"bulldog" poems
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.
A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
**** EVEN Tacit Rainbow.
What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.
Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist
Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
Hound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petrel
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Maverick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw
Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
I took my ****** sister Marigold to the cinema,
she had asked specifically and eventually
(she doesn't speak a lot on account of her awful stammer
and amazing cleft palate which has won prizes)
so I knew that this was something she really wanted,
and I teased for her bad taste
when she told me that she wanted to see
"Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Charlie
and the Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chocolate Factory".
It was a Saturday evening and the local picture house
was showing a re-run of the classic starring Gene Wilder
as the enigmatically stylish ***** Wonka,
and not that steaming great pictorial **** served up by Tim Burton
and I knew that town would be busy with oiks
so as a treat I dressed her up better than usual,
and even gave her a hosedown to get rid of the poopy pong.
She had stopped crying by the time the feature started
and I think the Ooompa Loompa costume grew on her
but that maybe the orange paint was a bit of a bad idea
as people had stared as it was Day-Glo and she stood out
like a bulldog's ******* but I stand by my decision
to dye her hair green, it had taken thought and planning;
it was meant to add to her excitement of the day,
so I meant well, even if I was ineffectual in the end.
I sat her on my lap in the picture house
but still paid for two seats but I do get one ticket half price
though because of her disabilities, so it wasn't all bad,
every cloud and all that, you know what I mean?
She tends to get a little down every now and then
but a £1 cinema ticket partly makes up for being born legless.
I knew from past experience that the cinema staff
prefer me to carry my stunted sis rather than wheeling her in
(I do recall that the time I taped her to her skateboard
proved somewhat a disaster - but really, the fat usher
had a torch and should have watched her step
or otherwise she wouldn't have bust her neck).
The Ooompa Loompa costume allowed Marigold
to amuse herself during the screening
(as there were no leggings to the costume).
She barely noticed when the fat little hero
got blown up on screen except to dribble "chocolate"
from her own little chocolate factory.
It was, all in all, quite an eventful outing
and one I might consider repeating but
probably in a different cinema next time,
mainly because we got banned for life
when the manager saw the condition of the seat.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
A Challenger, Challenging everything,
because everything was a challenge.
A goal was set, I continue to try to reach, do what I must to get there,
to over look one small thing.
And blow it all up.
The plans, they’re building, higher and higher,
higher they climb.
The higher they climb the harder they fall.
Fall, fall, falling they came down.
Nothing left.
Spartan was I, an old Spartan I am,
My shield is still on,
but my head is painted upon it.
For I hold, I hold my ground until the very end.
The very end I shall hold with my dying breath,
I shall not waver, in strength, courage, spirit, truth, loyalty…
What is loyalty? This question is asked when one can no longer trust his fellow
man.
I was a Spartan, my head upon my shield, and my shield up, as the rain of arrows and the trumpets of death may sound, I will not yield.
A Bulldog, an ugly creature, short, stocky,
yet ferocious in their fights, they show no emotion,
and their loyalty, unquestioning.
Their bite speaks louder than their bark.
Now I’m here, I hear,
Throw me a bone,
put me in the ring,
put up the lights,
watch me fight.
You see,
for
I am.
A Challenger, reaching for the stars
A Spartan, who held his ground.
A Bulldog, waiting for his next order.
These Are
the Mascots of my life.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
The children are all crying in their pens
and the surf carries their cries away.
They are old men who have seen too much,
their mouths are full of ***** clothes,
the tongues poverty, tears like ****
The surf pushes their cries back.
Listen.
They are bewitched.
They are writing down their life
on the wings of an elf
who then dissolves.
They are writing down their life
on a century fallen to ruin.
They are writing down their life
on the bomb of an alien God.
I am too.
We must get help.
The children are dying in their pens.
Their bodies are crumbling.
Their tongues are twisting backwards.
There is a certain ritual to it.
There is a dance they do in their pens.
Their mouths are immense.
They are swallowing monster hearts.
So is my mouth.
Listen.
We must all stop dying in the little ways,
in the craters of hate,
in the potholes of indifference--
a ****** in the temple.
The place I live in
is a maze
and I keep seeking
the exit or the home.
Yet if I could listen
to the bulldog courage of those children
and turn inward into the plague of my soul
with more eyes than the stars
I could melt the darkness--
as suddenly as that time
when an awful headache goes away
or someone puts out the fire--
and stop the darkness and its amputations
and find the real McCoy
in the private holiness
of my hands.
