"clorox" poems
Sigh
I tap my pen on the desk like my teacher extracting my freedoms
and plastering it on the whiteboard.
He preaches and preaches about how he lost a game of golf last week
I need to take a dosage of education,
But whenever I take it I forget to check the side affects.
SIDE AFFECTS MAY INCLUDE;
-Boredom
-Faeries pulling down on your eye lids making you fall into the pit of sleep.
-Drifting in a car called imagination across this classroom.
-Hands are under mind control as you draw twisters in your notebook .
-NOTE: when you flip back to your notes when you are studying for a test,
they will be useless
Useless like "excuse me sir but is your love for the Broncos going to be on the test?"
I feel like this teacher is testing me not on the subject,
but how long it takes until one of the students in this class to go postal.
Too soon?
Sorry I should ship off my mouth to my mother
cuz mommas got the magic of Clorox Bleach
momma oh momma, use your powers to clean out my filthy mouth
yet he is still talking,
why is he still talking?
I'm still writing this poem,
Should I be writing notes on his college days
Or should I wait until his head lands on this landing strip
So he get his head can leave the clouds
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Put on a clean shirt
before you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,
no egg spots, no blood,
no sweat, no *****
You want me clean, God,
so I'll try to comply.
The hat I was married in,
will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,
but is suits to die in something nostalgic.
And I'll take
my painting shirt
washed over and over of course
spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted.
God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.
For a bra
(need we mention it?),
the padded black one that my lover demeaned
when I took it off.
He said, "Where'd it all go?"
And I'll take
the maternity skirt of my ninth month,
a window for the love-belly
that let each baby pop out like and apple,
the water breaking in the restaurant,
making a noisy house I'd like to die in.
For underpants I'll pick white cotton,
the briefs of my childhood,
for it was my mother's dictum
that nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see it
she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office
for the black, the red, the blue I've worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with me
to die like a nice girl
smelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pants
I would die full of questions.
2.9k
I have two bruises on my shoulders
blue as the oceans and marbled white,
storm-foam spilling from my head
and eyes.
That’s not your responsibility--
but what else could it have been
when I knelt silent, scrubbing, palms
red as my sister’s sticky wrists, clorox
wipes balled and piled in the corner?
I am not
steel-skinned, some mechanical being
mistaken for a human with her eyelids
torn from her face, blindless to trauma
and the callouses it leaves behind.
And yet
the oceans on my shoulders blow salt
healing the wounds to smooth, pink scars,
reminders in every mirrored surface:
I am still standing.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
Hands that look sunburned
at first blush
count the silent ticks of a cognitive clock
grasping and releasing in stilted syncopation:
one-two-three-five (must avoid the four)
Did I remember to lock the front door? Out
of bed—again—freezing feet tumble
down
into slippers
awaiting the circular inevitability. Again, again.
Pad, pad, pad:
light shuffling accompanies the one-two-three-five
pounding in the head; that mind ricocheted with worry—
worry about the front door, the evil intentions of four,
insidious germs and subsequent scrubbing-scrubbing-scrubbing
in bleach and Comet. Pad,
pad, pad to the front door.
It’s one hundred and thirty four steps, so take a baby-shuffle:
still avoiding the four.
Cold, unyielding brass **** Locked.
Deadbolt? Check. Creeping black.
Chain lock? Check. Crawling germs. Oh, god.
Pad, pad, pad to the kitchen.
Clorox-fume greetings in the sparkling sink
from twenty-three minutes before. Never twenty-four.
Clorox on the cracked fingers, blistering
out that imperceptible blackness I know it’s there
blackness choking, bleeding in the bleach.
Scrub brushes, pumice, and fingernail files
wear down the nubs where the blackness may hide.
“Shh” the steaming water soothes
as it stings, scalds. “Shh.” Burn it all out;
conclusion so comforting. So predictably round.
This is the last time I can do this tonight. Pad, pad, pad
back to the bedroom. Downey quilt beckons in lover tones,
pleading pillows nudge against that head, that infernal head
still panicking amongst the softness:
Did I remember to lock the front door?
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
The smell of mint and clorox steaming across the face,
Under the epidermis,
Flying in the room like swarming mad no-see-ums,
Shooting up the nose and around the nasal hairs in blasts.
A distant garble, advantage one.
Pulling from limb and lattice of the mind, scavenging, advantage two.
The prediction and observation, advantage three.
Assertively convinced, advantage four.
Being rooted, advantage five.
The smell of mint and clorox,
So patternless,
So striving and belligerent.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
No, I have a ritual.
I turn it over and shake it.
Get all the loose crud out,
then take a paperclip & dredge
the remaining particles of detritus,
The dust can,
preferably with a red straw.
Clorox the tops of the keys,
The sides of them
(scrape, if necessary)
Then dredge the bottom again.
Repeat with the phone, the 10-key.
Blow these actions up,
Apply to thoughts, actions, emotions
Swirl it all down the drain...
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
See this is where I clear my mental
Cuz it's essential
Clean all the junk out of your knowledgeable box
Like fresh clean socks bleach with Clorox
I need to be clean
So I sit and look at Gods creation
As I fathom that it could save a nation
All hail thee Christ Jesus
Many people say they love him to pieces but never sit and marvel and His creation
Conquering king to civilization
Causing many allegations
No persuasion to the right side
So I'll abide in my many complex as I marvel at Gods creation
Tribe altercation to seek multiplication
So I try to change in the right clothes
Not naked to the fact He can still see me
Soul complete me
All I want is to bask in Gods creation
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
show me your pose,your gravity-defying surgeryyour bonded smileyour Clorox hairshow me the scars that made wrinkles unnecessaryshow me the moments they paid forthere it is,your egg timer bodydecomposing with each hustlewhile your sensibilities go numb with apathy and practicethat require five happy hour margaritasto wash down the sin of each day.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 10:32 PM UTC
I tried on the dress I wore last prom
And I panicked
I didn’t even wash it after that night
For fear of it getting ruined
Fear
Anxiety
Nervousness
They’ve stained it
Not even Oxi-Clean could get those out
That dress was already tight as is
Black and suffocating
I was a wreck that night
Full of fear, anxiety, and nervousness
It spilt from my sweat-glands, I stained it
I tried on the shirt I wore in September
And I was hopeful
Of course I washed it after that evening
I bathed myself too
Hope
Love
Safety
They’ve stained it
Not even Clorox could get those out
That shirt was tight and revealing as is
Vulnerable and mustard yellow
I was happy that night
Full of hope, love, and safety
It spilt from my sweat-glands, I stained it
With these two pieces of clothing
on at once
Six stains are upon me
Fear, anxiety, nervousness, hope, love, safety
I fear that it could end, I hope that it will not
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
we got dressed up for dinner but didn’t go to the dance
it was prom night and we were wasting time in my friend’s basement
when the question was asked:
how many men in your life are you comfortable around?
‘well,’ we said, ‘what do we mean by comfortable?'
we defined it like this:
how many men in your life could hug you
without making you flinch?
none of us had more than a handful, ticking names with our fingertips.
my total was two-point-five:
because i’d trust my dad with my life in the way that
you have to question authority to know that it’s right,
so i don’t ever **** away in fear from his familial touch.
(i’m the only one of us whose father makes the cut.)
the second name on my list is a kid from AP physics.
his name is trent and i’ve had a platonic crush on him for like a year.
we’ve bonded this year over math socks and clorox and death jokes.
(a few hours after this basement conversation,
we’re going to an afterparty and he yells my name
from across the parking lot;
we meet each other, running, and he collides into me with joy.
i don’t flinch away— i meet him half-way.)
the point five is
tricky
see, half the time, my brother grabs me and it terrifies me,
begging for him to just let go because he’s hurting me,
i don’t like tickling because it leads to panic attacks—
i don’t like unsolicited men touching me let go of me let go of me.
when my brother reaches for me, i flinch—
half the time.
but when he wants to actually hug me,
he just lifts one arm from his side and lets me tuck myself
under his shoulder, loose and gentle and loving, like good siblings.
half the time, my brother is reaching, and that is terrifying.
half the time, my brother is offering, and that is comforting.
how many men in your life could hug you without making you flinch?
take
a minute to think about it, it takes a lot of reflection.
a man without boundaries,
who takes what he wants and touches you when he wants to,
a man who doesn’t care that i’m flinching—
rapists and assailants don’t have boundaries,
they don’t listen when you say stop let go of me let go—
how terrifying it is for someone you know to just
grab you whenever he wants to.
i don’t want your hyper-masculine hands touching me without asking.
not unless you’re part of my two-point-five person list.
otherwise, you're just going to make me flinch.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
My mother drinks cranberry juice and lemon tea to detox herself.
She says it gives her a clear mind
I drink Clorox
She takes it away.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
A lesson I learned in school
From the boys I have only known
Through sharpies on bathroom stalls
Mike who broke Kim’s heart
And G who would love S forever
Even though the arrow pointing away
From it in a different color
Said otherwise
I learned on painting wood
Suspended by nailed in hinges
That love was more temporary than
Permanent marker
And could be erased by a janitor with
Clorox and even the
Girls who were so motivated to hang onto
Their love that they carved instead of drew
Hearts around their lover’s names
But found they could just as easily be painted over
By pink stained brushes
The lesson I learned in college
Eventually replaced the one before
The first day
In between classes and cups of coffee
When I saw the stalls
Were covered by doors made of
Marble.
Without a scratch of temporary.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC
your father died a long time ago
before your mother married him
before you were born
and i watched when your mother
pried his cold, dead hands
off of her arm
hoping it would let you and her be
free.
the stench of alcohol still clings to your clothes
and you scrub it out of your sheets
with tide and clorox
with soaps and dryers
and the love of your mother
as you struggle once again
to let you and her be
free.
you do what you can to protect your mother
from the dangers of our world
because she's been through enough
but sometimes you forget
that you need protection, too
and you find yourself scared, trapped
wishing you and her could be
free.
but people aren't just born broken
it's what people do, what people think
what people drink
that breaks the person, who breaks you
and sometimes it's so easy to hate the man
broken by the desire for his brand of whiskey
when it's been years since you've tasted your own brand of
freedom.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
They say Clorox can clean anything..
Can it cleanse a broken heart,
Can it purify the darkness that ruptures inside?
I'm openly wearing wounds that , are not visible through another's eyes Perhaps the I scars have are only apparent in my mind..
They must go away, they must go to waste
I just want all these memories erased... without a trace..
-Tamera Brown
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
When I was fourteen,
I didn't know how to treat a girl.
...let alone pleasure one.
This worried me.
I needed to practice.
until I found she.
oh, she smelled of Clorox and had the fashion sense of a child.
she had a gap in her teeth the size of mountains creek,
her body had the texture of a water bed...
however....
...so did her *******
but nobody was going to know or notice,
the filthy swine would ****** a bovine queen with huge *******
thus began an unforgettable experience of *********** and false intimacy.
the experiments,
the tests,
of making love,
or forging ***
making memories, forged with regrets.
she put up with my exploration and experimentation for nearly a year.
or two....
...three...
however discrete.
I was embarrassed of walking down the street with my hands clasped with hers.
But, never felt bad when it was under her shirt, or skirt, *****
I was (and am) a pervert.
I remember I told she sweet things, just to get the,
two *******
two thighs,
a cannoli for she,
and finger food for me.
I took she behind buildings,
in parks,
in woods,
in dark,
behind a bank,
in alley,
but almost rarely...
...in my house.
hmm...
when I was fourteen...
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
here i've prepared a couple of jokes
why did the girl cross the road?
because she thought she was being followed home by the boy who threatened her that he would hang her and so she ran five blocks to get away from him
ok here's a better one
why didn't the girl go to the party?
because she was told she was worthless seven times that day and that everyone is secretly laughing at her
here's my last one
what did the cruel middle school boys do when they got bored?
spit on me, push me around, threaten me, spread rumours about me, and more!
wait why aren't you guys laughing?
see, i didn't think that was that funny but then
when i begged for help
they asked if maybe the people who did that stuff to me were just joking
apparently they were just kidding so they shouldn't be punished
boys will be boys right?
i was probably just too sensitive, too thin skinned to understand their humour,
maybe you guys are too
or maybe i said something that made them say that?
but that makes no sense...
how would you provoke a joke to be told?
oh i know
it wasn't a joke
that's why you're not laughing right?
see daily death threats really don't get five star reviews in the comedy clubs
and i don't think there's been any skits on snl about being spit on because people thought you were garbage
so why did all the adults assume that the boys weren't to blame because they were just messing around?
messing around implies there's a mess and when there's a mess you clean it up but it's hard to clean up a mess that everyone thinks you made up
and I don't think clorox is going to wipe up the feeling that all of the people i trusted the most thought i deserved to be bullied
so i guess what i'm trying to say
is that people shouldn't have to walk through the hallways everyday knowing that in a few short hours, the boy in their p.e class will tell them that they shouldn't be alive
and when they tell five separate teachers
the teachers will all ask
are you sure they weren't joking
are you sure you didn't deserve it
i'm pretty sure that when he pushed me to the ground i didn't break out laughing afterwards
and their laughter wasn't contagious when they made fun of how i looked
their stand up comedy made me back down
sometimes i hear people say
oh bullying is stupid, how could it actually you
why wouldn't they just tell someone
and here's my answer
have you ever shouted so loud that you lost your voice?
probably shouldn't do that again right
well I screamed so loud that when i lost my voice I never really got it back
it's because you want to learn from your mistakes
learn that when people say that you can always tell someone, you should keep in mind that "always" is apparently conditional
don't assume that if you were in their shoes you would just tell someone
and everything would be fixed
some situations can't be fixed with a talk to an adult you trust
some situations you actually did nothing to deserve it
some people make the messes and some people can never clean them up
some jokes aren't funny
some jokes aren't jokes
I don't want any more back down comedy
this is my stand up piece but only this time I don't care who's laughing
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
I've been drinking bleach lately to rid you of this body
drinking cocktails of clorox and ammonia to scorch you from my insides
you are like a stain that won't be scrubbed out
you left this canvas so ***** that there is no hope that it will ever be white and innocent ever again
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
His permanent scent was a mixture of Clorox and cologne. After 49 weeks, that smell still lingers in the spots I first found it, and I ache for his touch. I long for the aromatic hysterics to overtake me and cling to my sweaters and my hair and for his handprints to be pressed forever into my back and for the emotionless love to act once again as my escape because I've only been pushed further under since we last tragically locked our mouths together.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Foul and morose is the mind of this soul.
How badly I want to tear my flesh from my bones.
Reach inside and form my heart into an iron lump.
Grab my brain and tear it down it's symmetrical half-line.
I long to eat bullets and wash it down with Clorox.
Why must I feel like this?
All I can think about is how metallic my own blood would taste.
Of how pretty the scarlet would look
On the backdrop of this living room.
One day, I'll find the courage.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
I refuse to tell anyone about the dreams where I am reading bedtime stories to you, where each is a different way you die and every way I will never save you.
I don't think twice of letting anybody know that drinking Clorox could potentially **** the what once were butterflies inside of you.
I won't tell anybody that my love for you is like perfecting the stringing of the beautiful chords on a harp ( for someone who is [deaf. I [can't tell anybody that when you told the doctor you weren't sexually active, I couldn't stop thinking -"so my party favors meant nothing to you?" My body was like an instrument and your words were the very melody that tuned it, unfortunately your vocal chords were that {of Lucifer's. Maybe you loved the feeling of tying me to the coffee table and making home movies, then creating a party once the confetti burst from my eyes, I heard once you die that you watch your life replay but I found it hurts twice as bad the second time around, now that I think about it, I think my heart exploded into confetti as well and [maybe that's why is feel empty and there are no more butterflies, just year old rotting confetti. My ribs never really echoed until you came around, I don't think I had anybody take my breath away quite like you, you did it a tiny bit different from the others, you knocked the wind right out of me and used it as air to blow banners and silly string around for your pity party.
Do you remember when you told me how cliché my poetry was on my birthday? well I do not love you like the everlasting affair between the sea and the sand & I don't miss you how the Sun misses the Moon. For I fear you as if I were alive in Pompeii during 79 After Death, And my hate towards you is as strong as the believers during the time of Crucifixion and I am as devastated as when the families of Jews found bodies upon bodies unnamed in box cars.
>I remember the taste of your mouth and your cravings for cigarettes, I was your ashtray. I remember your passion for watercolor paintings, I am your cup of brown water. I remember your undenied addiction for sweetened coffee, I am the leftover stain on your teeth. I remember your love for street racing, -I am the skid marks left on the street.<
Maybe one day you'll think back to the girl that you said you loved, maybe you'll realize that she was not the burns marks in your brain from the bleach you drank to try and ruin the confetti that is now in [your] rib cage, maybe you'll pay more attention to abandoned buildings on the side of the street, now that you realize that's what you've made her become.
Maybe you'll remember which cabinet the chemicals were in and at the point maybe you'll realize that her dreams from your bed time stories came true.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
"Mike, I need a cure--
"Everyone says Clorox works..."
"Sir, you try it first."
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
i was beneath the bed
listening to the in-out
thinking about how we
all take the air differently
when josh came with the cold
outside and drunkenly mistook
me for Christina, found his unusual
place and passed out in stiff shadows,
smelling faintly of fireball cinnamon whisky--
plenty of moments reserved for sinking
or abandoning ship, receding into that quiet
place, hungry for a will and a way
when matthias finds me ransacking the
kitchen cabinets, i am rattling the underground
Seattle with a clorox induced vengeance
because i only seem to find peace in leaving
an old place clean, running my fingers through
jello shots that have disintegrated sometime in
the 3 am when for a few minutes we must
have all been asleep.
( all the while Adele )
hums in the background--a languid Hello
solemnly stitching itself into my memory
something to later hold dear, some fragment
of an adolescence that was realized on this
night, when I was removed from the place
beneath the bed, stolen from the house
dreaming that I was found inside
the mouths of strangers that
passed alongside Boylston
with their misshapen bodies
coiled in streamers and
various liquors
so when i return at 7 am
still wide awake and waiting
I examine my ******* in the
foggy mirror of the bathroom
before taking what I would
endearingly refer to as the
dirtiest shower off my life---
how could such a thing
be so? I'm curious myself.
I've spent two weeks cleaning an old place.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
when I wanted to turn my wrists into christmas gifts and slice them with paper cutters to see if I could find a better tomorrow written in my veins
where were you
when I wanted to pour my tears into a Xanax and Clorox cocktail and get buzzed on the thought of angel wings tearing my back open
where were you
when I took a heart shaped box full of rotted sweets and poured it in the gasoline that lit our first kiss, watching the good intentions burn to ash on the pavement
where were you
when I tore up the tear-stained ink-heavy pages of love notes and tossed them into my backyard stream
where were you
when I took off the bracelet you made me and tied it to the traffic sign on the bridge where the police found me
where were you
when I was handcuffed to a bench in a stone holding room singing our song over and over again, screaming unintelligibly at every officer who asked for my name
where were you
when I called every night, wondering why you decided not to speak to me anymore
where were you
when I checked my messages and saw ***** where I said "sweetheart", ******* ****** where I said "I'm sorry."
where were you
when I tied my last hope to a tree on the beach and swung from it
where were you
when I prayed the rope would snap just as easily as my heart did
where were you
when I stood on your doorstep in the rain, wishing that I didn't remember your address
where were you
when I was passed out on the curb, drunk and alone
where were you
when I was curled under a desk, screaming at the rain and kicking the locked doors
where were you
when I was at the cliffs, counting the jutted rocks and trying to measure the exact angle I would need to fall
where were you
when I finally decided enough was enough,
and took every piece of my glass heart and used it to carve a new person
But love,
where were you
when I needed someone to hold me while I was hurting?
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:27 AM UTC
Her heart is chipped and broken
she gave her all, and more
Words that went unspoken
what "I love you", is for
He's always been real dense
gotta spell out every line
No excuse or good defense
messed up real bad, this time
Repairs and amends
no option now, my friend
You spilled all her emotions
you've come to, the bitter end
That kind of stain, you'll never lose
as bleach and worse it seems
Tangled in your heart for now
forever lost, within your dreams
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
today
it was 70 degrees in the afternoon
i closed my eyes and pretended that there was a foot of snow on the ground
wrapped my arms around myself for warmth and shivered
i had attempted to remember how the year has taken and split me
into two
the one that was lying on that hospital bed
begging god for mercy
and the other that was drunk in the waiting room
laughter echoing down the halls
smelling like clorox
pouring whiskey down people's shirts
the one that had felt stung and with aching bones
let it go into a river of tears
or the other that took off her apron
told you to **** off
and stormed outside
hoping the mascara was waterproof
the one terrified to drive
into the desert alone
the other pouring gasoline
down the highway
taking the wrong trail
talking to strangers at cafes
panic attacks in a wal-mart parking lot
knowing the importance of goodbyes
and deodorant
loving your touch but hating your voice
yet falling for the way
her bones shift beneath her collar
hands clamming up at the sight of him
letting calves burn and peel
breaking corks for expensive chardonnay
striking the match
letting it fall
feeling the drops on her shoulder
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 1:33 AM UTC