"carbonated" poems
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.
Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.
Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.
Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water --
deep gulps, infinite sips.
Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.
Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.
Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.
Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.
Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.
Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
shelf
to the end of time.
Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
how to make
grandma's sauce.
Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
we had been mopping
the kitchen floor all day
and the dirt never
stopped coming back
and earlier we had sprayed
the entire front porch
down with the garden hose
and now it was still wet
which made it feel as if
it had recently rained when in fact
the grass was a crunchy
brown carpet of regrets.
the night before we had
drunk orange smoothies
laced with lime and something
aged sleek and dark
(i think it must have been
the reason we couldn't
sleep that night
lay awake in my parents bed
and i told you why i
wouldn't go swimming
until the sun rose
the dog barked
the birds screamed
their morning songs
and my body stopped its
nightly spasms of fear.)
and the next evening
we put on a miranda lambert song
(the one we drank to
in your mother's van last winter)
sat on the wet
porch swing
and cracked open
our first beers
they were
really bad
i gagged
because it tasted
like carbonated
banana bread with
too much stale
baking soda
and we poured half of them
into the flower beds
the next morning
was sunday
and we had milk and muffins
in the kitchen with
simon and garfunkel
then went back out to the porch
drank iced coffee in the
eleven o'clock sunlight
and you said
"if this were a normal sunday
i would have been up at six
at church by eight
and done teaching my first
sunday school class by ten."
(is beer as much
of an acquired taste
as coffee is?
because i can't ever
remember not liking it
i used to think it was
bitter but i always
liked it anyway.)
i didn't say anything
because i didn't want to
say what was on the tip
of my tongue
that this kind of sunday
had become my normalcy
and our variety of saturday night
no longer felt like underage
drinking and more like
the way i was meant to be.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
I saw this list
And it had all these ways
To build endurance.
It was all about being healthy,
Said you should stop drinking
Carbonated drinks,
Do more reps than you did last time.
But if you asked me
How to build endurance?
I'd say first
You pray.
You pray and pray
And ask for God to
Teach you
Endurance-
Which is basically asking
For trials and troubles.
And you enjoy
Every flower
And smell
Every rose,
Because
Endurance is about
Savoring the good times
While you're in the bad.
And endurance
Isn't one of those things
You set out to build.
It's one of those
Build it
Or be broken things
And sometimes
Build it
And be broken.
Because you never know
How much you can endure
Until the weight of the world
Is on your shoulders.
So if you asked me
How to build endurance,
I'd say prayer,
Trials and troubles,
Savor the flowers
In the middle of a hurricane,
Remember tomorrow
Will be a brighter day,
And drink carbonated drinks-
Because you never know
How long it'll be between.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
you're drinking, and then you can't control
the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton...
one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah),
and then the alter deja vu
is a cocktail of:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than
say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play
or something... leave me with the anchor of ****
humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us
in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill...
it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something...
you know, living 20 odd years in an english society
i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real
firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold,
i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched
her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers
and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat
to match my serious demeanour...
yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle
chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp...
gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne,
well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to
speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing
the gears to a 100m sprint world record.
the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous
laughter, unstoppable like a tide;
got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great...
great great great great great... great great granddaughter...
a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent
gets you all the pleasantries so everything can
go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting...
now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane
into the Swiss elevations by "accident"
while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone
else is farting into cushions.
honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick
wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four
walls, and the vowels are either ****** up
or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters,
and your safest bet to express them is
to laugh;
well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because
my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with
the giggles.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
She's staring at her favorite scarf and weeping away at her life.
Mother doesn't love her,
Father doesn't understand her.
And the image of her scarf is constantly appearing in her mind.
She has come to the conclusion that she'd look best wearing it,
Hanging from one foot from her ceiling.
Funny how something meant to make someone so warm,
Can be used to make a body stone-cold.
Should she wear the scarf with butterflies on it?
Or the one her sister gave her for Christmas,
The day they stopped talking to each other altogether?
Should she wear the one she wore on her first date with him,
Or is that too much?
Mother is screaming at her,
Telling her that her room is too cluttered.
There are scarves laying everywhere on the ground,
The girl is comfortable with it.
But I wonder what she'd do when her mother sees her cluttered mind.
"Mom, how does this scarf look on me?"
The girl will ask from up above,
Or maybe down below.
But she won't care, because she's too preoccupied with the girls flaws.
Her room gets too explosive,
Shes not exactly like the mothers firstborn.
She hangs out with friends too often to avoid being home.
Scratch that, at her house, because a home is where the heart is,
But all I see are carbonated feelings being bottled up,
And shaken,
But the girl doesn't dare pop open the cap.
Now the mother is pushing the girl away
And throwing everything she has,
Both literally and figuratively,
And the mother officially wages a war against the girl.
The mother is armed with the girl's dear father,
And her words,
And all the girl has to offer are scarves.
She has an assortment of 13 exactly,
But she doesn't know which one to wear.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
This is the machine.
Tucked under necklaces, poppies and daffodils
calligraphic fingertip Xs
hurry across pockets.
Thursday morning job postings
markers on construction paper windows
exhausted by making parts.
Keep weddings in thunderstorms
to hide the sound of windmills in chests,
bittersweet directions to ticking clockwork.
Carbonated water can’t convince summer to stay,
musical breaths and tulip footsteps
remind me of the gears in my knees.
Always buy wallets used
daylily bank notes folded into stairwells,
the heels of my socks.
Blue collars in ochre wheelbarrows
soaking next to the white ones.
We are quiet machines.
With cogs in our wrists
battery powered bone and sinew.
Baby’s breath white in our hair,
tiny bunches piled into collar bones or concave stomachs.
You have stars in your hair
whispering in manufactured voices
to pull out your eyelashes.
Consumed by the concept of concepts
on ravine park benches,
marred with newspaper labyrinths
smelling of rolled up sleeves.
Hand held gummy bears
prompt me to check my fluid levels,
bubbly orchids in my left palm.
Sugar intakes and patterned pants
hide homemade pulses.
This is the machine.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Interpreting Dreams Series Part 1
1/15/2014
I've got this idea
that the world has too many feelings.
Too many smiles that have turned upside down.
Too many tears that have gone unnoticed.
This couple sits at a table with a pretty white cloth.
Glasses of fancy carbonated water, bubbly like their first date.
But now, they hate each other.
They sit and complain about everyone in their lives.
and on their minds, they just hate their selves, not even each other.
They look at others with a scathing jealousy.
One guy takes a nap
He finds an electric taser in his dreams
He uses it to shock himself back awake, but then
he realizes he didn't want this moment to ever end.
Where dreams are reality and you don't have to suffer fraught with what's not.
She puts on her pearls
and then walks out the door.
She knows how she got them,
lies to herself, doesn't want to feel like a *****
But still, she wants more.
There's something special about being the only one standing in a crowd.
Whether you're up on stage or in the middle of a pit.
You feel this sense that the moment is great
but it isn't amazing without another person to stand beside you.
They cried at a bus stop,
a family knowing
they had no money to celebrate holidays this year.
They don't need to, but it's the feelings that matter.
They cried.
We never know what we will find, when we look for something.
Our feelings are dangerous if we go looking for them and end up lost.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
Barry’s dead.
I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.
Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.
Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******
That’s the story of your life –
All
most
man.
Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…
I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.
Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:
For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 4:40 AM UTC
I step gently onto the ground as I glide across the shore, padding with a light caution to protect the un-callused skin coating the bottom of my slightly burnt feet, the covering not yet thick and worn from a full summer of bare use. The sand underfoot is a speckled grey, thoroughly beaten to a fine, almost silky carpet, dark with captured ocean and fresh with salty spray. As the seconds pass, the darkness below fades, and my feet somewhat sink, though they are not engulfed, only hugged around the edges so that if I stepped away, a slight shadow of myself would remain behind. I do not, however, move, and instead, allow the earth to slowly bend for my being. I feel miniscule grains of shell aged several millennia rush between my toes as the sea easily escapes the weak attempt to cage it. The next wave tears in, and I see it frothing and foaming, rabid and furious toward the shore, but as it reaches me, it is little more than a carbonated, salty trickle. As the water laps at my ankles, I turn toward the dunes, away from the infinite horizon and know that the slight depression I have left is already being brushed into oblivion, my only mark flicked aside. As I pad softly away, the ground transforms from bland silk to stained glass. The speckled grey sand brightens to a yellow tan, then fireworks to an endless prism of shells, appearing like millions of hooks, swirls, and bowls, across the now slightly undulating ground. Like stars in the Milky Way floating throughout an endless sea of blackness, the shells are scattered in hued bands across the beach, twinkling with reflected starlight. Above me, doming the serene landscape is an azure sky free from all but a few cotton ***** which have been stretched by the sea fairing breeze to be all but transparent. The smell of salt reaches my nose as a bucolic waft emanates from the expanse to my back. I close my eyes, shading my vision and trusting the peace of my surroundings to hold. The faded calls of gulls echo along the shore and the popping of sea foam bubbles sharpens as my mind turns to rely on the sense of sound. Opening my eyes again, I see nothing of the landscape’s composure has altered. But for all its calm tranquility, isn't it strange, that I am walking through a graveyard.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.
Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.
Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.
Define originality.
Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.
•the quality of being novel or unusual
synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.
Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.
Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.
Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******** about the people who brought you into this world.
Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was
O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d
Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
If you can escape me in little thought bubbles
Like I am a bottle of carbonated soda
((And you are the hiss that escapes me when I'm too shaken up to remember
We should have digested our feelings by now))
Then perhaps I should shovel my fist deeper into my mouth
To keep all of these words from dribbling out
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
There were furrows in his brow
Kept his music much too loud
Paper skin and paper grin
To his chest, a heart we'll pin
Veins are ****** tunnels
A carbonated bottle
A lump love funnels,
Bubbles over, feeling sober
Dismal future, no four leaf clover
Afraid to search around for a light
Afraid to wait around and see that it might
Not be all that worthwhile
He lived to take flight
Dark crimson in a ****** vile
Injection withdrawn, thin paper smile
Down below,
Ground is coming near
And before the pavement
A vision was clear
A final thought rummaged through his brain
A blissful blow, a final aching pain
A florescent concussion, an angelic cheer
A temporary life he lived
For it was not death he feared
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
a haiku I: carbonated water rocks
slightly flavorful
carbonated beverage
one liter bottle
a haiku II: ode to seltzer
in massachusetts
seltzer costs eighty-nine cents
one liter bottles?
a haiku III: read and recycle and stuff
NY-MA-ME-CT-VT
five cent deposit (960 mL)
**** haiku format…
you liars that isn’t a ******* liter that is less than a liter **** america for not adapting to the metric system.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
One full bowl of chilli,
at least two dozen saltines,
one hot dog, and
two handfuls of chips later,
I vow not to eat tomorrow.
I had two small chicken tenders
and a bottle of carbonated orange juice at lunch,
and half an hour later
I was hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tasted of stomach acid and regret.
I ate once yesterday
and the same thing happened.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same the only thing on my mind
is how much I regret eating so much.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same
I find a strange sort of comfort
in knowing that I'm at least strong enough to control my appetite.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same I can't get enough
of this self-hatred
spilling out of my mouth,
tinted with the taste of last hour's meal.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
*i was eating a pepperoni pizza today,
and took a salty tongue into the night,
£270 on my bank account - great stuff -
took five quid out, felt like buying four
oranjeboom reds at 8.5% each,
instead bought two, and
perrier carbonated glass-bottled water...
god the thirst in this cement sahara...*
the best transition accompanying drinking
and listening to music comes
from the heights of reggae to creedence clearwater
revival... no, not the eagle, not Leonard the skin-head
with an 'ard on... creedence... lebowski who
was bukowski's posthumous alter-ego...
so i did a galileo while drinking,
the light on my side-table by the bed light
glowed, put my sunglasses on...
the stars disappeared and the planets appeared...
oddly enough, as is usual the case of
counter-intuitive matters when looking
at astronomical geographies...
mars far left... venus in the middle,
and jupiter the biggest and therefore the brightest
far right...
i worked it out against linear tactics...
the distance of the earth from venus doesn't
make a difference with the distance from mars,
but the distance of mars from jupiter is greater,
see you in 100 years to prove the point
and whether it matches up to HARD, NECESSARY,
PROOFS... LIKE MAINTENANCE ***
******* a girl with a really really exaggerated
libido, having to wear a ****** while she was
on her period, in the toilet and she bewildered
saying: 'most guys don't dig the female bits...'
hell... i'd do necrophilia...
shame the relationship turned to a sour toast with her,
shame, really... really really.
oh yeah, after smashing that £600 martin & co.
guitar to celebrate valentines day
(chłopiec z gitarą był by dla mnie parą
my grandmother used to sing...
well... sorry to disappoint,
i had her rastafarian shoelaces for
a pin-up belt to walk and play, or simply
stand still and note string twangs...
była giiitara... ni ma giiitary...)
and bought myself a drum-kit:
well... just my finger-drumming antics
on my legs;
or as a wise man said: **** her, leave the rest
for a backward trek into life
without maps but only premonitions.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Silent little boy
With those piercing blue eyes
Gorgeous and vibrant
As if I'm staring at the sky's
Dark brown locks
Curly and now dyed black
For a cosplay of kaneki ken
Now that was a throw back
Tall and lanky
Like most of my friends
The new student of the year
Fresh from New Zealand
Though you're longing to go home
As this place isint really your style
Homesickness I would call it
You've been feeling it for awhile
And to a girl you caught feelings
One that used you as a past time
While the other was genuine
Until she changed her mind
Silent around most people
But we have some good conversation
Sheep go meow I say with a smirk
You're a problem you say
While laughing at your declaration
You don't drink carbonated drinks
As you hate the bubbly fuzz
Its quite strange I think
Cause everybody else kinda does
And you're a good kid I reckon
Though you need to voice yourself more
As you dont allow people to know you
And so they think you a bore
But I know there's something more
Then the silence and those stares
As you can laugh and smile with me
I can feel that you truly care
But I won't fault you for your choices
Cause you may not want people around
But at least for another year
You're stuck on Australian ground
So make the most of your stay my boy
Have fun and open up a little
As you've done with me
that way everybody can see
That you're a good kid
Just a tad anti social
Thats why I call you
Silent E
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
She's a spitfire. A kinda girl that makes you want her no matter how poisonous she can be. With an infectious smile, and a swing with those wide hips, she make your mind melt. Like a shaken glass bottle of coke, she was bubbles of carbonated water mixed with sugar and unknown chemicals that make your taste buds sizzle. But she explode on you if you weren't careful. She wasn't afraid to say, "I hate you". She often said it quite often, especially to boys who tried too hard, or not at all. She was a wild thing and liked fire even if she got burned. And she wasn't afraid to hurt you. And if you hurt her, watch it. If you hurt someone she loved, then you better run. But a ****** she was, and sparky, sorta spinster sort of attitude she had towards love. She didn't want it. She needed it not in her mind. But alas at night she be alone and cold, wanted some arms to have to hold her. And her cold hard eyes defied their love. She was crude and not careful, and said words that make those boys want her more then they should. She teased and taunted and played with em all. Wanting nothing to do with them and their easy hearts. She wanted someone who was strong. Someone who wasn't so easy to or so nice. She didn't like nice, because as hard as she tried she couldn't be nice. She wasn't nice or selfless or loving. She was war, and strife, and like to make other people mad. She say stuff she didn't mean, and make sure people knew what she thought, even if it didn't matter. She wanted a guy who could manage it. Who could settle her down and be ok ruffling her feathers and calling her names. She wanted him keeping it interesting, unlike the others who bored her to tears. Yeah, she was the one that I didn't want to tame but loved so much anyways.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC
I am as strong as I want to be, because right now I care more about leaning out and taking in as few calories as possible. Losing the pounds in order to gain 'em back, you know? There's very few questions that truly have a right or a wrong answer, and I believe that with 98% of me. Sometimes a right answer simply means it is socially acceptable and a wrong answer is the truth, so in that situation you'd want to throw away your moral compass, clench your jaw, and hope that the lies that come out just result in pearly, shiny teeth.
you take a sip of something and it tastes like, ummm.. bad. it tastes like deceit, but that isn't totally possible (OBVIOUSLY), so in a literal sense it just tastes like the Coca Cola syrup that didn't have any carbonated water mixed with it. It's sweet, flavorful, but kind of tastes like it could erode my car engine in a matter of seconds, you know?
I feel the sip deep inside of my body, I can feel it trailing down my esophagus (is that what it is?) or maybe just my throat, a tube to my stomach and then to parts of me I better just not try to name out of fear of sounding stupid. fear of sounding stupid drives the majority of things I do, but that's okay, because at least I don't sound stupid.
the sip gets caught in the pit of my gut and I start to feel uneasy. I probably should have looked at the bottle before sipping it, huh? I probably should have asked for a detailed list of ingredients like the responsible wanna-be-vegan I should be? I call myself a wannabe most things. its just the person I am.
I take a seat because I don't feel good. this is going to hurt, this is going to land me in the hospital probably and might take a whole while to get over. this is turning too literal and I'm trying to beat around the bush, so ill just tell you about the time I took a sip of a coke can and a bee was inside and it flew around in my mouth for a solid 5 seconds before I managed to open, spit, and scream. that could be poetic if you really hunt, like I waited 5 whole seconds to get the monstrous bee out of my ******* mouth, I just sat with a confused look on my face for 5 whole seconds!!! thats a whole giant metaphor! I still swallowed the Coca Cola and it tastes like ***
IMAGINE THAT people- poison only takes like poison once you've swallowed it.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
If I spoke underwater about the things that I hated
I'd run out of gas and the water would be carbonated
It's belated, but I realise that everyone I've dated
Faded away because they found someone 'better'
I just guess that means I'm fated to be rated second
So this girl wants to get down with me
But doesn't want anything higher
Yet I'll keep running back & stand by her
Feelings of objectification
I guess my body is like a slum & I need some gentrification
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
Je t'adore.
I say it in French
so the words don't seem as heavy.
Heavy things leave both parties weaker
than when they started.
You make me feel all carbonated inside.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
THERE ARE ALL TYPES OF BOTTLES IN LIFE, JUST KNOW WHICH ONES TO CHOOSE. THERE IS ONE I'M SURE YOU KNOW, CAN REALLY BE ABUSED.
CHOOSING A BOTTLE AT AN EARLY AGE IS FOR YOUR PRECIOUS CHILD. JUST TO PUT IT IN ONE'S MOUTH, BRINGS YOU A HAPPY SMILE.
THERE ARE ALL TYPES OF SODA BOTTLES, FILLED WITH CARBONATED DRINKS. THEY ARE NOT TOO GOOD FOR YOUR INSIDE, THEREFORE, YOU BETTER THINK.
THEN THERE IS THE WATER BOTTLE, SOMETHING TO CLEANSE AND REFRESH. THIS BOTTLE PURIFIES YOUR SKIN, AND BRING OUT YOUR BEST.
BY, AUTHOR & POET, SANDRA JUANITA NAILING
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
Take this feeling from my gut, or give me a gun
Carbonated soda in the pit of your stomach
And candy cane lips I wanna **** on
Excuse me for being crass,
but all I want is your hands on my ***
Your nails are gonna dig a thousand stories into my skin
And I've never felt more alive
Singing the absolut lullaby
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
Your voice isn't like a song
Or a prayer.
It's more like a secret.
I am selfish and don't want to share it.
I wan't to catch it in a jar with fresh air and the scent of pine trees
A bottle to mix it with carbonated bubbles
An envelope filled with letters never written.
I want you shrunken down and curled up in the curved shell of my ear.
Whisper, scream, sing, laugh, mutter.
I have a seven-track mind and I'd like you to narrate them all for me.
Read me your homework, your favourite book, your shopping lists, the ingredients of your shampoo.
The breaths and lilts and stutters
Keep it raw and new and open
And I'm honoured.
Share the secret with me.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
“Start a new chapter”
What a cliché talk of trash,
Sick of the story,
Sick of the characters
Sick to death of the bromidic lifestyle
Of our “protagonist”,
Who’s more of a *********
No ambition, no talent, no heart,
No anything really,
Blind shots in the dark.
“I’ll stick to it” He says
“Everyday!” He declares
But everyday becomes every week
And every week becomes every month
And every month becomes-not every year,
But whenever-he-feels-he’s-capable,
Able to apply words into a fable
Of tongue tangling and mind rotting slur.
He’ll be going out today,
Wasting money on fatty foods and
Carbonated poison he doesn't need.
And in an almost pitiful attempt
To feel better about what he failed
He’ll say “I’ll try tonight” in a whisper.
Does he write tonight? Does he ****
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
“Look at Mother Nature on the run in the 1970s.” Neil Young
The earth battles back,
Katrina, Loma Prieta and Sandy destroy our complacency,
Hurricanes and earthquake chase us from our homes.
Our flood-ravaged farms fail us.
The bees go out on strike,
Refusing the work that sustains us.
Drought destroys germination,
Our food at war with our metabolism,
Energizing while poisoning our bodies.
Dioxin & mercury cross our epidermis,
Infect us; **** us in revenge.
The air itself in rebellion,
Hot, fetid, over-carbonated;
Unbreathable.
The atmosphere itself,
Voting us off the planet.
The non-human and the inorganic conspire against us,
Plot extinction of our species,
Condemn us for crimes against the earth.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC