"cartoonish" poems
/*h'americans can call it a striptease, but in amsterdam, with legal self-employed prostitutes? we call it a cocktease: because you'd really visit amsterdam for the **** these days?*
isabella: the french psychology
exchange student -
hung up on her ex-boyfriend -
really in anime movies -
and that american i competed
with on an edinburgh pub-crawl
for freshers -
and lost my virginity to -
probably the only time
i had the ontological parameters
of your atypical man -
"hunting", competing -
oh so, so, enthralling....
(spot the irony mingling with
ridicule, when people "know"
how the modern man behaves,
with his caveman predecessors:
dragging a woman
by the hair type of cartoonish
depiction) -
the other fun time i've had
encounters with h'americans
was in Soho -
two colts, texan tourists asking
for directions,
or where this or that place was...
it almost warmed my heart
hearing that twang
of the tongue...
perhaps someone from arizona?
that has that - "mid" western
twang of the tongue
added to the bite...
snub the Boston high-mind
eloquence, like:
you really really want
to sound european...
never mind...
people say that water is tasteless...
hmm...
so last night i was heating
up one arm of scissors...
and sniffing it...
then licked the other arm of the scissor...
what's in water again?
minerals... a subtle presence...
magnesium, potassium, iron...
you name it...
so yeah... water is... "tasteless"...
eisenzahn that i am.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Swirling a frosty straw
Stuck up like a victory flag in winter ground
With my lips wrapped around it
I stare into this empty canvas
of a vanilla malt
And project my cartoonish headaches
into it to devour it
Oh those Scooby Doo monsters
Shadows that lurk to cut my Tom & Jerry humor
Only to formulate semblances of evil
A Mojo JoJo caricature
I then project into my milkshake
His smirk haunts the smile of Tweety Bird
In my Hanna-Barbara mindfield
Colorful spirals of animated joys
Let me know slurp Elmer Fudd shotgun
That was mugging my creativity
And robbed me of my motive
Let me taste the refreshing winds
That flow through the deserts of Road Runner
Taking laps around my heart
With its true intentions in a love letter
I will never get
Soon slurped and eaten to take away the thoughts
And now I hope I can drink another
To rip out the rest of the pain that in my heart
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Carved from marble,
marvelous and draped in my covers,
floating above my head in a puff of smoke or
as a cartoonish memory
I stay in bed today,
peeking through the blinds.
Surrounded by no one but my
soft and artificial menagerie,
I'm bubbling at the lip.
There are sacks of rice sitting
right above my hips and they're
heavy. Who will help me hold them?
Pressing a thumb to the surface and wincing;
I can feel the grains shifting under my skin.
Today I cooked the rice.
, I swear.
Heat built up in the *** til steam was lifting off my skin^
Hard crunchy bits to tenderize,
softening under the lid.
When I felt that click,
I broke out my wooden spoon
and ate a big plate.
The warm fluffy substance blessed my full cheeks and belly.
For the first time,
I felt like I wasn't hungry.
Maybe tomorrow when I bathe
I'll grow 3 or 4 times my size.
Water-logged
I will fill up the tub,
ceramic squeezing my fleshy form into a
rectangular shape.
Stick a spoon in
and eat me piece by piece.
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 9:12 AM UTC
A sign, that was all
proclaiming in bold red letters
Salsa On Sale
below the letters a cartoonish Mexican
grinned and danced merrily
draped in his festive looking poncho
his sombrero that seemed to big
even for his shadow
along side him a monkey in a smart red vest
and tiny hat doing the same
tin cup in hand they danced together
trying to entice just a few more dollars from the pockets of the passers by
the irony of the moment struck me...
Monkeys don't like salsa!
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
A cartoonish grim woman
in aft cabin was a harlequin let umbrage
squash her there a known charter while she'd smoke in bed
her aroma did permeate her rise to eat breakfast
a morning prepared for sore again
only technical her rouse indeed tripped her smoke alarm
and went unheeded to another deck till open bar decided her fate
while her interest there was crickety
where love is deep in the sea
their golden groves were bubbles and waves
while they brim with valuables onboard did spill
and they'd evoke near me without their calling
when aquanauts will buck up gear then they really sever
their troves below that really soften thine eyes
where the air is moist and ye suit there so well
I can tell you I am picky today and defray your kind.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
It felt like a weekend night, and I was curled up on my couch waiting for you come over. It was so cold in my apartment that I had wrapped myself up in all sorts of patchwork quilts. I heard a knock on my window, but when I looked out, no one was there. I opened it so I could stick my head out and get a better look. I must’ve scoured every direction, saving “up” for last.
Craning my neck, I saw you there, in a little plane, hovering just as high as the trees, just below the streetlights. You were dressed like the Red Baron, scarf and all. Your plane looked just like his too. You yelled down, smiling, “Sorry I’m late, I forgot I had promised everyone that I would make it snow.”
Sure enough, you had a contraption on the back of the plane that was making a cartoonish putt-putting noise as it churned out fresh powder all over the sidewalks and streets. It made me laugh, and I pulled my quilts even tighter around me while I watched.
You dropped a rope ladder down from the side of your plane, “You can come with me if you want. It shouldn't take too long.” I immediately ran out the front door to meet you. I was so excited, that the patches of my quilt began to light up—all different colors, humming electric. I was really surprised by this, and I thought maybe I had done something wrong, but you just laughed and said, “Don’t worry—it will be nice to have the ambiance up here.” (Yes. You said “ambiance” in my dream— because that’s just how my mind works. )
So I climbed into the back of your plane, blankets and all. You turned around and said, “Just a couple of things…” You proceeded to tie my quilt around my neck like a cape. I watched the colored lights catch the corners of your eyes and your smile while you did this. You were right, the ambiance was nice. Handing me a pair of goggles, you told me to put them on and just said, “There, that’s better.”
We flew up and down the streets, both of us lit up in a warm, multi-colored glow, letting the snow fall on everything below.
I think I’m really looking forward to winter.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
i had this amazing art teacher in high school. he was always wacky, always loved talking, and appreciated the small things in life. i had him for 3 years of my high school life and he was one of the only few that actually remembered my name. my major flaw in art was that i lacked depth and detail and i always ran out of time and he always encouraged me, always willing to give advice. i always thought that he hated my art: my art was always borderline cartoonish and anime, every once in a while praising me for my weird imagination. i always thought that he didnt like my art and it frustrated me because i wanted to wow people and smack awesome art in their face yet i couldnt quite seem to impress this teacher. so despite that, i practiced and finally i noticed i can draw faster and that i started to get smaller details. eventually it was the last day in art of my senior year in high school and i was emotional, i realized that it was the end of all those times at school. my teacher asked us earlier if we wanted a party to celebrate and of course we said yes. on the last day we gathered at a table and sat down to eat with each other like a dinner table full of family. my art teacher was emotional of course, but he wanted us to hear some advice he wanted us to know for life. he went down the table and addressed people individually and complimented them and gave them advice. finally he said my name and i looked, ready to hear the worst things possible. he said "i've known you for 3 years, but unfortunately all good things must come to an end. you have eyes that seem to see everything and i think that can take you far in life." i was speechless, i didnt know what to say, for these 3 years ive known him, i thought he didnt pay attention to me and merely dismissed me completely but i was wrong. so the moral of the story: dont assume things of people, they can surprise you, whether it be the worst way or the best way possible.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
Monsters make marvelous pets
and friends
and gods
don't need to be scaley
just powerful
enough to crush bone or spirit
enough to spit logic into the wind
splat in faces
take up spaces
non-believers, over-acheivers
angry beavers
all the same really
made of carbon and hope
floating through the time line
expanding and contracting with the seasons of the universe
be the bee
the ruins on mountains moved with seismic surges
survived storms
bend in the breeze
scream obscenities
loader than sound
faster than sight
perception deception
cartoonish ********
and that is how
the world is made.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
I would have posited longings ago
this short-shrift to-do over such a curt list undone
was inconceivable
outside
the pages of deceptively practiced perceptions
published in a pop-up book smirk,
or beyond
the canary-yellow frames of a cartoonish
distortion relishing its mired but spongy giggles
A
Been-here-all-along,
you’ve-never-bothered-to-look
lake sleeps implacably
at the bottom of an irascible ocean
Be
Whatever it may,
you can’t deny the wantonly
watted life teeming pretty as it pleases,
untroubled by a hollow-core belief
or the extremest demands of our foul temper
See
How I could have,
if I’d only swallowed
those bubbled-up blurts
ring-wronging the tip of my wriggling tongue,
never been audibly
landed by one alluringly barbed certainty
There are supine bodies—
stagnant, quicksilver pure—
no material ship navigates
and no intentional intruder can swim
without
emerging atypically
unsettled by the caustic exposure
Tread lithely
when you go;
this shoreline bites.
Its clustered rocks will snap shut around you
after digging in below you with a protruding toe,
and its carmine stalks will sting you
as they writhe past you
to mime a part-less goodbye
Here be where
the monstrous cold seeps
and a hellish hot vents
in compliance with this centuries-old complaint:
too-short was the time we wept
for those wiggly wonders
we could have kept
if we’d only octopus-arm embraced
the inevitability of their bandy-legged escape
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC
this all could have been mine
geometric shape wallpaper
and dashes, dots on my sheets
mom making my bed
smoking non-filtereds
and staring in the direction of
old globes and stuffed squirrels
posters of campuses i should i have attended
shirt no pants
no shirts
scribbling something partially worth reading
legs crossed
listening to that song for the fiftieth time
ashing on the floor
waiting by the phone for you and only you
but this isnt home
i didnt grow up here
i slept here
i embraced those who meant something
i giggled till tears
dripped into my oil paints
but even watered down they were made of use
a spring in this bed is
right the **** up my ***
springy is what they call me now
ill scrape those stickers off
a six inch blade till dawn
and i would be no closer
to those days where i cheesed
where you begged for me
where i began to loose myself
where i became less of a person
and more of a character to you all
cartoonish
no
my home is not here
and if you try to get me to own
a single element of it all
ill decry it
i know its not healthy
but i was thinking
that i could make up the difference
in my bedroom
not only with my hands on you
a gentle graze
or light and deserving
application of the pucker
but with my pen to pulp
and a gush to the world
so that a secret might
be known to us all
not just me
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
The Baker boy down the street is a peculiar thing. His book bag is a familiar sight around town, its red and aged with dirt, it’s anchored to his back by brown straps that are torn and excrete small little tuffs of white stuffing. Like the kind you’d find inside a teddy bear. The large front pocket is scribbled with poorly drawn cartoonish characters. Doodles one could assume to be depictions of imaginary friends and by the boy’s sheepish and largely odd demeanor one could also assume these imaginary friends were probably spawned by the lack of real ones. The boy’s book bag is more familiar than the boy. If only because his face solely exists in a light tan hoodie too close in color to the completion of his skin to readily differentiate between the two. Either way, the Baker boy usually always has his head down, this allows for a small slope in his posture that pushes his book bag up to the very top of his back, making it very prominent, making it something like a substitute for a head. People started recognizing his book bag as the boy himself. In their minds they could see it as clearly as they could the faces of their own children, spouses, close friends. They gave his book bag the same recognition and remembrance of aesthetic value as one would give to the details of a face. They notice quickly and with the same concentration a new rip in his straps as they would a pimple on someone’s chin. He never spoke. Not to anyone. Not a word. The kind of recognition given to a person’s voice with whom you are familiar is a sign of their presence in your world, a kind of confirmation of their existence other than their physical self. The Baker boy used a sound instead, lacking a voice. The specific sound the Baker boy used to validate his existence in our town sounded like the soft scratching of an itch, a repetitive petting of his book bag strap that marked conscious thoughts from underneath a silent exterior. He did this when he was nervous, or if he felt he was being prompted to speak. A repetitive thumbing of his book bag straps.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
*"I know it's back. I can feel it;
The pressure behind the eyes..."*
He's sixty. Missing front teeth
Make his grins cartoonish
And contageous. Some days
Colleague, others
Father.
Now, hammer-steel
Eyes well up. Hands like
Shovels pretend to scratch the
Bridge of his nose.
Devil Cancer. Ugly, old *******
When he passes on, Valhalla
Awaits.
Don't tell me there's no battle
In this.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
/ donald trump is here?!
on these splendid, splendid isles?!
really?
where was the past week?
good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -
without actually knowing it was
to take place...
i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
a bit like:
going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
industrial building
somewhere in
dagenham, or shoreditch,
or 'ackney...
britain is not getting what it already
wants -
i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...
the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:
[what] the **** just happened?
'ave a tongue for a **** mate.
- honest to god though:
where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -
croissants, or, chequers?!
hmm...
oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
- let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
if goran (ivanišević)
could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
and believe me:
some people...
*are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...*
or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
hermitage's secondary
(only to achilles)
schwarz, mouse-catcher;
and if i'm wrong -
then i'm wrong:
but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
within the confines of expectation
of being right...
somehow, gambling,
but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
**** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
nod nod nod...
(15 minutes later):
nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down
before a blank pixel screen
seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
'oid)
which is no proof that i made
a hiccup. /
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
it's called an idea in jungian: collective consciousness, which is harsh on latin acronyms in freudian consideration of the id being added the α & β for explanation of κ... makes sense in cyrillic, but not in black sabbath's solitude of explaining the solfège (sole-fledge): rhyme and the acoustics of latin gave song, fully embraced by the english from latin... leaving the aspirations of the byzantines lagging behind aristotle to define what's grecian. chitty chatty bonk bang **** and a puff of smoke left by the cartoonish quote of the road-runner that came along.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
HOW NOT TO SWEAR WHEN ONE IS SWEARING
After I hit it
with a hammer
my old thumb takes on
a now cartoonish character
pulses and throbs
grows biggerandbiggerANDBIGGER.
My three year old
gasps in astonishment
that an adult would/could
do such a silly silly thing.
"Bold Daddy!" she scolds "Bold Daddy!"
My mind screams in silence but
my tongue longs
to utter in the demotic
a good old fashioned Anglo-Saxon
ffffffffffFFFFFFF...word!
I somehow( don't
ask me how )
gaze into my little one's
baby blues
delete the expletive
carefully in slow motion
substitute the first
thing that pops into the mind
the first( as it happens )
of Mr. Joyce's thunderwords.
None of Eliot's
" Shantih shantih shantih "
I had the presence of mind to
"Finnegans Wake" it!
"BABABADALGHARAGHTAKAMMINARRONNKONNBRONN
TONNERRONNTUONNTHUNNTROVARRHOUNAWNSKAN
TOOHOOHOORDENENTHURNUK!"
"Funny Daddy!" she chortles "Funny Daddy!"
Now whenever things
go wrong and
they will go wrong
( as sure as words is words )
she begs me
to "...do the thunder!"
Waits for her little
bit part so she can
chime in with her
". . .TOOHOOHOO..."
and I gather her up
in my arms and we
both declaim
as one
". . .THURNUK!"
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
.
Palpable pure hatred
From the sewers and alleys
From all the human dwellings
Child of the millennium
Within the greed a festering
The inhuman faces
Of the strangers that we see
)(
The nation has fallen
The end of all civility
Cartoonish leaders
Blood from their mouths dripping
Onto the bloated bellies
Of the sterile ladies
//
An there ain't no
Men
To be seen
)(
Only wailing children
Amid the flames
.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
I have previously,
and this is forbidden knowledge I am about to indulge you in,
(feel grateful perhaps)
I have previously been accepted here before.
In my blueish age
of 13,
deemed enough of a literary
writing reams,
cartoonish spools, overspileth
sounds about right,
and history was recorded!
Little did your establishment know that
years into the future,
in a plasmatic stopwatch,
I'd be
frantically,
absolutely sweating bullets!
attempting to erase
the pubescent penning about
Lord knows,
depression and gym class.
and after, said to no one in particular
in a completely
revisionist fashion
"bless this mess"
so how about it old friend,
another round?
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
Ruth...for these appendages, it's centuries survive me, this
here in now...mummified.
From head to toe, pulling foot in front foot funnier all of the time.
A cartoonish yaw supposes balance, curates art's gravity.
Based loosely, tightly on everything--this ground I'm to be found
on, this body I'm to be found in, is tinged.
I send you footage, grainy touchstones to dispose of...they
quantify, there's no place to put them.
Millenary eyes are not to be trusted, every time they're revisited
a quantum leap transpires.
Advanced beings we...mingling, letting **** fly barely above ground--
but we're from up...there, out there.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
the charming figment of a man stood against the wall with hands in pocket
"feel drained, my love?"
"Lost in the fog, I'm afraid"
her eyes grew and drooped to cartoonish proportions
grammar and spelling amiss
she sighed and hunched
typing typing typing
the ever secretly questioning robot
going about it's robot business
"Want to run away, my love?"
"very much so... away from my mind... very much so"
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
I am disaster
With killing cuts in my face
For the drool when it rolls down
From a face held in place with staples and tension cables
My laugh lines are chuckles at best
Like a pity laugh at a joke that went one step too far
A mouth that settles down, literally
And strains to bend upward
Its so god **** heavy and I cant bare it
Pulling open my ribs to operate I can see this dark heart
Crusting over, hardening over with hate
Being petrified by all the things I distrust from happiness
Im pulling off those bits and pieces too necrotic to save
It hurts but it has to be done
Theres no other way to do it
Unmonitored positivism will dull my perception
While absorbed in this placebo state
I know that this heart will turn to stone
And buried beneath scar tissue, Ill change
Thats why a smile is the worst vitamin
The muscles used to form a cartoonish frown
Are not real, you have to try real hard to make that ****
But when your face is aimed downward
When your eyes are built for crying
And filling in the cracks with gold only makes your wounds visible
The weight of a smile is
A clown mask, over flesh burned from the inside out
Feeling like youre digesting a cannonball every hour of the day
Wanting to grab someone and hold them because the floor is falling out from under you
Feeling the size of your own thoughts crushing down on lungs too asthmatic to breath
Being acutely aware of every second of the day
The dying sun inside your chest feeling like it's going super nova
Being connected to a hundred different points, and seeing no change in distance
Slaying a sentence before it leaves your mind because you think no one cares
Being okay for everyone else because you cant be for yourself anymore
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC
Riding stolen horses
The guy living large with the hat,
dressed to the nines in black,
with eyes sweeping a broad dry valley to the cows,
who seeks his eyes, then humbly brings a store-bought
present to the woman tall in leggings with
long hair free, like an ancient story ***** alive.
He is frozen in communal memory,
this single cowboy guiding his returned
stolen horses at dusty noon all rock and dust,
the hooves as staccato rhythm for manly wild eyes
stating be here now as permanent fever
moves toward the rushing transparent river.
Forever the big sky breeze caresses his stoic
face schooled in fragile civilization,
knowing soon in the script he lives he will
push outward swinging saloon doors
to face another lawless soul, another wood built
village/far trail—prepared, as if venerated
teachers in his few years of school saw him
stripped of words pounding in a gallop,
protected by the silver belt buckle
and tall boots scuffed and pointed, the shaped
hat shielding eyes from the bright—
as a copied tintype—the crooked squint and smile
slowly emerging untamed. Deliberate, the hand
moves in habit to the gun in a muted painful sepia
myth robbed of mom and dad progression.
His stripped history has been released
into wild context—mixed with spaceship/
instant access—on the cartoonish
thin fringes with 50s big hair, as a brave bluff
facing forgotten consequences. Nonetheless,
he struggles from the bestiary of faceless others,
grizzled and contained and handsome, to
head on out, away, alone as always.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
I want to consume your shape
Your silhouette
The vignette of the light behind you
A sizable man
I like your shape and
The cartoonish wisp of your hair
I want to consume your hair
And wear it on mine
I want to consume your outline
And if you let me stick around
That’s what I’d do
And what you’d do, too
Because we labor over love
But truly live to consume
I like the shape of you
I want to eat your hair
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
April 29, 2018,,2
you know that image
in your mind
you thought was him or her
totally a reality
of imagination, cartoonish even
what else is there but this
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 1:40 AM UTC
Well, some you lay, and some you marry,
(As if womankind is some thing
To be sifted, sorted, and graded
Like so many eggs or lima beans)
But then one comes, smudging all those lines in her wake,
Scattering such easy dichotomies to the winds
Like so many dandelion seeds,
A woman seemingly composed of nothing save some essence,
Yet substantial, fecund, prolific,
And you find yourself wholly unmoored
By no more than a glimpse of her,
The mere imagining of a word wafted your way
A thing of inexplicable delight,
An ecstasy all but ********
But such dreams serve nothing more tangible
Than as reminders of your utter unworthiness,
Your tainted admixture of rank brass and tuna-can metal,
And so you vow to re-cast yourself
Into something which is worthy of her,
Or at least something demi-desirable,
But such a remaking proves your unmaking,
A transformation not of as the humble cocoon,
But one that leaves you cartoonish, less than a man,
Braying and barking, not even worthy of the scorn
Of she for whom you forsook everything
And yet you would do so again and again,
The bewitching and utter annihilation of all you were
A grail unto itself, an immaculate radiance
Which the tips of you fingers, the brush of your lips
Would leave irreparably sullied.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC