"bubbler" poems
My elephants body is
Yellow and black
He has a pumpkin orange head
Be careful when you hit his
White striped trunk
It'll knock you dead
He has flopped out ears
And glass tusks instead
And i fill him with only
The tastiest flowers
I myself have bred
My elephant is a bubbler
The hitters on the back of his dome
So when you hear that bubbling crue
You'll know
Theres an elephant in the room
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.
I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****
but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-
-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.
And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.
And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a god **** child who can't handle life.
*I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite*
I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.
I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.
I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.
Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.
It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.
Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.
And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.
*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.*
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Flick flick,
lights the bic.
The intensity of combustion
creating light.
Bring the light closer,
closer to the green.
The shining crystals atop the jade.
Inhale.
Watch it curl, draining its life
while adding to my own.
Hear the soft purr of the bubbler.
Release the carb.
Smoke pours in every direction.
Hold it in.
Exhale.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
kids shouldn't go to rehab at fifteen
but you sent me anyways
which was too many days
I made a best friend there
her name was xollie
she talked of her life in California
how her grandma took her and her siblings in
all the empty bottle pills in the bin
rotten milk on the counter
she felt like she was going to rot away with it
she spoke of living with ghosts
guess it isn't always fun living on the coast
dropping acid and crushing pills
she didn't care if it kills
then there was Jane
from Las Vegas
she told us stories about being high on ****
she wanted the drug to bring her death
she slept in the dirt and hallucinated cops
and airplanes flying above searching
for her, no one was looking not even her pops
two black men told her they'd get her high
if she would just go to their apartment with them
you see Jane was a gem
the only one who didn't see it was her
once she was too high to be able to move
or speak, the mens intentions weren't pure
they tore into her heart
as she cried silent tears
she wishes she could just restart
just wishing to be free of the drug
and these men forcing themselves into her
then there was Chloe
her brother tied up her and her mom in a closet
Chloe thought of not being able to get high
that thought made her want to *****
he had found her bubbler
we stood around a fire
and burned the papers that held our worst memories
Jane doesn't throw her paper in
so I give her hand a squeeze
sometimes we think we deserve all the worst moments
but fourteen year old Jane did not
fifteen year old xollie did not
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
They are a reminder,
A reminder
that the future is full of surprises.
A raging mystery unmatched.
Every drop of water
that splashes upon the reflection
has the opportunity
to create a wave.
Not all the same.
Some will rage
and some will ripple,
but either way
the water’s face
will be forever changed.
Don’t think too hard;
the beauty of it all
will never be lost.
We are surrounded by it.
It looks up at us,
and we watch it capture eyes.
Unending, ceasing to amaze,
can’t be stopped.
A ripple or a wave
whatever it may be
will always--always
affect its surrounding.
And, drops of water are
always splashing somewhere.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
In fading denial, I faced the leaves
And scattered hoses
And the pots still distributed about the yard
Where seeds had once ****** stalks and leaves,
And colours had burst, among the greenery.
In the chill wind, I removed them
The ice-encrusted aquatic plants
And exposed black cold water below.
Sunk a bubbler into the pond's depths
And caught glimpses of the orange inhabitants.
To the warmth, I retreated
As the sun turned up the shadows
And the creeping, early approach of night
Intruded upon the late afternoon,
And the winter, upon the fall.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
No need for dramatics but cinderblock house arrangment tempo
Is not equal to the federal concordance
Checking back
No
No
No wait
equals
What professor 25
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC