"crank" poems
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With that hand I know so well
It is more than just five fingers
It’s the reason I rebel
Yes, sir, I want you to clank me
In bonds of silver and gold
Chained, I’m a precious gift to you
Unwrapping me never gets old
Yes, sir, I want you to yank me
Down on the floor to my knees
My gaze lowers at your command
I’m eager to do as you please
Yes, sir, I want you to flank me
Punish me from every side
I know I’ve been a naughty girl
Needing discipline you’ll provide
Yes, sir, I want you to crank me
Up to writhing ecstasy
Don’t stop ‘til I ******* beg you
Your tough love is what sets me free
Yes, sir, I want you to thank me
For being your precious pet
Even though I disobey you
It’s clear you love to see me sweat
Yes, sir, I want you to spank me
With the implement of your choice
Make it hurt to make me happy
In your dominance I rejoice
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
I used to take the back off
the telephone and stuff it with rags
and when somebody knocked
I wouldn't answer and if they persisted
I'd tell them in terms ******
to vanish.
just another old crank
with wings of gold
flabby white belly
plus
eyes to knock out
the sun.
12.8k
you cant defeat me
you wont
Ill cooperate
Ill act scattered
Ill be unfocused
Ill be motivated to motivate this terrible distraction in my mind
The answer is simple
College and AdHd dont mix
they collide
my brain is a dj playing dubstep
24 hours a day
non stop full volume
crank it up
because there is no stoping.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
PTSD
*The war followed me home.
It penetrated my skin like nerve gas
Nobody could see it but it was there.
It sits by my feet like a dog.
When I go to bed with you
It lies between us keeping us apart.
I try to scrub it from my skin
In the shower but it won’t come off.
Like a heavy breathing crank call
It pants in my ear as I sleep.
Sometimes it shows me how strong it is
And holds the front door shut
and I cannot open it to go out.
At night just before bedtime
It passes me a handful of meds
I take them and swallow them
But I never ever look
straight into its eyes.*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...
Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...
Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...
Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.
At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.
Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.
Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.
We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.
One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.
Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Dog in a bush.
Dog lights a smoke.
Dog has long scraggly hair.
Dog sleeping on streets.
Dog scratching her face.
Dog picks at her skin.
Dog lights up again.
Dogs hair is in tangles and messy.
Dogs skin is ashy and broken out.
Dog cries at nights.
Dog wonders how to get her hands on the monster.
Dogs skin is becoming more flawed with every run up with the monster.
Dog hears wispers at night.
Dog still wanders ally ways.
Dog lets people do stuff with her in order to get in contact with the monster.
Sometimes the monster is laced with one of its friends.
The dog never really does pure stuff anymore.
Dog told herself she would never get addicted.
Dog is addicted to the monster.
Crank
Monster
Crystal ****
Oh yes!
Dog does ****
And dog loves her ****
Dog signed a contract with the monster the very first time it enter her system.
Dog has a life long relationship with ****
Dog ****** up.
Now her life is uncontrollable.
Dog isn't stupid.
The monster controlled her.
Dog was smart loving and sweet.
Monster was controlling addicting and very very
Very
Very
Veryyyyyyy
Persuasive.
Dog holds hands with the monster now.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
Guilty pleasure
But time I treasure
Just you and I
No kids' screaming cry
No wife to bark orders
As we seek new borders
I stroke your limbs
My ego brims
You ride me away
From stresses in my day
Your frame is so light
I ride you just right
You transport my life
In a different way than my wife
I love the both of you
To you both I'll be true
But with you I'm physical
My wife is mystical
You create such sweat
The drips make you soaking wet
As I crank you on ascents
And coast down long descents
I get light headed
Nothing you do is dreaded
You carry me away
So I just needed to say
You are my mistress, my queen
I don't want to be obscene
But if loving you is wrong
Why does my wife sometimes ride along
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
The television blares, it blinks, it shakes
A cup falls out of the cabinet, it flies, it jumps
They shatter.
Someone's banging on the door, they scream, they holler
She's laughing in your ear, a witch-like cackle
Ha-ha-ha That's all she's says, that's all she does
You keep your head facing forward, don't dare to look around
It's all madness, the footsteps on the ground
Who's creeping down the stairs, you didn't have guests
Who opened the window, who made such a mess?