2.9k
Hers was the first face I found
freshman year at FSU.
I'll always remember that garish orange and green gator shirt,
and pin with the picture of a bulldog,
hanging from a noose.
I thought, oh Jeez, she's got school spirit,
and I shuddered at the image,
of cheerleaders, and sports stars, recieving preferential treatment,
but my first impression was far from the mark.
She had a smile for miles and eyes to match.
And a laugh that could shatter a frown.
And she laughed any chance she got.
The few pictures I have left of her,
she is laughing and smiling in each...
That big toothy smile,
and that magical laugh...
I remember the first time she kissed me.
I was playing my guitar on campus,
back when everybody did it,
not just pretentious **********
trying to show off.
She came up behind me,
and did the old hands over the eyes routine,
and of course I knew her voice immediately.
She turned my head and kissed me,
for the first time,
and I could hear the whispering,
and feel everyone's eyes on me,
and it felt pretty **** good.
How I wished someone had snapped a picture,
for the FSView, with the caption
" Future valedictorian kisses scruffy hippy freshman.
Entire student body baffled."
I was baffled.
She was the talk of the campus,
she spoke her mind always,
and she was active all over the campus,
doing this and that.
I asked her one day,
"Why do you make your life so complex,
when do you rest?"
and she said
"My life used to be complex, because I made it that way.
But believe it or not, with all I do around campus,
really my life is simple and fun. If I didn't love what I am doing
I would stop Will. Life is too short for complexity."
I laughed, and I thought to myself,
this woman is more complex than she lets on.
We went out for my entire freshman year,
but she graduated my sophmore year,
and she got a job in London, and she moved away that summer.
I said I would visit...I never did..
She said she would write...she did, once,
to tell me she was getting married,
she even invited me, but of course I didn't go..
She enclosed a photo of her and her fiance,
and it was clear what she saw in him..
he had a smile almost as big as hers,
and of course she was smiling too..
Of all the images burned into my memory
that picture is the one that hurts me most.
I wrote back, wishing her luck, and I told her I couldn't come,
I never heard from her again, but I prayed that night,
that he would treat her right, and if he took away her smile,
I prayed he would suffer, until he put it back.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that picture...
that smile...
I hope she's smiling, even as I write these words.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 10:11 AM UTC
Won boxing matches with Lewis , Lasky, Corn Griffin, Swiderski,
Then many more titles with Griffiths, Farr, Stillman, and Levandowski,
Jackson, Caggiano, Darnell and Dobson
Something he could tell his grandson
His greatest match of all was the title he earned against Max Baer
The fight was the ultimate win at Gardens of Madison Square
A very passionate man for his wife and children he went to great lengths
To keep his family together during the depression, even in times of brink
Served honorably in WWII as a 1st Lieutenant
Owned a surplus supplier of marine equipment
Helped to construct the bridge Verrazano
It was the proud city’s beautiful Picasso
Gone is Jim Braddock, a movie about him, CINDERELLA MAN to be sure he’s not forgotten
His Granddaughter Rosemarie Dewitt played his neighbor Sara Wilson, who was downtrodden
Copyright 2014
All Rights Reserved
Biopoem
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
When I was a kid we played over the park
climbing trees, building tree houses
playing football, sometimes gutters
challenge strangers to a game
Tag, bulldog, hopscotch, pogs and more
paper ball fights, pillow fights, play fights
when I was a kid we made friends and stayed in touch
playing outside
When I was a teenager we played against our friends
websites, bebo, myspace, msn, yahoo, chatrooms
listened to new music, bands we never heard off
photos all the time plastering the web
when I was a teenager we played games like snake
trying to hold on to our child mind as we got older
In my early 20's, things changed
Myspace no more, we moved to Facebook
Selfies, more selfies and even more selfies
Youtube, Twitter, so many ways to make friends
stay in touch
Edging closer to late 20's
Snapchat, Instagram, Tinder, Whats app, Vine
so many ways to make friends
nearly 30 years, I've experienced so many ways to remain social
I miss those days, climbing the trees
because I could
running without a care in the world
no worries, to problems, favorite teachers, best friends
so many ways to be social
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
Sunday Morning blues
RIO DE JANEIRO all nights or LAS VEGAS nightlife
After two-three glasses of twisted Ice lemon
Or was it an Alabama Slammer which cut like a knife
My days and nights felt like a freight train ride
And that no lie!
I remember the Cuban Bulldog who bite me
three years ago, in Kissimmee;
which left me more than a little weak
those feisty drinks
Or was it that wicked, wacky Long Island Ice coffee
Which almost has done me in?
After, watching a news clips of Momar Kadafi
or was it an episode of Friends
Luckily, for me I met my sweet Marlin Brando
And it was hallelujah and amen in Key Largo
So many bartenders, so many smokes filled rooms
So, once again here I am nursing
Another Sunday mornings blues.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Gag gag and gargle
Draggin’ through the muck of
That place you said you’d never go back to
Screamin’ like a devil in the dark
The bump and grind of his *****
Bump and grind
Got you buckin’ backwards like a
Bulldog
But we both know you should’a’ never brought a dog
To a gun fight
Too late for tears darlin’
Bite lipped quivers never saved a soul
Can hear the fear in the breaks for sobs
The door to his apartment never beckoned
But you broke down the doors
Like you had something to prove
Bent you bilaterally like
The corner you backed yourself into
So perfect in your symmetry
Till you left me for him
Now you got the heart-sag
Jaw dropped
Dope fiend look
Tearing up at the sky
And the flowers
White powder pluggin up your nose holes
Can’t smell the **** on your knees now
Or the muck you got stuck in
You said I wasn’t as fun as he was
As he is
I never wanted to save you anyway
I just thought it was beautiful
The way you praised me for the things I say
And the way I say ‘em
Ya know
I got blasted backwards
By the backlash of you leaving
Kicked up so much dust in the rubble
And left me dizzy with the rumble
Of your feet fleeing the song of some ***** stomp
Headin’
Farther and farther away from safety
At least I was safe
I wasn’t bitter
Even my bite was gentle
Kind enough to remind you I still got teeth
But I won’t use ‘em
So before you leave me
Again
Take the burden
The baggage
The weight of my shoulders
The wait for the phone call sayin’ you finally
****** up and died on me
The mix tapes
The t-shirts
The memories of every moment my heart kept sayin’
“She won’t stay
But hold her for as long as she’ll let you”
Take it all
And go
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 5:03 AM UTC
Dear Prudence, Julia, Michelle, Mr. Moonlight, Eleanor Rigby, Dizzy Miss Lizzy, Lady Madonna, Lovely Rita, Rocky Racoon, Lucille, **** Sadie, Clarabella, Her Majesty, Nowhere Man, Penny Lane, Carol, Long Tall Sally, Maggie Mae, Johnny B. Goode, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Moonlight Boy, Martha My Dear,
You Like Me Too Much. It’s All Too Much. I’m So Tired. The Night Before Yesterday Memphis, Tennessee, I Saw Her Standing There. Polythene Pam.
Not A Second Time She Said She Said “Hey Bulldog. I Want To Hold Your Hand. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road. Here, There and Everywhere. Something.”
I Want To Tell You I Should Have Known Better. “Wait. Slow Down. I Just Don’t Understand. Tell Me Why.”
“Because I’m Down. I’m Happy Just To Dance With You. Hold Me Tight”
“I’ll Be On My Way”
“Please Please Me”
“Get Back. Help!”
And I Love Her
All My Loving,
Mean Mr. Mustard
P.S I Love You
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Messages from strangers
Speak of waging war.
Go play jump roap,
Marbles, hopscotch.
All are fine playground games
British bulldog or dodgeball
tag or kiss-chase....
What's the time Mr Wolf?
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
Scrambled Eggs and Spam
hot **** what a day
I just awoke
and I can hear granddad
he's downstairs playing with Scooter
and I can smell Spam frying
granddad likes to stop by
early on Sunday mornings
he brings in the newspaper
plays somewhat quietly
with our bulldog Scooter
and starts the coffee and breakfast
Scooter doesn't bark at granddad
for some reason
maybe he doesn't want to wake
anyone else so he has granddad's
full attention
he likes it just as much as me I think
when granddad drops by on Sunday mornings
I know mom can hear him too
but she will lay in bed until he calls
up the staircase in his whiskey voice
“hey, people die in bed you know”,
“c'mon, breakfast is ready”
he would yell
granddad was our rock
since my dad passed a couple
of years ago in Afghanistan
I still miss him of course
and when I am alone in the early morning
sometimes I cry
but on Sunday morning
when granddad shows up
I know it's going to be a good day
the sun will shine
and we'll have toast
with strawberry jelly
a tall glass of cold orange juice
and scrambled eggs and spam
... I love my granddad
Gomer LePoet...
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
A timepiece moves
Fluttering wings
Time…
Now lands
And,...
Angels sing.
A moment …
Now,
… is still;
It is the close of a day.
And,…now
My heart is braking
Now, You are…
Gone away.
My, sweet old… bulldog
You always... made me safe;
With you. I was not all alone
In my dark... and solemn place.
Now… it is goodbye
I reach out
I touch your hair
Thank You...
My Old Bulldog
For all the time we had to share.
One last time
My old friend
I kiss
Your loving face
… You now sleep.
Till,... Again we meet
In some far...
Far distant place.
Fluttering wings
Angels sing
Time…
Is
Still;
Today.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Stale yellow teeth spaced between crookedly straight gaps,
constantly inspected with your little finger for forgotten bits of your last meal.
Thinning grey-brown hair combed every morning with dignity,
and a permanent scowl,
which twists into a grin at the most unexpected moments.
The Bulldog is what they used to call you,
though I never found out why.
Old age took your strength and unassuming dignity with which young men relieve themselves
free of painful swollen prostates.
Beneath your sun-blotched skin and flesh-colored hearing aids,
You're the same.
Ready to introduce anyone who gives your family the wrong look
to the glory of Heaven, or the fire of Hades
With your ******* fists.
"A gem" is what grandma always called you.
As though you were the most precious object in her life.
I look at you and see your hunch-backed figure
twisted with time and arthritis.
So un-gemlike.
Yet a gem, just like she said.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Her face
A decade of over ex-posure
to synthetic radiation coupled with far too much
-Time.
Time spent looking disgusted at non-trivial ventures
created an irreparable
leather-bulldog façade.
A healthy dose of
nepotistic narcissism
and the articulation of
railroad spikes trailing across an empty slate.
A month's compensation
signing the all-too familiar signature
across the fibers of her liver
How to resist
Such a specimen of modernism?
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Far from the
restless boom box blare
jazz blue ****
city lights and guitars on fire
miles from the urban smell
of opulent people, pierced armpits
bulldog buildings pressed
together in a dead-heat
many asphalt moons from
quaint village cafes
Yankee Stadium, Central Park,
Queens Boulevard
and downtown mystical bookshops
I found a clear, pure halcyon stream
hewn from stars,
trickling down from Heaven
an affluent vision of strength
gushing over the softer
translucent parts of me
gentle Yogi yodeling through
my alpine heart
lets sail upstream to the roof of your
prayer washed Zen mountain
offer lotus garlands and incense
at sunrise we kneel in the
Temple Alucinante
(Please share the warm embrace of my new Poetry book:
108 Bhakti Kisses, The Ecstatic Poetry of a Modern Day Gopi
http://amzn.com/0984787216)
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
and you ain't gotta dig too deep
to find it
it's right behind your eyes, in that picture
you see
of Mama runnin' half naked from the house covered
in blood and snot
and crack crazed daddy chasing after her
with a butcher knife
before the man come and gunned
him down
it's there in that lump throat memory of grandad telling you his own Papa got the whip
for standing tall against a bulldog
Alabama sheriff
hell is being sent to Granny
for foster care
and her telling you she ain't got enough
food for herself
it's wearing shoes so tight
every step is a jab
a reminder everything you do
is gonna come with pain
what Hell ain't is what that fat pastor
claims it to be
some fiery place I can't even
see
buried so far down I can't feel
its infernal heat
hell, hell is right here on my black
and blood painted street
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 3:39 PM UTC
I WAS! DESIGNED! IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA!
I WAS! DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA!
MANUFACTURED IN CHINA...
that's all the U.S.A. seems to be,
an advertising conglomerate,
oink oink it's like three blind men
and Donald Trump:
one touched his egoistic *******
impression and said it was the Mississippi
mud-hole Riviera,
another touched his overweight cheeks
and started to chuckle while calling ************
a bulldog salivating with the cheeks
choke on chuckles you chimpanzee:
chuck chuck, whatever onomatopoeia
five cents spare...
and the last blind mind touched the
over-comb quiff... and he said: by god!
the wind hairstyling grass!
while the Russians sold off Alaska historically,
and are selling bits of ******** Siberia
bit by bit to the Chinese,
evolutionary implementation
of Pan-Eskimo...
you need eyes like slits akin with excess
camel eye-lashes to survive the cold...
like i told you, Russia will end up shrinking
into a border enclosure limited to
starting between Belarus (the ******* Tsarist **** bags)
the Baltic states and Ukraine and ending at the Urals.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
It was a pleasure to see you again
Bulldog jawed with that wide fat ***
I wanted to tell you that I used to
Fantasize about you
Your dark flowers covering
My chest
As I feasted like a black bee
Like a disgusting butterfly
On you hair
I feasted again at the party
Last night
There is something about you
Some kind of dumb innocence
Shining from unraped eyes
That I wish I could return
To my heart
And we talked again and I really tried
To pretend to care
And I saw you frown at me when
They said "Better take it easy on the
Beers Ray..."
**** I'm fine, this us only the 7th...
Or 8th..."
"Wait til he gets 2 more in him,
************* crazy!!!"
"Really?" You asked
You looked down at the empty green
Glass and
I looked as well
I saw all the light in the room cram
Itself into those bottles
Then I scoughed
And decided the party was getting
Dull
I had to hijack it
Somebody said
"Ray, tell the story about when you
And your ex were at the hotel for your anniversary"
"Well...shit. She said 'ooooh baby, your **** is so big!' and I said 'yeah, biggest you ever had baby?' And she said 'well...no....the biggest I ever had was like 12 inches.'
And I was sore as hell about it
So we started arguing and she started crying and I just sat there drinking a jug of Carlo Rossi all night."
And everybody at the party laughed
And you couldn't believe I would say
Something like that
Then you asked "Ray, what size shoe
Are you?"
"11"
"False advertisement" you said.
Then I started screaming
"Hey! It's A DECENT SIZE, ILL PULL MY **** OUT RIGHT NOW, I DONT GIVE A ****
And I stood up and unbuttoned my jeans
And some laughed
and the party hosts looked concerned
And I saw a scared fascinated and
Disgusted look in your eyes
"LETS GO TO THE BATHROOM, ILL SHOW YOU, NOBODYS EVER COMPLAINED ABOUT IT"
And I rambled on and on
And cleared the whole room again
Anyways,
It was a pleasure to see you again.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
The summer endured with a kiss:
He was the worst thing that I could have loved.
Bulldog called him the Straightened Arrow,
because **** like him get all the ladies"*
with his curls that turned like a surfer's dream.
But in order to not be, Arrow had to bend.
Because a bent arrow never flies far.
He would pity me with his hands in mine
late in the nights spent buried in his bed.
We shared our secrets and our stories,
our ******* nightmares and our souls.
Through the sage and past the shack
he took me down the beaten trails
to where he swore no one had been before.
The sun was an actor and the train tunnel's arch our seats.
The play progressed from Act Noon 'til Act 6:00.
We sat on the overlook singeing our lungs,
flicking cigarettes onto the occasional train.
The stench of tar, then a nuisance, is memorial to this day.
And once, on the artificial cliff where no man had been
on a day when the sun, tinged terribly red
by the burning of a forest I would now never know
had played its most powerful sunset,
Arrow kissed me.
His lips
were as soft
as sheer air.
That was the day I learned to hate theatre
and the day I first loved a poison.
He was the only boy who ever kissed me because he liked me,
and not because I like boys and you like boys and we both like boys, too.
Because he didn't.
Throughout the summer I walked with him and his girls through the sage
and past the shack to that vaulting arch hung above the tracks
where I watched him kiss them fast, kiss them sweetly,
I noticed how he never kissed them the way he kissed me.
His lips never looked so soft as they did that evening, and the sun never set so right.
And the summer went on.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
The summer began with a cigarette:
She was the hottest dude I had ever seen.
‘Bulldog’ we would call her late in the night
as she danced the northern soul in her Trucker Hat
that fit a little too big, and her boy shirts that wore a little too baggy
to hide the fact that her bra had skipped town.
In an instant she was my best friend
and after a few nights of staying up a little too late
smoking a few too many cigarettes
Bulldog and I had become a little too close.
Near her house was a monolithic parking garage
that we began sneaking out to each and every night.
The orange lights flooded each level,
painting our rescue mission clothes yellow.
“It’s nice,” I remember thinking,
“Now we never have to buy anything yellow.”
When we got to the top we would peek over the edge
and see who could spit farthest.
Bulldog won.
I’d see who could *** the farthest.
I won.
We would laugh about all the people we loved
and how they’d never love us back.
Then we cried about all the people we loved
because they’d never love us back.
Hours passed, and each night was radically different but always ended the same:
We would sit on the edge of the fifth floor
surveying the city that hated us most
and holding each other's hands because we both wanted to jump,
but neither wanted the other to die.
I loved my Bulldog like I have never loved any man, woman, or person
and like I never will again.
She was my soul mate.
And the summer went on.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC