured pirates.
I comfort a shaking luitent megs while the commander shakes our hands before releasing the other golden warriors from their dark cage. The horses bow their heads towards the commander while the golden goddess looks with hope in her beaten heart.
All of a sudden two rainbow warriors march out a swearing and aggressive woman holding a long jagged sword and pirates armband. The rainbow warriors quickly zap her evil body and hold her down tightly . The golden goddess goes over for a better look while her long tongue of nails cuts of a warriors head off with ease.
The rainbow warriors chop her evil tongue off with a swipe of the rainbow sword before pinning her to the cold ground. two of the warriors then begin to peel her black dress of horror off while other rainbow braves flock around.
A curious golden goddess peeps though for a better look while the warriors are undoing her small black studded bra of terror. The goddess looks on with a smile and twinkle while she screams in anger at her ******* bouncing in the dark cold night.
All of a sudden the commander comes inside the circle of torture and begins removing her devilish red ******* while the warriors cheer and scream. The golden goddess looks on with a content smile while the warriors chop her body up into bit with their glowing swords.
After a few minutes the rest of the pirates are shot and executed with laser bouts while we all sit watch with open mouths of horror. The commander then takes us aboard the rainbow ship of safety while the pirates come back to evil spike city with four more pirate ships of torture.
We all sail across the red evil sea towards a big large rainbow in the glowing yellow sky whilst being followed by two black pirate ships. Once we reach through the rainbows end we begin to notice the water turning bright pink and the pirate ships turning back towards the red river of horror.
A relived golden goddess turns towards her army and smiles while we we all jump about on the rainbow ship of safety. I hold luitent megs tight in my arms while the green moon sets across the blue landscape in the distance.
written by wayne mockler
ownership and copyright wayne mockler
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 2:34 PM UTC
Where do you see yourself in a year?
Still living here -
A tactile skyline atop pillars of smoke
Heavy with guilt
And the craftsmanship of a generation of men
To whom Earth is a rock, immortal
Untouched by the bouts of the smog which ascend
To hold up their forges?
Where that which is green must also be man-made
And an old plant-pot
On an old window-sill
Is the closest to what was here before? Is it a facsimile?
Where your throat hurts,
Chemicals an ersatz flowing stream
Of purest water -
And why is rainfall the freshest you can drink?
You haven’t always been here.
Where were you before? Was it green
Or blue, or any other colour
Besides this abiding grey? Perhaps
There were rainbows and colours
And sunlight, unfiltered by smog
Or dust. Warm, purposeful.
Her fragility charmed you.
Because our Earth is not immortal. A wanderer
In space, motherly, who are we to defile her?
A species of smoke and tar turning her soft hues sour
Colours unknown to nature
Like a drop of arsenic in a stream flowing through rocks?
Do you see yourself living
In a fortress, tumultuous to its steel bones
Each day burrowing deeper into her body,
Claiming her for its own, and ruining her at the same time?
So you think about your opportunity.
This life which fills her air, pulsing and vibrant,
To restore the purity we are missing -
Because Human and Nature are as one,
Invention is necessary but we are losing our time,
Virescent leaves brushing in the wind,
Our friends are loving, laughing, living
And we realise now that we are able to do so much better.
Or does none of that matter, somehow?
We make money to spend on plastic.
We are born, we work, we breathe, we die,
But we are still yet to run out of time
So where do you see yourself in a year?
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
she’s the girl who sets a room on fire with laughs or real flame,
and she stands in that same flame; ranting about herself
with blissful intention:
aries.
she’s the girl who mows the lawn all day to throw a memorable party
on perfectly pitched grass; but then spends the entire party
with that one guy on that one roof, just the two of them:
taurus.
she’s the girl who ***** you fiercest only to then display sudden and
crippling bouts of madness; she’s one of a kind, or two of a kind,
and she means some kind of love:
gemini.
she’s the girl who you fall for so easily, and she falls for you so easily,
and everything is a dream; but a dream transforms, seasons transform,
and the peopled cities with them:
cancer.
she’s the girl who steals the show every time, and she leans on you
when she’s tired and lonely; she reads science fiction books
and tells you all the endings, strange planets fixtured in her dreams:
leo.
she’s the girl who thinks too much, drinks too much, and weighs you for all
your words; but words are her demise as she digs her arms deeper
into the dirt to catch that feeling:
virgo.
she’s the girl who piles a shrine of shiny occult objects and spools through
men like shiny other objects; she has a beautiful heart, holy or not,
but without a doubt, entirely stylish:
libra.
she’s the girl who doesn't believe a ******* thing you say but kisses you
harder when you say it; she takes you up the hill to her folks
and they sacrifice you for blood mana:
scorpio.
she’s the girl who knows you best and knows even better she’s far beyond
the depths of your league; she has deafening dreams, with or without
you in them; for ruins she will climb or create:
sagittarius.
she’s the girl who buys the popcorn and eats the popcorn and sulks on
the couch while tonguing kernels out of her teeth; she will never
truly love you, just the idea of you:
capricorn.
she’s the girl who saves your life with a tracheotomy when you nearly die
on that plum street seed; she will leave you for a another man, a man
with a good rifle and a warm little tent:
aquarius.
she’s the girl who sees synchronicity in all things, all life, all dreams
and emanations; she will love you until the smell of mexico drags her
away upon a neverending weekend:
pisces.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Without
your smiling face my love
So rare now to find in this place
Without
your Glasgow banter
What remains is left speechless and misplaced;
I am a ship adrift without its anchor
Within
deep blue ocean eyes
that look straight into me
In ways and wonders and for why
Without
I can not take back what was said
nor’ parting waves and late goodbyes
now lost to the turbulence
of new experience under foreign skies
Within
I almost hear your warm whispers still
Without
it creeps in my ears to replace wax with made-up doubts
Play round-a-bouts upon my brain
But listen intently anyway:
In case she might whisper it again
Within
a tender touch that knows my gentle being
The passions unwrapped as such
By fingertips
And a stolen kiss upon my lips
And all that I remember seeing
Without
I am the frosted breath of a Scottish chill
With
a voiceless shout
No exit out
I await
that which is meant for me
Within
Without
or cast
adrift at sea
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 12:20 PM UTC
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
She fell and broke her hip
Though that’s not what killed her
No, she fought long and hard to keep her sanity
A matriarch, the last matriarch
She never stood a chance
Through bouts of forgetfulness
She cringed as she sat
Wheelchair bound
Rolling with a fool’s smile
Talking nonsense like Nero must have
Playing his fiddle
Our family burned up but she never knew
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
Complex PTSD made even more complex by frequent bouts of mild psychosis.
Neurosis.
Impulsivity.
Mood swings.
Suicidal tendencies.
Inconsistent personality.
Writing uncontrollably.
Questionable hygiene.
Obsessive pineapple eating.
Veganism.
Atheism.
Humanism.
And I have a horrible sense of direction.
Wait,
What was the question?
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
It's always a criminal time to fight/
To fizz away our furies and our fears
in violent interactions within 'The Warrior Play'/
To unite in bouts/
Put personalities in liberty/
Releases
to bring about the death reaction
Untangled in all this
Is an eye/
a void/
It paces and turns
forgetful and lost ;
a powerless ghost and a witness
to these mad spoilings and energy fits/
This pinball of the battlefield
is catalyst ;
The untouched spirit of the weapon-head/
a war chime
and the thirst of all of us 'soldiers'
- in pattern & in population
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:30 PM UTC
A little guilt goes a long way
Even the sturdiest oak can be made to sway
Figments of people duped by atavistic views
Waking up from bouts of fervor
A most sadistic snooze
They repose like overgrown fountains of youth
Their dreams rusted, forgotten and that’s the truth
In a lonely forest, oaks fall with the loudest screams
A somberness aided by clouds and defective sun beams
My soul has finally given in to moralistic cracks
For now it’s about as clean as mud pies and tire tracks
I’m wobbling down my lifetime from crutch to crutch
Wondering when to finally whisper **** I’ve seen too much”
So please, return me home, send my spirit way down below
To lands of rusted dreams and toss-turned pillows
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Who gives a ****
If I live or die?
I have become the one forgotten
And I have fallen into some peculiar space
Now no one remembers the girl who once stood
In my place
She is changed, she has become something unexpected and unforgiving.
Is there a reason to believe in myself anymore?
I have been deemed, by many,
Unlovable.
Perhaps the worst damnation of all
Has come from my inner self.
But how does the rest of the world see me?
My views have been clouded over the years
By some unwarranted opinions
Of hypocrites and bigots
Bullies and ex-boyfriends
Daddy.
Calling me names to this day
Even after some bouts of depression
Cutting
Eating disorders
Even a suicide attempt.
Although these are all in the past
I still fail to hold myself in high regard.
Did they make me hate myself?
No, but they had a weighted hand in its development.
So who could love a creature like me?
A person, or rather, a shell of one,
Plagued by habit
Submerged in guilt
Crippled by a question that has never ceased.
Does being forced into a protective armor,
Being ridiculed
Being unloved
Make someone truly
Unlovable?
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Read the palm of my hand,
Analyse the lines and see that it maps a highway with no destination
You became a long highway with high speeds and good music but as the driver, I knew it were to go nowhere
But as the passenger, you anticipated us to go everywhere
And for that I’m sorry
You became a best friend that I resented
And I became the best friend that you had to learn to resent
Long car talks became our lingo and daily messages was our travel snack that we would crunch like a pass time
But as you found another, our cars collided
Inertia was met by fastening seatbelts and an accident we both denied had occurred
And it's not that I’m jealous or realised I love you
But I am now met with suburbia,
With corners and cafe small talk,
Stop signs and round a bouts,
And I am to know that I can no longer rely on you like a country road but instead give way to another
I wish all the best for you
I know you once looked at my hands as a destination for yours
And honestly, sometimes I wish it were
But instead, they are creased maps leading to the nowhere for you
And everywhere for someone else
Although, I really hope you enjoyed the trip home
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 7:53 AM UTC
those that see beauty in everything feel the most discontent.
there are extreme emotions that one who is creative must process--
an unforced authenticity and tenacity to stay focused on a subject,
and to devote the same amount of attention to each entity, that you lose a sense of self and a sense of the world around you.
we use stress as a way of pushing us forward,
and only in moments of extreme stress does an amazing happening occur.
and for this, we are deemed odd, as a normal person thrives where they are most comfortable.
the originality that visionaries possess is exhausting, yet we admire it.
we allow for many things to flow in our minds without halt,
all notions and ideas taking up precedence, and this may be our greatest fault.
day break to sunset, my mind is racing non-stop, constantly,
to the point that sleep does nothing to quell the overthinking brain,
as my lucid dreams act as a force to keep me awake at night.
my mind is in a perpetual state of fantasy, sometimes during everyday life in bouts of daydreams,
imaging new situations and being unable to describe it all.
when I try to silence the thoughts that persistently flux through my mind,
my talents feel wasted during this time of artistic deprivation,
and only do I feel truly sound when I create new artworks for a few to discern.
sometimes I feel as though my mind feeds off on my depressive states,
as it takes the deepest of emotions to generate proufound art.
while I wish to be happy, I have a need to be in a bit of a sustained disarray.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
I wear white
I wear white
I wear white and stare right back at
the other end of the world
The hems of the loosely fitting traditions
Barely touch the ground anymore
I wear white
I wear white
White like the chalk on the blackboard switched from
right to left.
Aimless and bereft of the desert I once called mine,
I walk alone
I wear white, I wear white
As I have done for 14 hours
and 14 years
7000 miles on the screen and 2 more up there
to be precise. It faded for every mile
Just as it has been doing since the day Darwish died
I wear white, I wear white
A different breed of Semite than they're used to
Not walking but flowing almost
as contradictory as "poutine Arabesque"
The routine wears my jaw out
as the vowels twist from right to left
I wear white, I wear white
Not just quite there yet
Not even close
Not even halfway to the surface but then again
I suppose we've always been at ease at the depths of the sea
Pearls and black gold abound
I forget that sometimes in between
intermittent bouts and doubts of "3arabiyun ana"
As if that's what makes up the anatomy of an Arab
As if that's enough for you, Khaled
I wear white
I wear white
Or at least I tell myself I do
Leave myself open to the prospect
of life starting anew
Forcing myself to see it through
See life through your eyes
Or are they my own **** you ?