The laughing
The constant laughing like chimes, it intensifies
Cold sweat, warm tears,
Your body is paralyzed in face of your greatest fears
Do it! Punch a wall, kick a desk!
But sweetie, there is no time for rest.
We must go, we must hurry!
They're almost here!
Who? You feel dizzy. Not another surprise please, I beg you, not another.
The room starts spinning, the ceiling circles you like a volchar.
The small man, with the elf-like features, he's tugging your arm
He's pulling you, as she laughs with such insanity your stomach churns.
Who are these people, what is this hell
A piercing scream is released into the air,
You believe it was your own, but with all the creatures yelling in your ear, you can't be certain.
The noises crank up, the objects fly off the walls
The TV changes from loud channel to channel, from voices to white noise
This is the worst, this is the peak
But suddenly it all stops with a screech.
The tv is in its place, normal channel, normal news
All the items are in their spot, all organized, all unused
There is no laughing. There is no man. There are no footsteps. There is no pulling hand.
But it was all there. You know it was.
Silence. Eery silence.
Now you're left in the confusion of your own mind.
But perhaps you've been there the whole time.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.
Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.
Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.
Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.
Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It ***** It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my **** Lord Love-a-duck.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC
Dust motes and sweat stains
Faded graffiti over rusted steel plates
Advertising everything, from politicians to a massage parlor,
The engine roars disgruntled, in smoky rancor.
I stepped on your feet, said I was sorry
Tell me mister, could you tell I was lying?
Pushing through the rush-hour crowd
I finally found my footing and was proud.
Well, there’s something to be said for low expectations
A word of praise for cranky co-passengers.
Not that the polite ones aren’t fun,
When they smile and roll their eyes like they’re so done.
And it’s not that I’d ever expect sincerity,
At 10 on a rainy Tuesday morning
I’m not a nihilist, or even much of a cynic by default
But at 10am, I take nice with a bucket of salt.
I put on my headphones, crank the volume up to max,
Sway to the shrill screeching of pirated tracks
I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t really tell.
It’s not you’re uninteresting, it’s just that this song is swell.
And maybe I could’ve made more of an effort
Gotten to know your name, exchanged toffees and emotional support
Maybe you’d have told me your story, if my ears were free
Maybe we could’ve found something worth a keep.
But you see, mister, it’s not you it’s me
At 10 on a Tuesday morning, I’m not the best company.
I hope, tomorrow, you’ll find a co-passenger worth your time,
As for me, facelessness suits me just fine.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
Hate the holidays well I got one for you.
Dont have to follow no rules.
Just drink till ya drop.
To what's the ocassion still ya
havent a clue.
Hey there missy.
dont **** and moan just grab a pint
ya big *****
No need for a kleenex just wipe that blood off
on your sleeve.
Stoner slacker and poets unite for
it's Thanksgiving Eve.
No need to hang anything by the
chimney with care.
But it is a party so lets see your underwear.
Lets beat the holiday blues.
Hey who's drunk and horney?
Short skirts and thoose high heel shoes.
Crank that jukebox hey grandpa theres
no need to leave.
Cause everyone is included on Thanksgiving eve.
Hey amigo if we play are cards right.
we can stir enough **** to see a chick fight.
Hey whats going on upstairs God only knows.
It's not cheating just wrestling without any
clothes.
Hey who just cut a whole in the floor?
hey grandpa ya better watch that exotic woman
your dancing with.
Cause she's a woman with a little more.
Hey ya'll the cops are coming along with a swat
team so it's my cue to leave.
but like that fat ***** in a red suit I'll
return to bring ya another great Thanksgiving Eve.
Nov 25, 2009
Nov 25, 2009 at 8:21 AM UTC
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”
Embroidered on the back of his letterman jacket
Hanging from the kitchen chair where he sits
Practicing chords while the **** cooks to crank
In the trailer back of his momma’s house
Where she lets him live while he looks for work
They didn’t treat him right at the truck stop
His uncle might get him on at the mill
A crankster wankster twanging out his art
Unless the Cossaks find out about…
“Who’s there…?”
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
dragonflies melt
into each other.
flowers meld
shaded silver
upon silver.
string whips of
cotton float by like jacks
thrown by children,
unsusceptible to
the force of gravity.
the mechanics of
heart machines
crank awake.
steel knees bend dull and
swollen.
venetian mask with
sterling tongue
skims the tops
of tiny toes
and errantly spring-ed
grasshoppers..
warm bodies
in bubbling steel
meadow—
cool in nature,
stolen like
gold
crafted and
crafted again
in heat.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Before taking out a clean sheet of paper,
I hold before the blue of the window
a freshly-sharpened pencil pointing toward heaven
and blow the imperceptible dust
from the needle-tip
before getting down to business.
For in life’s long journey
few things afford greater satisfaction
than turning the crank
and powering the cylindrical burrs
of a mechanism which sharpens
the dulled mind of a yellow number 2 pencil.
In the silver pencil sharpener
I witness the marriage of utility and beauty
—a model for art and a purpose for life
celebrated each morning before this small altar.
2.6k
Settle into darkness, naturally, and take your cue from unoiled gears jolting forward only to lure you into false stability and lose velocity, stop suddenly, merge the definitions of stopping and falling by balancing the cart on the back of the tongue as sherbet dip dab’s your gums in 3…2…swallow down it drops FLASH past the oesophagus there’s your photo op show us some teeth show us some skin darlin’ begin to dissolve in stomach acid bile’s vile hold it down we will use force if necessary like handcuffs to a headboard excuse me sir may I see your ticket? Right you can’t sit here, you’re 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphphetamine, that’s upstairs you need to swing a left then straight up to the top floor not a bad view, you can’t miss it it’s got a hundred golden bulbs flashing hypothalamus, no we’re not really bothered about our environment take the lift elevate heart rate
C-C-C-CRANK IT UP
to the cerebral cortex’s House of Mirrors home of distortion. What can we do for you sir? We like to pride ourselves in our ability to mess around with the wiring and stimulate receptors, all part of the Deluxe Mega Deal complete with moving walls, disco ball skin and a talking butterfly the size of a car crash for a limited time only whilst serotonin stocks last they fall as fast as the lubricated log flume SPLASH. Please remain seated until the end of the ride. Thrown out into the gift shop. £30 for a 12 hour come down. Come again soon.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.
Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.
We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.
We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:08 PM UTC
Here you are again,
sitting on your bed,
but it seems this time I see the sea running down your face coming from the holes where the universe lies, and the galaxies sit.
Words fly across the room,
self destructing.
Explosions like super novas,
caused by accumulated energy and increasing gravitational pressure.
You collapse. With nothing but a light that outshines any star in your wake.
Pause.
Take a deep breath. Breathe in all the stardust that surround you.
Stop.
Don't even think that you're lesser than these galaxies, for you create them by merely smiling.
Go.
Crank up that hyperdrive,
and blast off to another solar system,
learn new things,
teach yourself to once again fall in love,
like learning to ride a bike,
but always remember the constellations that are burned into your eye lids.
Reminding you not to pass through astroid fields.
Remember this,
when you feel like your oxygen is running low don't hesitate in plugging your tubes into my lungs,
and I will breathe into you all the reasons why I love you.
Know this,
that your mistakes are like the stars that glimmer at night,
they may seem like they're just floating there constantly ,
but know this,
that just like these star, they are nothing but phantom lights,
They no longer exist.
But don't compare me to any of them,
for I am like the moon.
You may see me clearly at night But I am not a phantom light,
I am always here,
like the moon in early hours of the morning.
baby,
As much as I like you learning and experiencing new things
Don't forget that I am back here on earth,
I wanna let you know that,
I miss you.
I miss your long black hair,
and how it stretches like the vastness of space.
Your face that shines like the morning sun.
I will be here,
stirring your favorite cup of hot cosmos,
with a few pieces of comets because I know you don't like it too hot.
Waiting to hear your stories of adventure, and wanting to go back to them.
It may take lightyears for you to come back, but I will be patient.
I will be here,
Waiting for your arrival.
Signed,
Houston.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
My country does not believe in equality.
It buys excuses for elitism and misogyny.
It covers up its greed and its brutality
And makes up ugly labels for decency.
My country sings its songs about freedom
But often denies it to those who need some.
It celebrates our heritage with beer and ***
And marches to the beat of a fascist drum.
My country was founded by nice words
Some of the finest man has ever heard.
Then shows the intelligence of a cattle herd;
And the social conscience of rotted bean curd.
My country labors under some illusions
That contribute to a national delusion
That fame will ultimately cure all contusions
And eradicate the effects of collusion.
My country thinks pretty people are sacrosanct
So, they let the beautiful load up their piggy bank.
We see reverence for the most egregious crank,
And have many of our countrymen to thank.
My country isn’t very good at followup.
It adopted the behavior of an untrained pup.
As long as it has its favorite pablum to sup
It will drink any poison that’s in their cup.
My country is this way, has been for too long
And if you disagree with the words of my song
Write your own treatise to try to prove me wrong.
For now I will keep on banging this protest gong.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
I wake up on a yogibo. It's comfy, but,
I'm in what is now just
My room.
It feels empty.
All the clutter
That made it look lived in
Is in the three empty
Sock and underwear drawers
That used to be:
Hers.
All the pictures of us
and half the nerdy posters
were removed from the walls.
Half of the games,
movies,
books,
Magic the Gathering cards,
Are all gone, so the shelves look bare.
Half the closet is empty.
I walk into the hallway and pass three doors
The first door leads to a bathroom,
The second a closet.
The third is what I now call a "guest bedroom".
The only things in it are an
Empty dresser covered in
Princess stickers...
And a bed frame.
I try not to leave that door open.
Go Down stairs
Sink into car,
Turn on Spotify
Crank the volume to 24
So I can't hear my own thoughts.
Drive to work.
Belt all of the lyrics and jam to "The one" and "Whoa whoa whoa" and "sloppy seconds".
By Watsky.
Clock in,
Apron up,
Shout: "Morning, family!"
How am I doing? "I'm awesome! how are you?"
How am I doing? "I'm wonderful! what brings you to freeport?"
How am I doing? "I'm fantastic, peak or dark roast?"
How's my daughter?
"Well actually... I
Broke up with her mom
And I
...
Wasn't the biological father
so I don't get to see her anymore.
My manager said that customers are getting
Uncomfortable around me
because I am too open so that's the
Scripted version I have to tell you."
Even though I'd love to tell you
that I don't know how she's doing,
and it kills me.
How I told her mom that even though she didn't have any
Compassion left for me,
And she lied to me,
Tortured me more than any human
on this earth and was slowly draining the
Life and sanity out of my body
like a leech, that I
Knew what I was signing up for
when I started to call myself
Daddy.
That I was leaving her,
so we could both get
Better, but I was not leaving that little girl.
And if she would let me
Love her, or
Watch her, or
Buy her birthday presents,
I would,
because she was the best thing to ever happen to me.
when you ask me how she's doing
All I can think about
is how I earned that first "I
love you,
dada."
How I made her laugh more times than her
Mother made her
Cry. How I tucked her in
and she made me read her
"Oh The Places You'll Go", over and
Over and
Over.
Screaming when I said she'd go
On through the hakken kraks howl, and
Giggling when I said she'd move mountains.
I raised her for three years and she called me
Daddy.
But her mother said
that because I wasn't the biological father
I don't have any right to see her.
"How am I doing? I'm awesome."
"How am I doing? I'm wonderful."
"How am I doing? I'm waking up."
