"churching" poems
Sexting Texting What a mess! Texting sexting Do you wanna have *** Flirting How about that ***** Taking naked pictures galore? How can I compete With all that meat That’s got you hooked On a fishing reel Pulling you in So you can spill All over them All the time While you’re here On my dime Resurfacing What’s going on On your phone Am I the only one you’re surfing? I think not! I doubt it a lot! No wonder I didn’t get it. Rehearsing I need a shot! For what I got, Is not enough! Working On this thing, Give me a swing, Stuck in a child. Nursing Or did you not **** the breast Big and full On your mama’s chest? Churching What happened to that spot? Not enough. You got a lot. Cursing Sexting texting Guess I’ll join the game. Texting sexting Maybe this will bring me fame. Or will I proclaim Your name?
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Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
I'll grab the year by its ******* nostrils
drag it through a mirth-soaked Autumn.
I smell another couch-bound month,
so I'm churching up November nights
with chips on sour luck
"Who're you to judge?"
Well, I'm the ****** with the gavel
in my hand
and a burning, short fuse in each eye
And I'm sentencing this lengthy Fall
to muster up some wherewithal;
to keep me off the ******* pile of scraps
'til next Spring.
Make this the Year of the Dog
if you must
but understand I'm not a lamb
or a lion or an ox;
I'm a windy, cloudy Saturday,--
a kid from out Wyoming way--
The only guess I've got is
keeping still means getting lost
I'll grab the year by its ******* collar
shake until it bleeds the future.
Drag it out--I'm gonna drag it out
toss it on the pile of burning years
to light my face.
Keeping still means getting lost.
Burning years'll light my way.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,
but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.
Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.
Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.
Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper
of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.
Always there more to God than pain.
Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
Blues on Monday.
The cats run to me
for pieces of chicken,
and a little B.B. King.
Blues on Tuesday.
I look in the yard for
rubies, and all I find are
hard-boiled eggs.
Pagans hid them in the
grass during their
Eostre festival.
Blues on Wednesday.
Muddy watered coffee.
I ain't even getting out of
this bed.
Thursday's blues bring
rain and that old
Robert Johnson.
**** the crossroads and
all those poison *******
Grab Blind Lemon and help
him to the campfire.
Hey, Sonny Boy, get that
mouth harp out and start to
wailing.
Those fat frogs are hopping
around for them snakes at
the Friday barn dance.
Saturday is finally here.
Buddy Guy and
John Lee ****** burning up
that devils note--the flat five.
You know you sold your soul.
Here comes Lightning.
Better take Sunday off, we need
some churching up.
Do some praying before we
all go to hell.
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 7:47 PM UTC