Tell me for the love of Christ
Call me by name and don't
bury me under the empty discarded photo frames
that you stockpile
I'm calling to you, Walid
And will keep on calling
And trying and burning and aching and failing and dreaming and irritating
like a bad itch
I sink under it all and push it all off step 3 repeat as necessary
I scream in the tongue that you deafen your ears to and pull at the beard you've tried to shave off
I pluck at the horizontal heartstrings you've tried to mute
Above all, I wear white...
And I fight.... I fight.....
I FIGHT
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:10 AM UTC
Today I found your toothbrush
Sitting in the same cup as mine
I stared at it
Remembering that you were
Here only a week ago
With a bad case of morning breath
And my toothpaste tucked in the corner
Of your smile.
Hesitantly waking up
I stared at it
Remembering that you were
Here only a week ago
My concept of time
Now revolving around the way
You touched me
Only a week ago
The way you loved me
Only a week ago
This toothbrush
This blue toothbrush I bought from the dollar store
Brushing along the tremors of my
Uneven breath threatened to
Defeat me
Threatened to put me back to sleep and
Try again tomorrow
Resolve the reoccurring bouts
Of sadness tomorrow.
But instead
I looked at it
I looked at your toothbrush with a certain familiarity
I looked at your toothbrush with a sincere smile
And remembered that
I was lucky enough to share my space
With someone
Only a week ago
I was lucky enough to fill my room with
Comfort and soft conversations
Only a week ago
I was lucky enough to
See you again
Lucky enough to touch you again
Lucky enough to bother you again
Only a week ago
And for the first time
For the very first time
I looked at everything I gained
Instead of my impending losses
My expired emptiness and hollow thoughts.
Because I realized
Only a week ago
The entire world unfolded itself in front of me
And gave me
Two toothbrushes.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Big old jade earring hung from that haunted necklace, swinging from this and that and the other way where and if that sky upstairs let go of the thing I wanted you to be but a break in the system, no a malfunction in that suction of a love that you tried to forget about but feel those typing keys on the fingers that break knees and the heels up and up with the ***** a lingerin' and thats sounding like a new pounding, the one upstairs with the translucent roof ghostly and guess i got a new boot thats fixing itself to elate another prisoner upstate where the worries are always about the women.
Yeah, that women with the diamond ring with her children by her side thinking about the monastery she never visited a big time act act act in a dress that helped her enough and forgot about the rest. But we all move on quick to detest times test with the burritos that she never ate because of the figure she imposed that she got from her transistor radio and the yearly subscriptions of the ghostly ghost that haunted her in the moat around the castle of stairs up ripunzel with dragons a aflame listening to the same wishy washer story of old uncle Maury and the twenty ten twelve salute to the mastery of the fiction of listening, another riddle in the twiddle beneath the sheets that were once painted gold but her husband done left her and she's moving to seattle to start up some new cattle spreading the seed of 1910 where time stands still with his drink in his hand because the guy has got to get around to something with all that talent, with all that anger with all that impulse that proves itself time and time again it will never be enough for a salvation sanitation with the twisty fro's of yearly ye and ye bouts of fights she twisted in that shout that she knew, she knew she swears, what it was all about.
May 6, 2011
May 6, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
my grandmother too, is love.
in the weeks before she died
she writhed.
in pain and suddenly,
her attention shifting inexplicably
though no less pain it was in inner diastrophisms of the falseness carved in masks she shuddered forward all herself
at 97 and in shining reservoirs of urgency
she went through bouts of chanting:
'i love you' moans and 'so much, so much'
and 'thank you, thank you, i love you' for whatever hours
there were visitors
to hear.
her cat still slept on her head.
she with all her flaws expressed it to the point of drymouth,
perfecting mantras never known so well
her brink of death an apex in our hearts
.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
We believe we must be gregarious.
In communal bonds families annoint
One another in a precarious
Need to follow one leader at the point.
Individuals are not relevant.
Momentary solitude makes us run.
In silence we find nothing elegant .
Time to search for innerpeace has begun.
"Oh' Catain, My Captain," cried Walt Whitman.
The captain is dead. There's no one we need.
We don't have to group to stop the hitman.
The single flower's a rose, not a ****
We, need to be I, hear this confession:
Farewell friends, I am my new obsession.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Lights! Evergreen! Action! Have you ever heard of the feast of fools? Plunging into pleasures takes the stage!Welcome to the Saturnalia! The setting takes place in ancient Rome, Emperors rule and slaves usually bow but not on this solstice festival. Backwards is the trend and nothing is forbidden it is a drunken wild revel! No rules no laws! Children become the authority taking part in drunken brawls! Yule logs burn and mistletoe hangs from the tops of each doorway. Streams of evergreen decorate the home as a lit up tree stands alone all are home as business is closed for the five day party. Slaves gamble and cheat and rule their masters! Unrule is the slogan and *** the master in public displays of unholy affection! No recognition of marriage for sin is the law, the anticipation of the Saturnalia! A two faced pagan mythical god is to whom they give their allegiance.
Sadly today, not much has changed, only the name of the public acceptance. It now lasts far longer than five days so as to add to the excitement of the masses. Traditions remain alot the same; more suicides occur on the winter solstice. More drunken bouts, more placed in prison for truly unruly behavior. Yet Christian is the title as it masks the scene, with a portrait of a nativity, desperately trying to mask the desires of the popularity at such a sinful occasion. It's all an attempt to make what is obscene okay in the eyes of their Maker.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
One of his sick molars
was jarring, crying foul,
the root canal treatment
she did, the first, on him
made it quiet,it touched
exactly the love nerve.
Love sprouted,got rooted between
the curvy dentist and him
in exactly five sittings;
the soil was fertile.
The romantic dentist seized
his pining heart too quick,
the causes and effects of
that pain, she whispered, was similar
to what she felt , when he whimpered
leaning his head on her full *******
No reason he had, not to surmise
she didn't do everything she should,
to make his ailing tooth perfect.
Coochiecooing to her, he even
called her" the tooth fairy's baby girl"
overwhelmed she gifted him a smooch.
Each sitting fallowed
soliciting that rare,tender dental care,
on her cozy swiveling chair,
brought them closer to bouts of necking
and things more adventurous,
(may the medical ethics, pardon the pair!)
Vigorous narratives she breathlessly
reeled off, on the state of his each tooth
brought her more closer to the chair
than what professionally was expected,
her perfumed warm presence
brought aches, not necessarily dental.
A stinging pain on a root repaired
at a time his 'root canal sweet heart' was away
compels him to explore for a new chair.
The horror of horrors, it was revealed
here, a piece of broken iron implement
his sweet heart, has left within the root;
a cover up as she couldn't retrieve it
with her skills inept,
it did aggravate, caused the pain!
Isn't the betrayal of the kids,
in the name of tooth fairy,non existent
far less heinous, than a cheating like this!
could any one blame him for this,
to escape a bad tooth future, he did
the best one could; the comely tooth fairy
that found the fault and mended it
shows him his place in the
swivel chair of her heart these days!
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Lobsters
@2014 Linda Barrett
They sit in the cramped corners
of the water tank
face each other
armored claws bound
with thick rubber bands
These shelled warriors
take on boxer’s stances
wait their chance
to attack each other
in impromptu bouts
They step over one another
pick fights for dominance
of their watery ring
Some desperate crustaceans
decide to make their escape
reach out for the tank’s top
but fall over backwards
onto each other
Those lucky ones
usually win
when the Seafood man
in his white coat
pulls them out
makes the champions
of someone’s dinner.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
I could tell you how to write a poem
Playful phrasing, not too quick, not too strong,
Be graphic and persuasive, appealing to us all,
The want for supposed meaning and a silver tongue
Is the truth beneath our fall
Heartfelt sentiment, articulation,
Let’s entice some Pharisees to avoid any tribulation
For the bouts and shouts of living out
And extravagantly exhibiting oneself to all and everyone—
Clichéd, now it may be,
There’s truth in that I see
Can we find apparent happiness
All appearance and accreditation,
Let’s be certain we’re (clandestinely) drudging for recognition,
Yet, I can never tell you what is true in writing,
The slow path? That’s what I long for,
Or profess, in the world of colorful mosaics,
I am the truth! The way and the light!
I’ll set you free! The God of Wonders!
Can’t you see?
I’m God, I’ve always meant to be!
*Heaven help me,
I didn’t mean to pretend
But I believed beyond
What even I could comprehend..
I’m not God, this I know,
But is this—
The way I'll go?*
It is my end…
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC