"choppers" poems
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no. Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence.
Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric.
Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation.
I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Woken by nightmares
of falling choppers,
into another day.
They died like soldiers,
but I, in between,
here must stay.
Until the darkness
comes, when again,
I will fall away.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
You mumblers and raspers
Of resp'rat'ry rattle:
Open your throats!
Forsake ye! the gaspers,
You quoters of cattle
And prattle of goats!
Or lay ye with horses
Whose tongue ne'er divorces
Those ivory choppers,
Those sibilant stoppers;
You lispers: beware,
Whether stallion or mare,
While you nibble your oats!
Stop your speech-stumbling!
Go suckle an udder
You dizzy, damp calfs!
Restrain your talk-tumbling,
And swallow your stutter
Nor utter foul laughs!
You outspoken nags
Mimic bolt-broken stags
As you bleed allegations
Down paths of my patience
And clatter your antlers;
What heavy-hoofed ranters
For no one's behalf!
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Still today
Danang. Saigon.Tet.
Mi Lai. ** Chi min trail.
All and more on reverb
The unwinable in black body bags.
Dam.
Just like Cronkite's musdtache goimg on and on
Drafted into the wood chipper
The buzz saw. for what.
Then the embassy buggie.
Choppers listing into the sea.
Half baked. Blood on ground.
For what.
Visit Vietnam. A travelers paradise. Half price
now with great accomodations.
Cambodia too.for the price of one.
Kamir Red.
How many dead?
For what.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
the choppers blades
unaware
the cleansing of color
twist in the wind
like the means of unfit mothers
champions
of unfounded snare
who's revolution
of her weighted intent
should be held to account
when justness is spent
the judges, juries
and executioners trail
hovering the bluster
as appellants flail
<------------->
the choppers blades
unaware
the cleansing of color....
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 8:57 AM UTC
The smell in the air, Iron, Rusty.
Choppers buzzing.
Neighbors stirred
awkwardly standing
amazed.
Senseless anger unleashed
robbing the day of it's peace.
Red lights flashing,
Screaming,
announcing the horror.
silently escaping
life, reaching.
The tape is unwound
sealing us out.
Innocence forgotten.
A lost dog in the park
looking for his friend
stops.
An empty pair of shoes.
Anxious numbness
is all that remains.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
I'm on a bus,
I'm in a tunnel,
As the choppers fly low
Over the belly of damnation,
Looking down at
The fractured city
From the 44th floor,
I'm a gun turret,
Hit or miss
The light pours out of me,
Now I'm a solar panel,
A Christmas tree,
Powered up
And manufactured,
The sum of my parts
Somehow worth more
Than what it means
To be human.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 9:16 AM UTC
The lovely, amorous cherry blossom trees,
Decked well in shades of pink and white,
With clouds of boughs and blossoms rich,
Clasped, rubbed, caressed and hugged
And kissed on and on in warm embrace;
And their bosoms heaved and breathed O2.
Lovers came under the cherry blossom trees
With hearts filled well with thoughts of love,
In the shades of the boughs of pink blossoms,
They kissed and blushed with words fervent,
Danced in joy round the blossomed trees,
And gasped in passion, and heaved out CO2.
The gorgeous, loving trees stayed there long
In vehement love, veneration and adoration,
With the alluring charm of the passing blooms
Painting again and again the fleeting lives.
But choppers with axes sharpened were on
To hack their pink xylems and phloems.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC
KARMAS
The lovely, amorous cherry blossom trees,
Decked well in shades of pink and white,
With clouds of boughs and blossoms rich,
Clasped, rubbed, caressed and hugged
And kissed on and on in warm embrace;
And their bosoms heaved and breathed O2.
Lovers came under the cherry blossom trees
With hearts filled well with thoughts of love,
In the shades of the boughs of pink blossoms,
They kissed and blushed with words fervent,
Danced in joy round the blossomed trees,
And gasped in passion, and heaved out CO2.
The gorgeous, loving trees stayed there long
In vehement love, veneration and adoration,
With the alluring charm of the passing blooms
Painting again and again the fleeting lives.
But choppers with axes sharpened were on
To hack their pink xylems and phloems.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
I am not the one..who chambered the final round.
Not the Pathfinder, in the smoke who called the choppers
that lifted the dead and wounded off the ground.
I am not the Chaplain who holds the hand of a dying young man,
struggling hard with his belief.
Not the nurse with ****** hands,
eighteen hours with no relief.
I am not the young widow, now with two children ,
feeling left behind,
not the biker who stands guard in a patriotic flag line.
Not the Sargeant, who with respect, present the final flag,
not the Officer, with wet eyes, collecting the causality dog tags.......
But I could be!
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
TELL TALE TALK
Shark's tooth
draws blood
( even though long dead )
a startled red
against the sharp whiteness
lost in a bric-a-brac
box of shells & things.
"Gotcha!"
grins the dead
shark's set of
choppers.
Baby shark
but a shark nonetheless.
I drip a trail
of red
across the Charity
shop
snap up
a tattered HUNTING OF THE SNARK
a battered
AT SWIM TWO BIRDS.
Here
a broken ballerina
on a jewellery box
( minus her music )
there
( I stop dead )
a used
soul
bruised
badly used
Godless
without guile
my fingertip traces my initials
on its dust
tarnished
without hope
immortal and unnoticed
amongst shark's teeth & shells.
I get
a SNARK & TWO BIRDS
for a pound
a piece.
The shark's grin
for a pound again.
"What do you want
for this old thing?"
I nonchalantly
ask
setting the soul
with great care
within the cage
of teeth
perched atop
the books.
"Being dying
to get rid
of that
for ages."
"It just sits there
staring at me!"
"Scares the life
outta me
to tell you
the truth
even though I don't know
what the hell it is!"
"Give us 42p for it
& we'll call it quits!"
I buy back
the soul
( my soul )
I had given away
with some old shirts and shoes
things I thought
I wouldn't ever be needing
. . .again.
But seeing it
discarded amongst shark's teeth & shells
I thought
twice about it.
Maybe
( perhaps )
I can use
it
for a paperweight.
Or a doorstop.
Sedulous
PRONUNCIATION:
(SEJ-uh-luhs)
MEANING:
adjective: Involving great care, effort, and persistence.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin se (without) + dolus (trickery, guile). Ultimately from the Indo-European root del- (to count or recount) that is also the source of tell, tale, talk, Aug 9, 2010
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
Poetry is the art of saying what you mean but disguising it. -Diane Wakoski, poet (b. 1937) and Dutch taal (speech, language).
USAGE:
"Elizabeth Bishop was sedulous, pernickety, quietly determined; she would work on poems for years."Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell; The Economist (London, UK); Nov 20, 2008.
A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:
<strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><strong><p>A beautiful thing is never perfect. -Egyptian proverb</p></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong></strong>
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
"THOUGH logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'
Or so did Tom O'Roughley say
That saw the surges running by.
"And wisdom is a butterfly
And not a gloomy bird of prey.
"If little planned is little sinned
But little need the grave distress.
What's dying but a second wind?
How but in zig-zag wantonness
Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?'
Or something of that sort he said,
"And if my dearest friend were dead
I'd dance a measure on his grave.'
1.6k
As I drive past, I spy, in the sky
above the air force station of Bangalore,
two vrooming fighter jets,
three hedge hopping choppers,
five flitting dragon flies in mirth beyond words,
a swallow in love, with his lady love in tow;
fly in formations-
creations of own convenience,
(except for the machines,
that strictly follow rules)
against the big, round, magenta sun,
getting prepared
to set behind the mountains.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
I loved you on your assurance of loving me too
I kissed you as you kissed me in turn
I showered you with the gifts and series of treats
I courted you on the shores of Zanzibar island
We hovered around and hopped in choppers
To give a toast of debutante to our love
I swell your account with all currencies
I paid your University fees and hostel costs
I financed wholesomely the wedding of your sister
I did all whatsoever you wanted from in time
You got pregnant and promised me a baby
Only you turned around to abort my baby
The second week I lost my job
Babie you are very bad.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
Torn apart by war, re-united by Death
Here I am again, in the deserts of the Middle East,
Thrown back into the hell, the belly of the beast,
I clutch my rifle tight, not wanting to let go,
For if I am not quick enough, I'll fall unto my foe
As I look around I see, so many brave, so many free,
And I wonder, 'Why can't that be me?',
But soon I'll be back home, and everything will be alright,
For now I sit and wonder, whether this will be my last night,
An explosion shatters the dream I'm in, and I'm back to real life,
I'm back to old Iraq and a country filled with strife,
The war goes on and I do not fall, unto the dreadful foe,
The man behind the mask, up on that plateau,
The hot lead hits me, it's fired from high above,
I see white, and am there again, in the arms of my love,
The battle is lost, I know that I am barely alive,
I realise that I have failed to survive,
For once in Heaven I am sure, that my love there I will see,
Once she dies and comes upstairs, re-united we will be,
We will dance around the rosemary bush, just like the days of old,
I hear the choppers fly away, and I'm left to die alone.
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
you were born in Denver
during a white out blizzard
like all round babes,
you had no clue, what was in store for you
you couldn't have known...
you would be
the last nickel to ***** through
a five-cent coin phone box,
in El Paso, Texas
or that you would sleep
for a year in a piggy bank,
of a boy named Felipe, who would die
of white blood cancer, before
he could spend you
and who would have thought
you would be in the linty pocket
of a serial murderer named Ray, when
he was captured in Santa Fe, a sunny day
on the ancient square, stalking
his next victim
a jailer used you that very night
with a twin of yours he found in
another picked pocket, of a drunk drifter,
to buy a Hershey's bar, from a machine
that would have taken a dime as well
your face began to show the fingered
signs of age by the time the choppers found sky
above the Saigon Embassy, where you had spent
an aching April night in the Ambassador's pants
when you turned a half century, you were tossed
into a gallon jug, e pluribus unum, no more special
than others a third your vintage
I finally met you today, only because chance landed you on
the top of the heap, waiting to be saved from further folly
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
i pear my eyes at the gloomy sky,
twitching with pleasure and pain.
where i hope rain will fall,
is only the acrid dust of the frenso desert.
where i hope corn will grow,
is only the weeds and seeds of earth.
i know i can not live for longer in this way. that i shall Soon Die without sistenace
all that is before my weery eyes are my Kin.
My family.
My friends.
And yes.
My livers.
The ***** themselves.
My trauma started to scream! My eyes flooded with tears from the depths of Hell Himself. Yet I know it must be done. I crunched into his shell with the fury of.l a thousand suns. It shattered beneath my choppers as I seasoned his flesh with my own salty tears. My tong registered the taste of crab flesh, that before I had only tasted in the most scandalous of contexts.
I felt his life drain, and my own restored. But at what cost?
Jan 12, 2020
Jan 12, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
A "Memories" Poem from the great Barry Hodges' pen
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was booby-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
Drug Sub War
The drug sub became the new menace
Replacing the Toyota engined powerboats
And outdated drug running planes that got splashed
Sleek, able to travel underwater
More than the semi-submersible craft
Using a snorkel like **** U-Boats did
A group of foreign designers made them
Contracted by the drug cartels
To make an almost undetectable vehicle
Costing millions fitted with both low and high tech gear
Like GPS, night and day camera periscope and more
Able to dive at will hundreds of feet below
Remaining silent under battery power
But they didn't realize how persistent the US Navy was
Who specialized in hunting subs and now had a new opponent
Not Red China or Neo Soviet enemy subs hunting American carriers
It was Narco Subs from Central and South America
Each one carrying between one and eight tons of drugs
Pure Class A narcotics to **** North American youth
The US Navy used P-3 Orions, P-8 Poseidens and anti-sub choppers
To find the stealthy subs and take the appropriate measures
Calling destroyers and frigates who chased the subs down
Forcing them to surface with small depth charges
When drug sub crews fought back with machine guns
The navy sank them with all available weapons
For this war war, a war of innocent versus guilty
On the ocean no law court was needed...
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 6:39 AM UTC
*'Ello, 'ello, is that the coppers?
I got somefink 4 U and I don't tell no whoppers -
That fatboy Billy Bunter from Number 4
'E won't be coming 'ome no more
'Cos I 'eard 'im 'aving a row wiv 'is Dad, old Zorro
And 'e won't be seen about the place tomorrow.*
Alas! Poor old Fat Boy Billy from Number 4
Is in some black bags lying outside the door:
*So come along and get 'im, coppers,
Before the ******* foxes get all stressy
Wiv their ******* great choppers
Which will make it well ******* messy.*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC