"cleanser" poems
Majestic creature,bathed in fire
The heavens are you playground
The orange glow of breath
Upon the clouds once white
Now they burn bright
You are destruction and beauty
Those who do not see
A monster of flame
Death,
Destruction,
Ignited,
Fire,
But you are of a gentle heart
You cleanse those
Who are enveloped in your breath
Only dust is left at your proud feet,
You are the beauty of the sky,
The cleanser of those beneath your feet.
We will for ever be in your shadow
Are lord dragon,
Burn the world, so it may grow anew,
From the ashes of yesterday
The new world will grow stronger under you.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
I sorta sleep in my underwear.
Another lie.
I sleep in the ****
when I have the energy
to remove the day's toil off of my
skin, which is not so easy.
No special creme, cleanser.
too tired to tirade, living life,
fall in to bed worn,
shoes et. al., the ones that need soles.
you already knew that.
wake up in the dark.
start to disrobe,
and soon enough, *******
another poem done.
the poem of course is me ****
so you get to see what
is under what I wear.
So I sorta sleep in my under-what-I-wear,
is not exactly a lie,
just me dissembling^
and/or disassembling
another day in this life.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 9:14 AM UTC
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"
I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.
Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.
When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember
The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully
The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven
The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's
We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
~
irreverent place
on a laundry room shelf,
his is a figure serene.
source of comfort?
source of peace?
perhaps...
but oh, so much
more than that...
this is a crossroads
where absolution meets
the gritty mundane,
where he became
her source of familiarity.
*"good morning, Sweet Jesus,
i'm just here to wash
my ***** laundry."*
no sacrilege here,
no... nothing profane.
from the hand outstretched
held out for the taking
who is this really,
this chalk figurine?
in tranquility certain,
a doorway between
human fragility and
perfection divine.
in life’s messy journey
our ***** laundry aside
how could one not feel,
more rinsed of life's stains?
Sweet Jesus, of course
divine cleanser, unseen
now, here on my mantle
my house feels more clean!
~
*post script.
when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!” and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus! you are out of the closet... forever!!”*
*no sacrilege whatsoever intended
i dearly hope you'll not be offended!*
:-) Steve
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
1
O black golden cleanser
O ebony shrine ballast
Pry open mine eyes,
sharpen my senses like cutlery
& envelop me—
Is the day so young
another cup please, just to
Get me going
2
Heat
Not quite that of a fire
"but trust me, don't touch it"
Let the smoke stiffen
& soften become the
summation of particles & at once
lose all sense of being
I'll have a smoke now—
maybe I'll kick it a little later
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
Susie polishes the silver.
She hates polishing the
forks, the bits in between,
the stink of the cleanser.
She’d rather be in bed
with Polly in the attic.
Holding her close, feeling
her body next to hers.
The cold weather offers
a good excuse. Polly’d
say, get off me you queer
*** otherwise. She rubs
the cloth over the prongs,
the stink making her feel
nauseous. Dudman, the
butler will be along soon.
He’ll snoop up close to her,
look over her shoulder;
press his body next to hers.
Maids are as nothing, he
often said, pressing his
finger into her back, or
pinching her **** She holds
her breath as long as she
can; the stink is getting to her.
She thinks back to the night
before, Polly’s nightgown
against her flesh, her smell
invading her nose, spooning
close. She recalls the moon
in the skylight, captured like
a painting, the stars spread
like ***** on a dark cloth.
Mrs Gripe the cook called her
a lazy cow over breakfast,
the fat ***** staring at her
with her cow like eyes. She
rubs between prongs, eases
along the handle. She’d love to
shove the fork into Dudman’s
**** push it in with all her
might. Soon the bell would
ring, someone would want
morning tea upstairs. She
breathes out, puts down
the fork, picks out a spoon
and begins the cleaning again,
thinking of Polly, her fingers
caressing the spoon’s end,
imagining ********* along
Polly’s waist, moving her
thumb into the indentation,
sensing her body move, that
weird overriding sensation.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
A boy sat on a grassy bluff outside a village.
Long ago. Far away.
He sat. Staring down a winding trail.
That boy would watch the trail in misty morning dew.
Often he would and for years it was a rituai.
The women of the village
Walked that trail down to the river. Down to the rocks.
With baskets perched atop their heads and arms hung by
Their sides.
Down the trail to river rock. And churning emerald
Pool.the river was the cleanser and the rock a pounding tool.
A long procession of balance and grace. a practice old as time.
Then back the trip of swaying hips and poise. In young or old.
The rock. The grace. The. Quiet noise. A pageant.
That boy was me
That river rock still calls the women
Slow procession. Natural and endless charm.
The rock. The trail the emerald tide.
The womens hips. The undulate .
The basket never falls.
The river calls.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
It's 7 a.m. and I still haven't slept.
Maybe it was because of the game.
Or maybe it was because I can't sleep when my thoughts are screaming at me.
You told me to go to bed before 4. I wanted to. Believe me. I truly did.
But I couldn't. And I didn't.
I asked if you were mad.
You said no, instead you told me you were disappointed.
I cried.
-
Call me what you want, but that **** hits the heart.
I'm sorry I didn't sleep. That pain in your voice kills me.
And I'm afraid of death.
That's why the voices do that.
They mimic your soothing voice and turn it into my worst nightmare.
I use you as a cleanser.
Instead, they use your blood to get the counter *****
-
No.
I'm sorry I can't sleep.
I'm sorry I'm a disappointment.
I'm sorry I'm so bad with words that I can't just tell you what's wrong.
Because I'm afraid that if I do you'll leave me.
I'm afraid to be alone.
Because when I'm alone, I think.
When I think, they appear.
Because they want to prove that I'm not alone.
So instead they show me pretty pictures of you standing there.
With the skin on your arms peeled back.
And your eyes crying blood.
Your hands outstretched with dried blood crusted down to your elbow.
-
I know.
It's just my imagination, right?
Those voices.
Those images.
They are just my imagination.
The worst part of my imagination.
-
I'm afraid.
Because I can't tell reality from my own world.
For me, both blur together.
I'm not sure what others see.
But I don't want them to see through my eyes.
Because these eyes never close.
Afterall, it's now 7:23 and I am still here, typing away. While you count sheep, I count pages of pathetic poems.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
We need a Cleanser
To clean the Air
To clean the Water
To clean the Atmosphere
To clean the Soil
We need a Cleanser
To clean the Minds
To clean the Thoughts
To clean the Hearts
To clean the Souls
We also need a Blender
To Blend all these properly
And transform the world
Into a better place to live in
With Peace, Harmony and Luxury
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop
campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
early morning, the hoses out,
washing away the fluids,
the **** the *****
hallmark low points of the prior night's,
bons moments de roulement,
rolling, burning, down into the sewers
dark coffee, beignets,
white powdered sugar,
a cleanser of both
dirtied bodies and souls,
makeup~coverup of human excesses
this morn, the sun,
aidez-moi with an assist
of a canon and a gigue,
a string ensemble (parfait!),
three violins and a continuo,
a quartet in the quarter,
blossoming Johann, budding now
in my ears and
my purification process
de bourbon
is now
fini
the Nth new day has begun,
the Nth purification has begun,
but my first in the French Quarter
7:35 am
May 23rd, 2014
New Orleans
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
Here I am
another Saturday
I've woken up
with a smokers cough
heaving
at my lungs
like a slow roasting
fire
I've been
smoking
more cigars
lately
Usually seven
would last me
about a week.
Now that many can
only hold it down for
three days
maybe four
I drag myself out of bed
fumble around searching
for my glasses and of course
the phone
I manage to
slug myself to
the bathroom
pop an
Adderall
make my way
out to the porch
I light up a smoke
the cold wind
strikes my
exposed body parts
giving me the chills
**** Texas weather
it's either too hot
or too cold
kind of like me
Still
it doesn't stop
my routine of
having a few hits
my will power
is a slave
to the
rituals.
As I sit there
mean mugging
the cloudy but
still bright sky
I feel the Adderall
kick in
I'm ready to
tackle
the list of chores
With a toothbrush
and some foam cleaner
I scrub
at the bathroom sink
each little blob of
tooth paste spit
gets focused on
and scrutinized
just as I do
with my insecurities
Tossing a foaming
cleanser bomb
in the toilet
it volcanoes up to the brim
kinda like my emotions
have been
these past
few weeks
I scrub at that for a while
living with two boys
can cause **** to go
and get
in
to
everything
I hand wash all of
my black stockings
in the tub
rinse and
wring them out
and hang them
one by one
on the shower pole
There
as they drip
getting ready
to be worn
through the
work week
I sit on the
edge of the tub
and write this poem
despite all the ****
it was still a good Saturday morning
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 6:00 PM UTC
a dream poem:
a blink for a few is what I desire
to blackout the curtains for my aches
and chalkboard erase my mistakes
the sun is a cleanser
that glows through my eyes
emanating love despite cut ties
when I close, and go to where is old
we can unwrap: and begin to finally unfold.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
thoughts bulleted
in my brain, ricocheting,
creative side to practical side,
lustful half to hateful half.
sleep? yeah, right.
i got up, located cleanser
and sponge, scrubbed
the bathroom,
washed the dishes,
waxed the kitchen floor.
wrote a four- page
letter to my sister,
told her i was in love.
with a girl.
i think i asked
for her forgiveness.
wrote a poem, and epic, tinged
with dark humor,
decided to give it to my mom
because this was all her fault.
somehow.
went to the bathroom,
considered my ground stomach,
but the thought of food made me want to heave.
settled for a beer. That went down fine,
so I had another.
and another.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 11:58 PM UTC
I. Orpheus
My dog flees from pluckèd strings;
her fleas command my tune.
What hollow body holds a rhyme
as long as my neck’s breath?
I could domesticate myself,
but in taming our lions
we tame our pride.
II. Abel
My brother is his brother’s keeper.
I am uncle to no abomination.
As we lie in the Garden,
(our hair in the earth)
I question:
Is Heaven above
because our heads are the seat of doubt, or
because our feet are the root of evil?
III. Hector
I was not breast fed.
I am not a fountain.
I will not hector you.
IV. Adam
Even if He and I practice Our secret handshake
in the Sistine Chapel;
Even if He sends me an angelic bath basket
with ambrosial soul cleanser
and holy bubble bombs;
Even if I am the round reflection
of an ever-changing God;
I still have to ask:
Is Heaven above?
Because my head is the seat of doubt.
V. Odysseus
Poseidon hardly even knows me.
An idle king in heart
reigns with a swift lead open hand.
Life’s lees are far too bitter,
far too deep,
and the wine is corked.
VI. Atlas
The sky may fall;
the stellar sphere may crash with all its weight
and music;
god(s) may smite;
the clouds may freeze and bury me;
the sun may swallow me whole;
leaves may drop and leave me bare;
the mist may soak my skin;
I raise my arms only to catch
that snowflake that dares drift upward.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Don't use the soap MeMa gave you for Christmas.
Strong suspicion shes supporting that crazy creepy cult that resides in the basement of the old abandoned tire factory.
When used it rapidly dissolves leaving you with a handful of painted marbles, Jesus's face on one side, "ready to clean your soul?" on the other.
Equal parts disturbing and ridiculous to be cleaning the naughty bits with a fistful of divinity.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
Hold my cold tainted
Soul with yours, your purity
Warms and cleanses mine.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
In quiet contemplation
I sit & listen to the rain
Its gentle beat, its soothing tone
Then its torrent once again
It is a natural cleanser
That washes quite away
All these pesky feelings
That are so determined to stay
I wish I had another soul
To sit with here, who might
Enjoy the rain & like to share
This music of the night
But alas I sit alone
And listen once again
To the symphony outside my window
The throbbing singing of the rain
(C) Pixievic 2016
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
Yes, I liked that feeling; that feeling of sadness, melancholy and nostalgia. I felt a little happy when I start crying out of nowhere, because it just cleanses my soul. It cleanses the things that hurt me the most.
Crying is not a bad thing. But a good thing...
Releases what you can't release in this cruel world.
Crying are not for babies...
But for those who are weary and tired...
Crying is a clamor for help.
A kind of help for those who are discouraged and hopeless...
Crying is... Not a bad thing.
But a good thing.
For our soul.
That wishes to be... Free again
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
The old ones seem haunted
even with ole Presidents
making their whistle-stop campaigns.
Blacks on their exodus from the south,
streaming into them, one can visualize
with their souls and
spirits accompanying them as they seek
a decent life.
Imagine the shoeshine stands with their shoeshine “boys” and black attendants in the restrooms
which was probably as far as some of
them got.
The newsstands with their variety of
newspapers and sundries alerted
the lonely travelers to Wall Street
and elsewhere, businessmen
who would stream in with a sophistication
the common traveler feared.
The smells of leather baggage,
the cleanser that porters used
to keep the coaches clean wafted in.
The smell of cigars and wrinkles
of old men’s skin let us know
that the porters would be appearing
with a bevy of special guests.
History speaks in these stations
as well as some bus stations
around the country with their
dangerous drifters who would serial ****
and the ambitious young talents off
to the big city to seek success who we would
later never hear of.
The local Union Station in Champaign has been
turned into businesses, but I can
just see Abe Lincoln arriving
speaking from the caboose and making
his way to a horse and buggy
outside to go to the local county courthouse.
Long live ghost-filled train stations
everywhere, and don’t let us forget
the homeless and destitute street people
who need to use their restrooms and
sit down in the waiting area seats
to take a needed load off.
They’re that important in the general
pictures of things, at least to me.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
this is how it will go.
*I will go home and take off my makeup,
cleanser,
exfoliant
moisturizer.*
I go to chiles to meet alyssa
and talk to the nice waitresses
she sits down and starts talking to
me about her boyfriend,
you know who you would look cute with?
she asks me, I entertain her.
triple digits. four consonants. She says your name.
I hooked up with him in april, but i think you guys would look good.
This is how it will go.
I will go home and take off my makeup.
in april? i say. She scrolls through her phone
I think about how I flipped your indian calendar from March.
yeah, got pretty drunk. Played pool. It just sort of happens.
this Is how it will Go.
cleanser.
I smile and tell her I know you.
we probably would look good together
and the rest that follows is irrelevant,
I think I already knew, I wrote a poem
about your bedspread months ago
but I am not sure how i will go
home tonight with her on my lips
and whoever else, I am not sure
how to trade one person for
another, how that is done
or if it is done if it is
really accomplished
this is how it will go.
exfoliant
so this must be where i am in
the dirt, where everything you
said finally makes sense,
you didn't want to feel
ashamed, guilty or sad
and this is why,
the other girls
you held
all the ones
with fair hair
and soft skin
that you didn't have to
feel ashamed of anyway
because I was just
the background noise
a skin you were desperately
trying to shed or forget
you said you gave me
everything but so did
i
everything that was mine to give
dispersed into other
women.
this is how it will go.
I will go home.
I will not call.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:13 AM UTC
bristly, brushy branches
of a pine tree
reach out
to scrub the surrounding air
after a summer rain
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC