"conk" poems
I’ll have you know that this started out
as a love poem
but then I got lazy
and distracted when the dog started biting my leg
and I decided that this process wasn’t
worth it all together
and went outside for a smoke
that’s when I tried to call you
but you didn’t answer
I guess it’s Valentine’s Day
and you’re probably
with some other guy who’s more
sensitive than me
but can he smoke as **** as me?
or cough as loud?
or breathe as heavy?
well probably ******* not
and maybe that’s a good thing
that he’s healthy
and doesn’t smell like the inside of a Texas Roadhouse
before they decided that smoking killed everyone
and no one could do it there
no
not even the good looking people
you always said I was good looking
well
above average
and I cooked good too
and that one Valentine’s Day you said
If you asked me to marry you right now, I’d say yes
that was after I killed the bat in the attic
bought you a bouquet of bleeding hearts and
brought home the puppy
since then
my typewriter has busted
and you have left
P.S.
I still have the dog and
I renamed him Juniper
because that’s what happens when you’re
drunk
and sad
and alone
but now I’m happy
smoking a cigarette
listening to my neighbor’s massive wind chime
conk and sway in the crosswind
and I feel as alive as ever
knowing that you’re
wiping off that red lipstick with a poem I wrote you
because your date just got done
and he’s not sleeping over
and you’re just about to
walk to the back patio
and smoke a cigarette
because you want to die
just as bad as I do
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
The crushing silence of the ocean.
The harsh screeches of the gulls.
Long beaches stretched wide and open;
shells taken with the heavy pull of each wave.
The morning tide brings new treasures and leave
empty conk shells abandoned in the sand.
A quiet morning stroll yields promise of
a new day begun and a new beginning found.
Sunrises bring new songs to the skies and
the waves carry with them folk tales from distant shores.
There are new stories to be told and old stories to be found.
A message in a bottle brings a secret note to a lost love.
“To my dearest…” it begins
“Please forgive me…” is how it ends.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 5:10 PM UTC
In the not too far off distance
I here the faint splashing of an indie song,
That reminds me of you ?
Maybe not of you,
But your gait
And if I want to reminisce about
Your demeanor I will twist
And gnarl and damage the song
To be who you were,
To me , it is as if
Whenever I think of the grand entrance
Of the natural history museum you are there
On the steps, in a deceitful black dress
And I weep like a wound infected
Half because you are heaven
An eighth because you are a day at the DMV
Or worse
I’m not alone
I have a partner for checkers
The computer
But I find that you can’t have a laugh
About how bad you are
With someone that much better than you
I’m now on loan
But what a strange feeling it is to own
Half of someone
Like when you take a lean
On a car,
Sure, the bank could take it back
But would they understand the eight-week-old,
Chulupa in the back seat?
Would anyone understand
Your tongue?
Or might they ****
The life out of it
Only to cut it out later
I recognize the song
And draw it closer to me
I have bent the sound to fit me,
To suit you,
Fake- deaf, I tune it out
Only to have my conk- shell –for- an- ear
Throw it back up in a fishy -mess
Then it laughs at me and says,
“Don’t be silly now, I’m your song forever.”
I can’t handle that
So I run away leaving my brain
Behind
My brain is on the ground bleeding
Saying, “Oh! How embarrassing to wear red after my birthday!”
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 8:18 AM UTC
We sit see and yearn from afar
The landscape pride-flock'ed-people
In grid gift grieve, We cry 'Argh!'
Jealousy and envy make us enfeeble
We know our bus can get there
But our drivers are drunk
We know we shall get there
When our drivers aren't longer drunk
Our road to Canaan is unclear
Our bingers should rest on bunks
Less, our ignited bus will orb on a spot
Until the drunkards eyes is tears and clear
And alcohol in blood is no longer conk
Our bus to Canaan will orb on a spot.
Poet: Oluwatimilehin Adejumobi Alabi
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
The wind on the beach blowing a soft breeze through my hair, as the hint of salty sand caressed my lips of fresh gloss,
My eyes closed as my ears listened to the peaceful sound of the waves crashing on to the shore .
My satin sundress cuddled my body from the force of the wind , the exotic arousel of the fresh ocean air in traps my mind into a place far away where the dolphins swim freely by your side and the sea horse tickle your toes. A place made up of sparkling white sand and water off emorald green.
The serenity and peace of mind are unlike no other place except the place with so many hidden secrets left to discover buried far beneath it's floors of coral and gems and lost treasures which may forever go unseen.
So far below us yet it sends it's magic through the waves upon the shore or crashing into the reef, dropping some of it's beauty for us to see like the conk shell, as we place it to our ear we can hear the sound of the ocean or the sand dollar, if broken just right it holds the beauty of a seagull fitting perfectly in it's middle. My place like no other the land I long to see, the land far away under the sea.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
a sorcerer
has his
gloat as
he's ridden
their ole
black magic
save there's
despair but
his fulcrum
in romance
still with
their glance
when there'd
be nobody
to make
him conk
time again
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
on getting a scent
of the almighty dollar bill
the aroma it gave off
did so perfectly thrill
smelling a bigger ***
would better excite
for the nose is open
to that kind of invite
inhaling currency
switched him on fast
it smacked like
a power packing blast
and he'd follow the blood
hound's perceptive sniff
to where ever there would
be a profitable whiff
for sure and certain
his probing conk
will be out sensing
the huge money plonk
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
Drops
"Drops have inferior time to live
But they don't conk hope and willing to give"
"Let your memoir lightly dance
on the edges of time"
"Every drop of water is benison master
Ringing chime "
"Drops fall on leaf it gleam
Elect best spot where thou can dream "
"Brisk dew drop freshen core and soul"
"Where two drops of water unite
befit team attain goal"
✍Written by Rishamjot k Sangha
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 9:36 PM UTC
When I die now
Tell them who loved never to hate
Those hate never to worry
Worry because I won't bother
Bother them with this and that
That piece of mind which wrote this
that yet the heart were in pieces
Pieces that fell and heard a rythm song
A song they' ll sing once every year
Each year as my memories fade from their faces
Never to remember the ugliness of it
Tell not the arts I wrote nor
The words that had Me most
Bt not a word sayed to retain
Scars that had me deep in skin
Say to e'm
It won't be a sad way out
Clothed black because I wasn't pure
Pure from the evils that had me layed under its core
If a die today...
Tell them its a coarse
It will be a celebration in grieving
But they'll understand before judging
That I had to rest
My death left no tears
They'll wish to atest..
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC