"comically" poems
I am no longer the
Steady thrum of heartbeats
When issues against women are
Comically displayed on televisions.
Like there's something to
Laugh, guffaw, snicker, snort--
Tell you what, I can name a little
Too many synonymous words
And I can slap them all to your face, too.
I am no longer a suppressed voice,
Unable to tell you and all the other people
That as a girl (and a woman, later),
I have the right to be here.
I have the same rights to life,
To be alive, to be secure,
To have a good life!
And yet, you, who calls yourself a
Man of power, tells me,
"You are nothing."
I am angry with the absurdity
Of it all. Men continuing to abuse,
Women constantly cowering down--
Why are you so intent on showing power
When you are not God?
Why are you so afraid of fighting
For yourself?
I am seething with rage
For those who refuse to accept
Feminism just for the reason
That they do not want to be labeled--
Well, guess what? They have already
Shoved you underneath Weak and Submissive.
Who taught you that you are born
To impress men?
Who taught you that you only exist
To please them?
I will not have any of that ****
I am a person of my own.
I am a human being, with rights.
And I AM FIGHTING to have
The same rights as you do.
Whoever told you that that's
Never gonna happen, can shove it up
Their *****
I will not sit still on my chair while
The next police officer
Asks "Well, what were you wearing?"
To the next **** victim.
You and I both know that is not
The issue here.
No girl should hung their head in shame
That they got touched without consent.
It's not their fault! No one
Deserves to be *****
And no, it's not snuggling, for you who
Even thought **** jokes on t-shirts
Are funny. It's not.
I am for Gender Equality.
For both men and women,
Gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender,
To be treated with equal respect.
With equal opportunities.
With equality.
With no judgment.
Why must you counter that?
Look, I've been sitting in that same chair
For too long while issues spread and get
Larger like the plague.
I thought, let them handle it.
I thought, a small voice would be of no help.
But when did sitting down and staring
Get people somewhere?
When did any of passivity help us?
We already have everything to lose
So why not fight?
Bruce Banner told the other avengers
The secret of Hulk.
And I tell you the same:
Get angry.
Smash inequality.
I will always be right behind you.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Cold, unforgiving.
My soul froze in time.
I gave love its last chance,
And clocks stopped.
The big hand contorted,
To mock my closing veins.
The small just pointed
And laughed in my face.
So I shattered all the timepieces,
Forbidding me to count the seconds alone.
In an hourless world,
I lost faith in hope.
The walls as my best friend.
My bed the only lover.
I'm content in waiting
For my torturous life to be over.
But you found me
Wrapped in passing seconds.
Prisoner to tic tic
Pacing in my head.
Where my skin
Tasted of decay.
And my claws retired
From scratching at the gates.
Given up on fighting,
Satisfied with thousand pound lungs.
A half timed beating,
Beneath my hollow ribs.
My souls began to thaw,
Clocks began to move.
All from your touch,
All from your air.
The big hand straightens.
And the small silences itself.
Opening my veins.
No more comically mocking my pain.
Your gentle hands piece together,
All the pieces I shattered.
Back to counting
All the seconds I'm alive.
My walls become acquaintances.
You replace my bed.
I'm not waiting,
This life won't end.
No longer bound
By the song of passing time.
Free from "tic toc",
It's a little less crowded in my head.
Warmth returns to my skin.
My hands click awake.
Not ready to scratch,
But to create.
There is no fight to give up.
Air quickly lifts my lungs.
There's a full paced beating,
Inside my glowing chest.
All because you touched me.
You kissed me.
With a calm fear,
You woke me from my sleep.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
In amongst this bittersweet gathering
You both slice me looks, quickly
As I savour my cake
Under the easy chatter & voices
Comes a growl from behind your teeth
The dog chases the kids, comically
I sip my tea, smiling & laughing
Your jealousy pours as thick as cream & just as sour
White, one sugar please
I get her a drink at the table
Your hatred boils at my proximity
I mix with a steady hand, oblivious
I forget you're both there in this garden
You make your excuse to leave, defeated
My unbreakable peace doesn't falter now
I pick the crumbs from my plate & lick them from my fingers
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
three sets of withered, wrinkly hands
with chipped
tired
pale-pink nailpolish
flutter in the air,
describing.
three froofy perms
one browny-gray
one white
one salt and pepper
bob
jutting forward,
one
wobbles a little.
Grandma wears
a green-foam party hat
with a thin, white elastic band
that runs under her wrinkled chin
it sits atop her fuzzy perm
comically...
she smiles
at me.
"Ah! my cappuccino! you remembered i like it, didn't you?"
she chucks her great-granddaughter
under the chin,
grins
"oohh! look at these gardening gloves! Cidi! look at these gloves! i like the green ones."
she hands them to her white-haired sister
aunt cidi told me
this year she is
ninety-one
oh, and the gloves were really
blue.
aunt cidi
misses uncle harland
he was buried three or four years ago
in his uniform
i remember sitting next to him
at awkward family reunions
eating hotdogs
i never saw so much mustard
in my life
he could never hear me
when i tried to talk to him
but he smiled
anyway.
the talk turns serious
suddenly
over our black coffee
crossed legs
sweaters
and chocolate cake
grandma turns grim
in her lime-green party hat
"did you end up killing that trumpet vine in your yard, Jeanie?"
aunt jeanie's head wobbles a bit
she squints
wrinkles her nose
"i TRIED to!"
she scowls.
schemes of ******
plotted by three chunky-earringed
sweet
old ladies
who are a little late
for the 1940's
but never too late
for a handsome
soldier
"we're older..."
says aunt jeanie
"but not THAT old!"
they all
giggle.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.
~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.
~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"
First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?
This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.
Nope.
Not a perfume ad.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
Shiny black spit-shined shoes
on the walk
in the Memorial Gardens
hurt my feet
to look at their stiffness
and his swollen ankles
in them.
His worn and creased pants
too short, belt buckle aligned
dress-right-dress
with the button fold of his shirt.
He wore
an old faded USMC campaign hat
pulled down
almost to his white eyebrows.
Almost comically.
I pitied him
in the way we sometimes do
the old who mumble,
never knowing
just who they are talking to.
I heard Inchon mentioned,
and Chosin a time or two,
and every time he said *Puller knew,
yeah, Chesty knew*.
I quit taking my lunch
with a book in the Garden
when he stopped coming around
and after I saw his picture
in the obituaries
with a description of how he won
his Silver Star and two Purple Hearts;
wishing now I had listened closer.
More’s the pity
I never spoke to him.
r ~ 6/27/14
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
BILLY the Kid was truly a kid when found in the company of children.
Many children of his day would go on to say
how much they wished their playtime with him would never end.
Good Guy/Bad Guy were one of the games Billy would play with the children in town.
"Bang! Bang! You're dead Billy!"
Billy would then grab hold of his chest and comically fall down to the ground.
Salsa Bocca recalls her playtime spent with her playmate Billy Bonney.
"He used to bounce me on his knee for what seemed like hours as if I were riding a pony."
The following story might not be true but I'll still share it with you
because it certainly fits Billy's profile.
This young boy in dismay kept following Billy all day.
Wherever Billy went he was followed by this star struck child.
"Do you know who I am?" Billy asked the young lad.
The child simply nodded, "Yes" was all that he said.
Billy took off his hat, dusted it off and placed it on the young boy's head.
The innocent young child was overjoyed and smiled
and then this is what Billy said and did.
"If anyone ever asks you who gave you that hat,
you tell them you got it from BILLY the Kid."
Billy was also very respectful of the elderly
and very sympathetic towards they who were poor.
Many times he would extend acts of kindness towards them.
He was a true philanthropist at heart to be sure.
The newspapers portrayed him as this dangerous desperado,
someone to be hated and feared and appalled,
but to all the residents of Fort Sumner, New Mexico
Billy was very fondly adored by all.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 2:59 AM UTC
consume endless stimulants
anything to get through this
lifeless eyes with sunken souls
tucked away in hidden holes
the hands on the clock do a full rotation
returning then surpassing their first location
alternating breaks between coffee and bogies
i sit on the floor, my effort withholding
breathe in, breathe out, inhale deep
i know not about counting sheep
a few more bodies tough it out
"we are the champions," i want to shout
and i'm delusional, so i just might
tell this empty room about my sleepless night
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
this is an excerpt from a very long, (shudder) private poem about a dinner party with visiting friends, up from Memphis to celebrate their birthday in NYC.
Unplanned, I gave them all gifts without hesitation from an unusual collection of mine that they were admiring.
When questioning my unexpected generosity, by way of explanation, I jokingly said
"there is no room in my casket."
~
*sweetly thanked for the unexpected gift,
the poet replies comically,
"there is no more room in his casket",
for even these, small trifles
later in the quietude of
late night contemplation,
comes a greater realization,
the truth was unseen
in his offhanded remark,
now, gives him pause and cause
to capture a greater revelation
there is insufficient room indeed,
for accompanying the poet on his finale,
an uncharted encore voyage akin to
Tennyson's poem of
the famed voyage of Ulysses -
thoughts yet unthought,
a few thousand poems,
that time forbade completion,
all must yet reside beside and inside his soul,
timed-released escapees
from the real yet artificial limits of
physical deterioration
these,
be his boon companions in arms,
his banded-brothered company,
purposed for inspiration,
his lasting re-actualization
so plentiful, indeed,
there be no room in the casket,
for the merely beloved,
beautiful physical objets d'art,
they too must give way
to the natural law of
"unto dust returned"
but poetry*
never dies
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC
The clowns are angry
but they don't show it.
Behind white faces there is no hint of the resentment
that grows underneath comically sized trousers.
The clowns know they only make sense
in a certain context
underneath a big top
modelling balloons at young Bens 7th birthday.
Not here in your garden
viewed from behind a curtain
4.53am.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
A lone paddler
within rumoured holy waters,
blessed by the touch
of a vacant apathetic god,
she gaped mutely like a halibut,
lips parted comically in a silent wail,
the clockwork functions
of her jaw,
forced teeth to reacquaint as sisters,
grinding together
in discomfort,
as lukewarm fluids rippled
around her thighs.
In this silent act of cleansing,
sin's hallmark should have faded
from her skin,
still her father believed
'her to be the devil's young'
due to scientific witchcraft,
her concoctions to lure demons
to their dinner table.
'I'm doing this for you, darling.'
her father reassured
with an earnest glint in his eyes,
madness paced hungrily,
encircling pupils in a territorial manner,
delusions of God himself watching
over his daughter,
with tears streaming down golden cheeks,
repeated within his fragile mind.
Unsure, the girl remained standing,
the embodiment of Mary
with her arms spread like angel wings,
did she dare disobey
her father's wishes,
and feel the leather belt against
her rear,
or reject her own troubled heart,
for her father's sake?
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
Two bears were so in love
Tasted the best of honey
They slept together in this cave
Body huddled close to body
Which almost looked like one giant bear
And they raised two beautiful cubs
They had beautiful brown fur
The kind you’d like to tussle
But being bears
You really wouldn’t want to do that
Men came one day
Carrying what looked like
Big brown and silver tipped sticks
They wore bright orange vests and hats
Seemed almost comically from bears eyes
far from humor
The men’s eyes rested on the bears
First they seemed amazed at this sight
Then they raised their sticks to their heads
Pointed them at the bears
Almost as if to say,
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Loud bursts in the forest
Made birds flee from their nests
The bears ran
Multiple beads cutting through fur
Through flesh
Made them pour out red
Confusion and fear
The two cubs quickly fell
Then the female
The male bear ran
Exhaustion covered up with scars
He crawled back into his cave
Tried to sleep but he was cold and scared
So he told himself
I’m going to sleep for months, years
Perhaps a lifetime
Because I’ve seen what this world brings
So,
He slept
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:04 AM UTC
You are the erroneous mirror
also the distorted, reflected figure,
and the observer, the root cause of all,
just, comically absurd,if you see straight.
But this plight, to you remains alien always.
as the logic works outside the bubble.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
Star pupils, interstellar eyes,
gazing across the frozen nebula
at stick figures in radiation suits,
lovers intertwined with reactant valves,
planted into unearthly soil,
a distant light from over our shoulder,
the good comet returns,
there might be an escape pod
for intangibles after all,
and once inside, images of moonbase love
and alien encounters,
that neither mocks the comically misjudged
visions of yellowed science fiction,
nor longs for some utopian future,
an environment that begs escapism
without denying humanity
Apr 5, 2024
Apr 5, 2024 at 11:31 AM UTC
We were terrible together...
I mean we were comically bad together...
Probably the worst couple ever...
Remember your 18th birthday party...
I got you that stuffed creature with those ***** eyes you like...
Never mind that it was a representation of the ****** virus...
We laughed about that...
And then when we got back to school the following week...
And rumor got around that i gave you ****** for your birthday...
Which was technically true...
We thought we'd never live the embarrassment down...
But we did...
Together...
We were truly terrible together...
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Sooner or later everything gets played out
and the music stops -
childhood almost before it has begun
with youth rushing on to it's doom
and adulthood showing some semplance of maturity
before middle-age despondency.
Wise old age reveals itself as a grinning caricature
reflecting comically the way things should have been.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
I tear flesh from myself and toss it into the flames;
Not to watch it burn but in hopes I can make the hole in my heart a tangible part of my being..
I won't need a warning label if people can peek in and see for themselves there's nothing left of a real man.
Like Pinocchio I strive to feel a thump in my chest but a wooden core doesn't pump.
I'm dancing attached to strings like a Halloween skeleton in a bad movie.
All grin and nothing to back it up.
It's useless to think someone might share their heart with mine and bring me to life.
I'll fill the hole in my chest with clear apoxy and dance empty with that skeletal grin stretched comically over a hard face holding nothing.
Eventually I'll feed the fire with my bones and turn to dust,
as old toys do.
There's nothing like a paper man for tinder.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
I shrink and am in quantum and want them giants stood outside to go away,the shadows that they cast blot out the sun,this day is faded gray and I wait for the moon to rise so I can bay at it.
I sit in sepia feeling like weeping at the sadness that surrounds me,thoughts of several years gone by hound me and there is no rest,
so I continue to shrink into sub where quantum then becomes the giant,the hub,the wheel on which I spin and the pin is me.
Atomically and anatomically quite comically I raise a fist at all those times that we have missed like ships that pass,escaping gas reminds me that the meter's on the starboard side,where in the past I've tried to hold things in,
now I just let it out and if farting's what this life's about then why am I still here,is it growing that I fear and If I shrink so much I disappear,where will I be?
quantum says, mechanically,
well,
****** me I never thought of that.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
i think with a sometimes smile
meanders playfully filling the
erudite sphere comically of my
face digs with a small gape a
mouth where my voice comes
from in a slight eager wiggle
out on the air
it just comes and i can't stop how
it wants to say something that
of a new wholly unbelievable
incredibly unviolent softnot sharp
aching to touch somebody else
throat with small noose of muscles
rollicking with the small snow
of your fingertips hulking gorgeous
and barely
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
Glossy-eyed children taste toxin-doctored water from plastic red cups
as popular hits of the day intertwine with impure intentions and blind approbation
for strangers-
obscured within the cherry-colored lenses of Dionysius’s shroud.
-
A languid form stumbles though an ocean of slurred words and victorious howls
Into a water room with four walls, a broken door, and a single reflective glass, sounds of the century now low and intertwined with the domestic petting zoo steadily beating against the door
Still broken.
Tired eyes through orbital vision and a weary process of cognitive recognition
Finds within the glass a conception of self, foreign to the observer and comically out of place.
Segmented ideas find meaning in convoluted streams of thought as the spoken word
Is devalued and meaning is limited to fain attempts to *** a smoke, bro.
Radiating self-righteous belligerence and misattributed
Bravado-
the two-dimensional protagonist clumsily plunders the kitchen
for processed sugar bars and handfuls of stale Wonderbread
before projecting discarded toxins into the potted plant near the high-traffic doorway while snapback youth formulate attributable hashtags and millennial responses to
a situation typical to the time of uncertainty and blissful absence.
Come morning, we’ll eat scrambled eggs in sunlight
And romanticize about a Kodak experience, now elapsed by a self- more stringent.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
dear c
forgive me
for forcibly making you
climb the trunk of a coconut tree,
testing how your kind
fall from a height and
still land on four feet,
clasp palms over eyes,
watch you walk backwards
comically, tentatively,
for pinning that
batch to your tail,
with the legend,
"Stop not, cease not,
until the goal is reached."
...you going round the
dining table to
sister's screams,
cutting off your whiskers
to the shortest length,
just to see what we get,
I know in cat heaven,
they are sentencing
me to a cat body,
and you as my human
master, circle of life...
do remember,
the daily fish feast,
lick-lick-ety milk,
head brushing,
under chin rubs,
soft fur combing,
sleep pat-purr,
do consider,
that I was a kid,
a storm burst
in my head,
as tingled as a
cat on a cat hunt...
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
*I came across a splendid poem today and wondered
if by thinking I was good enough I had totally blundered
I read a piece that made my pieces look half baked
One quite perfect my micro confidence she did affect
I read her chronological lines now I reflect
eyes opened to room for improvement I had staked
I read a piece that hounded my ego in proof I ain't a pro
claiming I have learning to do and a million miles to go,
comically weaved in her humour and philosophical satire
which lent her glitters of stars and glisten of sapphire
she blew me louder than the whistle of an experienced umpire
and hit the mark, fitting my mind better than my tailored attire
I read a concoction which made me rethink
for to my seemingly scented pieces she lent a stink
now I realise I have to reconsider the broth I cook
wonder the time to pen she took plus the multitude she really shook
uncomfortable in silent deafening solitude whilst I contemplate
whether to declare my admiration or disguise it in hate
for this poem I construed and wished it were me who wrote
one entrancingly put, breathtaking and celestially thought
she was bitter sweet with the tranquillity of tequila
a piece as captivating as a Hadley Chase Thriller*
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
The arms of eternity open,
like a sentimental bolero played
at some in-between place,
they open lazily
and incandescently,
encircling the comically and silently raging,
Poetically, and gently,
the phantom draws her wings towards forgetfulness -
at the eye of the temple -
distant,
full of guidance
and potential.
The profound silence of bitter lives.
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 12:54 PM UTC