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
"Thank you for saying Happy Birthday to Shimone"
my mother said and I kind of said oh, no problem
and we went on from there to argue since that is what
we do and she will never know who I am
and I assume she meant Happy Birthday on Facebook because I
certainly don't keep track of her friend's birthdays,
especially not her friends who live in Haifa and remind
me of my X
Upset, I ran off to the pool, hoping for endorphins
after some laps I rested at one end
and realized in a kind of slow, creeping way,
kind of like fog rolling in over the cliffs at Muir beach,
Not menacing, even beautiful, but a little cold, that
I never wrote anything to Shimone, not even on Facebook
No, I've been too self absorbed to write to my parents Israeli friends who used to
have me and my X over for Shabbat meals where I used to insist
on walking up the stairs since the elevator was small and hot and scared me
but he always wanted to ride in it
and one day we went over there was a sign on the apartments next door
that a woman had died in a terrorist attack the other day--
When a suicide bomber, afraid of the security guards at the nearby
mall, ran into an Arab restaurant conveniently located at a gas station
where all the best restaurants are,
and blew himself and everyone inside up
CNN international came for a day to report and then left the next
like a rude house guest who comes for your best food
and then dissapears, never to be heard from again
With my X, my mother always got cards she loved because he
knew just how to pick them and he'd send them without even telling me
sometimes faking my signature or
I just had to sign and he'd do the rest, in between crank calls to them at all hours,
taking advantage of the time zone. At once tormenting and caring for them
as he did for me
And now is he a ghost in my account?
A ghost, a fog, a memory, something ephemeral, not real
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
It's holidays hamsters haven't you herd.
From all that annoying *** music and commercials done by sellout artist
trying to be cool word.
I myself would rather spend this month in a holiday coma.
Buy some cheap hookers some good whiskey and run over a black Friday crowd
in a stolen Sonoma .
It's give me give me and that's just from dad.
He'll break the bank and mommy will give him something the other
night his brother already had.
Maybe I should plant a minefield upon my lawn.
To ward off carolers who only make me yawn.
I'll poison my cookies and sit back and wait.
Rob the old fat man and take Miss Santa out on a much deserved date.
Make your list and he will check twice.
After I blow his *** to pieces it really wont matter if your naughty or nice.
The holidays are a time for people to act insane over **** they do not need.
There addicts of want the stores are nothing more than dealers
selling coke crank and ****
Maybe you love the lights and the holiday rush with the family and all.
Well you can eat **** and jingle my ball.
I hope to stay on the naughty list as long as I'm alive.
Sincerely from Gonzo.
Shut the **** up and stop acting worse than a child who's five.
Don't send me a card cause I wont reply.
Here's your present it's a bomb now please die.
I hate the holidays call me a Grinch if you like.
**** you Santa all I asked for was a brick of ******* ,ten cases of whiskey, a key to the ******* mansion , a lifetime pass to the chicken ranch , A million dollars in unmarked bills ,
My neighbors dead ,And Harley Davison Motor bike.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
My mom used to grind tomatoes every October
for canning with this metal monster that kept it's mouth
clenched on the edge of our kitchen table
for weeks at a time. I used to climb up the stools
just to barely crank the tail around and around,
watching the vegetable guts spill into a cauldron.
She would give me a mini Krackle bar
if I could count all of the jars to at least ten,
their gold rims like little crowns that she would carefully
twist over their heads, the reflection from the setting sun
bouncing off my Kindergarten cheeks. My dad,
pretending to be a cartoon character behind her back
as I covered my mouth in secret laughter. I can't prove it,
but I bet she smiled as she rolled her eyes, pretending
not to be totally in love with a forty year old man
who's heart was as young as his daughter. Now,
she can't even stir Campbell's soup without crying.
The sound of the crank is only like the sound of the car
as they tore apart it's skeleton just to find my dad's baseball cap
stuck in the glass of the windshield. So instead,
now ten years later, I tuck pictures in places
I know she won't look, say prayers when she's gone to sleep,
and pull the curtain over the jars
of the homemade spaghetti sauce in the cellar.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
My hobbies are stargazing and daydreaming.
I’m nothing but a chirpy, cheerful chum.
At times, you’ll find me – like a preacher – scheming,
Thinking of ways to make my kingdom come.
You’re free to think I’m careless, airheaded.
I’m fine with being called a loafer or a crank.
My one true north – I’ll end up where I’m heading.
Not every verse I write is snowy blank.
I’m all about forgiveness and acceptance.
Live and let live – I swear by these words.
Not looking for your ‘yes’ or your repentance –
I’m here to make a change, a better world.
I’ve taken up crochet and rubbernecking.
There’s little in this life that I won’t do.
In limbo you shall find me trekking.
In vain you’ll try to see my point of view.
I wonder if you’ll ever truly know me.
I ask myself if that is what I want.
For now, just picture I’m your darling homie.
High five, hop in and kindly play along.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC