"chugs" poems
Depression tends to have a manipulating and controlling manner that spits and hisses from behind her snarled teeth,
Depression swallows the light.
And in doing so, depression gulps down yellow, drowning the sun and all his mighty.
Depression chomps on green, bits off grass and shrubble stuck to the inner corner of her lip.
Depression chews pink, each candy floss cloud tickling her taste buds.
Depression chugs blue, the ferocious waves sloshing down her throat with ease.
Depression regurgitates darkness, there is no colour when depression grabs my hands, looming shadows engulf my vision,
Depression’s feet start to move and I realise we are dancing to the dull thud of my heartbeat,
I dance with depression all through the dark, but it isn’t just dark, it’s the kind of dark with no moon, no stars or streetlights, it’s the kind of dark that creeps up on you until you cannot even see your nose.
The darkness slithers under my fingernails and slices back my skin, slipping beneath my flesh, it wears my hand like a glove,
It wanders upwards and claims my face simply as a mask,
As it seeps down, down, down, my legs now become stilts.
I am no longer dancing with depression, depression is dancing me, I am her puppet.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip
secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall
sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck
packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task
sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach
paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale
down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
I got pills I got to take,
so I'm going to take, take, take them everyday.
I have ailments that I have to feed,
so I'm going take which everyone needs
I got pills.
All these pills piling up on my desk,
stacked like the pyramids higher than my chest.
all these kids running around,
I hear them Grrrr.. so I lock my pills up sound.
The pharmacy is open to my needs,
she just rolls her eyes to my relapses.
Says she's going to leave me,
if I don't bring the cost down below twenty G's.
oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my
**Gosh **** gosh **** gosh, gosh ****
Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my
I got pills I got to take,
so I'm going to take, take, take them everyday.
I have ailments that I have to feed,
so I'm going take which everyone needs
I got pills.
Woke up this morning aches in my neck,
gout in my foot, what the heck.
opened the cabinet, pills all gone,
crack addict snuck in, took the lot.
Jumped on my bike, tire's flat not a good start.
no license for a car, ailments mean ill have to walk.
standing behind some old dude chugs out a ****
pills got laxative effect, I think I better not laugh.
Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my
**Gosh **** gosh **** gosh, gosh ****
Oh my, oh my, oh my, oh my.
I got pills I got to take,
so I'm going to take, take, take them everyday.
I have ailments that I have to feed,
so I'm going take which everyone needs
I got!
"groans in loud noises, Aaaaaaaaaa"
And my stomach, my stomach
I said my stomach!
Pills make me want to eat food.
I got pills I got to take,
so I'm going to take, take, take them everyday.
I have ailments that I have to feed,
so I'm going take which everyone needs.
I got pills I got to take,
so I'm going to take, take, take them everyday.
I have ailments that I have to feed,
so I'm going take which everyone needs
I got pills.
*Mama got pills, daddy got pills,
yo sister got pills,
yo auntie got pills.*
I got pills.
Yo uncle got pills, Everybody got pills, everybody got pills.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Walking around
Miniature pharmacy,
Too many pills to count,
No one understands,
No one can relate,
To the type of life,
The type of hate
She has for herself.
This one every 12 hours,
That one every eight,
Six puffs of an inhaler,
It's her body that she hates.
Walking down the road,
Her bag rattles from all the drugs,
She pops some more here and there,
Then it's nyquil that she chugs.
Why isn't she normal?
Why does she have to do this?
No one her age is worried
About missing their next dose,
But if she misses
A single medication,
She might as well
Admit herself into a hospital
Coma-tose.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
Monday Morning
chugs out of the
Harbor of Weekdays
like a leaking
garbage barge
sailing into
ominous seas,
bound for that
remote
but redeeming
rendezvous
with a beaming
Friday
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
Gwuts on gwanilliagax
Ready hot gwip
Trill on the vibrant note gabeeboh
What a thril it is to be in nice gazeebo
What a punk that doused on the free zobe
What punctillious panagax that frigged all the wets out
And when the trip to the sausage make didnt pull down alaz
Alaz, I am the wet tug.
Alaz, the sprig of wheat ***** taint.
Didn't you say you loved me?
Well, the bruts on the wagon sauce now
Didn't me have a big one, tug one, sauce one?
Well elemayo gwit gwits gwit gwits gwit gwit.....gwit
Embryo collecting on the branch of a saggy
My baggy be ripped, dripped all the can out
Me step on a puddle, the wet one, the biggy
My pets on the leg, rub, all on it sticky, how ******
He chugs out a wet belch and creams on the gricky
How quaint is his fat bristle comb, of his **** I am assured
This great honkulous tank sub that brits on my dimbo,in limbo my ship
It greats on the grates treat me to a sub snack ship ***** ***** factory get e
Tag me on your webpage, then **** me silly
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
As the morning descends here,
The surroundings come alive,
Birds start chirping sweetly,
Insects play violin of the legs,
Not far away I hear the engine.
The morning makes glorious sounds,
It also brings me back to her memories,
The train I hear moving away so swiftly,
It's the same train I mounted years ago,
The train doesn't wait not for me now.
It chugs away to where I had been,
Almost two years ago to meet her,
On her birthday to feel her close,
To greet her so sweetly & hug her,
She even had kissed a sleeping me.
I wonder how she could just forget,
Sharing the moments so intimate,
Waking me up for an active kiss,
For I'll never forget & move on,
Breath talked in the breathtaking moment.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Royal Road slopes
enough so that your toes know
which way you are going.
Kudzu and ragweed accent the driveway
pitted with bushel basket size
holes amid roaming plastic grocery bags.
A 1960’s version mobile home
fights Mimosa and blackberry bush
to remain visible.
As I ascend the creaking steps
a neighbor cracks the quiet
to announce that, “Jesse is on the way.”
I hear the clop, swish, clop
as Jesse corners onto Royal Road
and chugs toward me.
Sweat rivers from his beard.
He greets me with,
“Thanks for the groceries.”
I said, "I need you to sign
to show I brought food."
I didn’t ask, “How did you lose your leg?”
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
A lone, solitary ship sails out
Where on earth will be its route?
From a peaceful harbor, it embarks
Nervous, but ready to make its mark
It's not sturdy, its not massive
Not a luxury ship, it's more passive
Dingy and plain, it has only one sail
What will it do if the winds prevail?
Cold and cruel are the seas
Ready to swallow up what they may please
Strong and mighty is not this boat
Yet Will alone shall keep it afloat
Currents may seize it and shake its foundations
Nature may not produce good relations
But what if there was never a risk?
The currents calm and the winds not brisk?
What would propel this little boat forward?
The ride, smooth, if every inch was assured?
Its size looks incapable to prove the odds wrong
Yet even little things can be strong
Bigger and better ships will pass it by
Overtaking its course, they will fly
But Will alone will be the fuel
And Faith, above, shall be the guiding tool
Though the winds are coarse, and the boat dips
Just try and sink this ship!
Only the Captain will decide that fate
He can force the rains and winds to dissipate
It can take lightning strikes, rain and sleet
It can take it and not feel much defeat
For it has coursed all kinds of weather
Only to prove that is is better
So onward go! Forward sail!
Do not be afraid to fail!
Here it comes over the blue horizon
And just look how it sails on!
It proves the naysayers wrong
As the little boat chugs along
And there it goes around the bend
Not satisfied till it reaches its end
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
When ships set sail, their masts held high
Daunting flags, painting the sky
With rails gold rimmed
And sails sharp trimmed
A crowd appears, waving adieu, goodbye
Thunderous roar, unequaled praise
Wind catching sheets
Anchors raised
A bell rings softly and waves do lap
Against the hull of a wooden throne
From far off shores this scene is spied
With two friends of oars we've always tried
To reach for that deck
In fervent eye
Climb on board or surely die
Tattered clothes, sailors cap
Smudge on cheek
Shirt of burlap
We push off deck
Yet crowd is gone
A journey ventured with bright sun dawned
Water ripples with our wake
Small and steady pulses we make
Though we row to catch schooner bold
As we creak of wooden old
Land gestures for us to stay
Why venture out on choppy bay?
Whispers roll and caustic laugh
With sun beat oars a line is set
No motive sweeter, nor regret
Sweat beads mix with salty froth
Cutting across the water green
Battleship chugs with billowed steam
A voice escapes you as you scream
Sputtering away, with muted cries
And oars but stop
Far from home
As head does drop
Splintered hull tears apart
We're left to cling to shattered planks
And fight to stay afloat
Alone
With far off yacht a speck
Atone for water slapping neck
We groan with defeated boat and deck
Driftwood in salty surf
Connecting with shore
We walk back to land
Imprints swallowed by golden sand
A new rowboat to be procured
Again we build to flag down our Brig
And stand upon its polished bow
We persist to where we are but now
As we strive to grasp victory bell
We strive ever onward
To sail with our destined
Caravelle
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
I've gone about my day only truly half-present, as with every conversation, regardless of with whom, I force myself to promote my image of simple bliss and to keep your name at bay, and only have managed to hold it on just the inside of my lips. It still presses on, like a flooding at the ***** that in time shall burst forth anyway.
I feel that, as our recent moments together linger deliberately in the recesses of my head, if I left my mouth unguarded for even a brief time your name would dance off my tongue like the sweetest confession declared in those screened-up boxes at catholic church and then all of the world would know of the sinful treasure I'm hoarding inside my heart.
And it would perhaps be but a whisper, but it'd feel like I've shouted it for hours from the hilltop at the end of my street, calling attention to everyone I've never known and screaming the sudden proverbial anomaly of my new found love in you with shameless, reckless abandon.
If I could reach into myself I'd find a restless sea of unsorted emotion thrashing about, trying to capsize my poor, prevailing heart as it chugs along like a dazed animal treading water; I'm turning over the thorough avidity in how affectionately we ask to turn out each other's pockets and uncover each lingering quirk and flavor of one another.
I carry along, holding myself not quite as tall as Cloud Nine sits but just enough to breathe in the scent of the rainbows, and it's all because I know that if I stopped living my day for just a moment, I'd recall the fortune I've found in you, and that alone fills me up like I've just put in fifty dollars at the gas station.
What's made you so special?
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
woe is you,
twisted legs that taste like high school,
swallowing sticks of ink
til it seeps out your fingernails.
chicken scratch beads of blood
speak words on your rails of thighs.
woe is you, woe is you,
thunder is your presence
but gentle mewing is your soul.
let’s throw a big ******* after party
for your big ******* three-ring affair.
my fake little darling, your eyes:
shrink-wrapped in disguise,
pre-meditated, post-medicated,
meandering rings of trees
whisper ugly stories of your intentions.
my translucent lovely, your heart
sputters steam from mechanical parts.
it chugs right along, still
you question the last time it felt pure.
woe is you, woe is you
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 4:37 AM UTC
Check the twenty-twenty fission
Adam splittin' Eden vision
Bustin' caps in gas emissions
Spittin' written ammunition
For the first-world problem chillen'
Droppin' free speech bomb sedition
On the third-world problem villain
Grand old wizards' ku klux gizzards
All white **** meat chicken dinners
Suckin' Christian dictions'
Hissin' contests over spoils
House of Slyth'rins witherin'
The shale-shock sowing soil
With Satan seeds of ignorance
Still thirsting for indifference
From money hungry London royal
Global warming blizzards
As they're bleeding dry the rivers
Into liquidating oil
Treasure buried with a shovel
In oases brought to boil
Nine eleven popped the bubble
But with Jesus in the building
Turning metal into rubble
Smelting graces into gilding
From the melting *** he's spilling
Into off-shore power drilling
Making killings on the rigging
As Mohammed was displayed
As a scary, bearded, brown-skin man
Through tricks of terrorism's trade
And God's right sleights of winning hand
Pulled rabbits from Fatah's grenade
And cooked 'em in Afghanistan
For PTSD noise parades
And hot dog chugs for Uncle Sam
To waste the land, supply demand
For ol' Osama's unmarked grave
Obama hosted-masquerade
White-washing New World fear campaign
Them masks of patriotic acts
In place as they removed Hussein
Disguised the ethnic cleanse crusade
With bush league mass destruction claims
When the caliphate they made
Went Khomeini on Iran
A stand against the David camp
Shelling bibles to qurans
So the shah's Allah mirage
Put the profits in the pockets
Of the prophet's arbitrage
Camouflage the Green Zone spans
With pyramids of Reaganomics
Tricklin' into sovereign sands
Long before heathen jihadists
Flew their kamikaze plans
Into Trump towers' blacklist fists
Of modern warfare contra bans
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
Church bells ring as a train chugs along
I can't hear planes much
But every time I look up
I see one
And the birds stick to trees
Or a brief wispy breeze
The only ones higher are too busy
Looking down, circling
And all the clutter and clatter
Makes me want to batter some heads in
These objects look foreign, forged from a rolling pin
And they're just pretty guts and grey matter
I don't have the money to become an astronaut
So how can I know for sure that space exists
And if the final frontier is the mind
How far have we to go
After all I can tie my shoes with one or two bows
An every holy man seems to have
A wall street connection
And when Jesus says ****
You know he means business
And my tax dollars just went off
And killed a little kid
If the world ended
When we all stopped dancing
That must mean we're zombies
Especially the prom queen
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
Seeing a vessel.
A catcher of fishes.
Espies another catcher of fishes.
These little fellows are destined for dishes.
Crew watching the crying ones.
The gulls as they rise.
Screaming wildly, they're on fire with excitement.
Gulls watch the Herrings, as they're breaching the foam.
Flapping and flipping, they're struggling to breathe.
The trawler man in the South westerly squall.
Struggling to cling to the slippery deck.
Tries hard not to fall.
He's used to it.
Another dollar.
Another day.
Only way to scoop his pay.
He's landing his fish.
Amid the squawking and bombing.
Keen and mean.
Tatty old trawler, chugs into the safe haven of harbour.
Today's catch thrown onto the dockside.
A different gull swoops.
A sly diving skydiver,
He's diving for dinner.
Never a loser.
Always a winner.
(C) Livvi
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dusted with gold, colours wheeling,
Threads reaching into a sun,
Precious handwoven rugs from Mumbai,
Individual, divine, only one.
A foreigner orders a carpet.
So a carpet graces the road.
On a throne made of barrows and money,
But a hand stops the vivid-hued load.
Covered in dust, wrinkles stealing
Irreplaceable youth from his bones,
Worthless mendicant soul in Mumbai,
Stretches out towards hope with a moan.
A dollar could take him to life,
As his cup stretches out for some bread,
Yet, the cloth priced more highly than life,
Trundles past, and it leaves him for dead.
The ship chugs through horizons,
With its costly woven load,
Whilst a bag of bones expires,
In the dust, beside a road.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
a few miniscule sips turned to gulps.
gulps gradually turned to chugs.
chugs turned to *****
still you werent sober.
still you grabbed your keys and got into your car.
15 miles per hour turned to 30.
30 turned to 50.
Stop lights turned to red.
Stop signs became mere red dots flashing the canvas of your peripheral vision.
nothing could slow you down.
nothing could tell the car awaiting the next turn, that you were coming.
you were coming and you werent stopping.
faster!faster! a lead foot on the gas pedal.
closer! closer!
BAM!
lives instantly taken.
fun turned to hell.
living turned to dead.
lesson learned?
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
Church bells ring as a train chugs along
I can't hear planes much
But every time I look up
I see one
And the birds stick to trees
Or a brief wispy breeze
The only ones higher are too busy
Looking down, circling
And all the clutter and clatter
Makes me want to batter some heads in
These objects look foreign, forged from a rolling pin
And they're just pretty guts and grey matter
I don't have the money to become an astronaut
So how can I know for sure that space exists
And if the final frontier is the mind
How far have we to go
After all I can tie my shoes with one or two bows
An every holy man seems to have
A wall street connection
And when Jesus says ****
You know he means business
And my tax dollars just went off
And killed a little kid
If the world ended
When we all stopped dancing
That must mean we're zombies
Especially the prom queen
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:31 PM UTC