"dirtier" poems
With my bobby pin, taken from my hair after volleyball practice,
I scrape black resin from a blue bowl
It's a rougher
Dirtier
Hash ball
But it loves on your brain just as much
And my arms are bruised from passing
They could use that numbing forgetfulness
That lurks like stupidity
In the back of my brain
Always
The *** just emphasizes it
The way gaudy clothes do on a pretty girl
That's me too sometimes
But I have a mother,
Just as you,
And she gave me dreamss
To live up to
A school of science and engineering
So...what do you do?
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.
She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
5.1k
Cheer me up with a knitted cancer hat
and a joke about tomorrow's goal
being that of getting to the end,
safe and unharmed past the chemotherapy combat.
Clear me up with plastic pills that
sit on the tongue and slit the throat
and the surrounding gum,
all to get better and to get back on the feet.
Cheat me with wise words that you
pawned off of pages and curdled
website phrases that offer
nothing more than a little comfort for yourself.
Take me to where tracks lead to tracks that lead to douglas fir lined, dirtier farmyard tracks and let me breathe in that sap, that golden wood-coated scent that'll wrap itself around my nostrils and hat.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
after the crossroads
the wrong turns
and taken risks not worth taking
there came a time in my life
when nothing came next
no highways calling out for me
just painted rainbow crosswalks
for staying put
i stayed inside a lot
the more i hid
the dirtier the carpet got
it was cheap and poorly cut
to begin with, the dirt i was daring to become filth didn't help
the more i hated the cost of living
the dirtier the carpet got
the richer jeff bezos got
so stupid i thought
it was a daily thought
my own personal seventieth seven
antichrist and nothing
but crowds to fill his headquarters
hairless cat of a shepherd and his reusable sheep
i stayed inside a lot
so stupid i thought
the more i hid
the dirtier the carpet got
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 3:53 AM UTC
No one even asks what I'm doing these days,
and it's obvious they don't care.
I want to wash my hands of these people;
I come from a family of fist fighters,
and forgiveness is like a cardinal sin.
**** even I'm still bitter about the ****
Even I still get upset at the thoughts.
My lover wraps her arms around me
and I radiate this ******** into her.
Every time.
Sleeping next to me
is dirtier than sleeping
in any grave.
This dirt farmer can't wash his hands or his mind,
he isn't a fist fighter or a loud talker,
he won't let the easy things slide,
and even six feet into this hole,
this dirt farmer is still digging.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
an old familiar,
an adversary of the first degree,
when we wrestle,
me and this god
disguised as an angel disguised as man,
the door to where we tangle,
clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding,
a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities,
that we are
Occupado
no stray observers permitted in,
the room entrances locked,
someone's two hands upon each temple,
(cannot be mine, for)
inside we combat literally,
"mano-a-mano"
hand to hand,
word to word,
gradually, continuously,
up close and personally,
one on
One
over the course of a lifetime,
each battle named,
famously borrowed and thus recorded,
Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú,
for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ******
historian
the rules of engagement somewhat flexible,
biting, choking, eye gouging,
kicking when down, not just legal,
encouraged, no holds barred,
when we wrestle,
the dirtier the
better
take turns declaring a victor,
for that matters little, truly,
just a record keeping notation,
the battle and its aftermath,
the waves of pain inflicted,
the casualty count engorged,
is the greatest glory,
dans une manière de
parler
though sent away the children,
our earthly goods,
designating them purportedly,
non-combatants observers,
yet 'no rules' meant
they could be accidentally drawn in,
non-combatant status does not prevent them
from being freely captured or
killed
the conflict ongoing,
no one ever calls for a truce,
for both unequal adversaries know,
no quarter will ere be given,
and though the tide shifts,
each individual battle produces as always,
a winner and a
loser
noisy affairs,
long after the battle,
the slain yet scream,
perhaps I am confused,
perhaps it is the day's survivors,
announcing that sadly,
they are still
alive
it must be the latter,
for here I am writing and recording,
and though alone,
I hear an ever growing louder,
gouging sine wave scream piercing,
daring my soul to leave my wracked
body
for though mortal wounded,
I am therefore
both dead and alive,
but which more so,
none can surely
say
this conflict remains
unconcluded
the pain in my hip, now
everywhere,
my Jacob, now, Israel,
marker
so visible even if itself,
unseen
3:59am
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
I reach my hand out to strike him
For all his hurtful words,
I detest him
For his misleading words,
He made me believe that I was
Weird, not simply different
Made me feel like a stranger
In my own body
(those touches from a long
time ago from That Boy who
used to be a friend )
They come back to me and
-And I feel *****
When he calls me something
I practically know I'm not
I feel even more dirtier
For one moment,
I hated him the way only
Siblings can hate each other
Everyone else foreign to
This strangeness
So I deal him a blow
That didn't sting half as much
As his words did
I withdraw my hand
And it stings
I look at its underside
A thin, red line of blood
Stretching out
The scar doesn't leave for
Three whole days
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
Going Off To War (a/k/a Washing The Dishes)
When its time to wash the dishes,
I make proper preparations for this serious business,
I strip down to my skivvies (shorts, in a prior generation)
Cause there will plenty blood and gore afore too long
Soap and water flying about, the ceilings and the walls,
Not to mention big, big puddles on the floor.
Multi-colored sponges of sizes varied,
Some Brillo-sided, like extra armor on a tank,
By Dawn's early light, turn the clear water
Into a heaving, breathing soapy concoction.
Woebegone and woe betide, dried and sticky maple syrup,
You are no match for super-strength orange dishwashing solution,
Of the Greeks did praise, a single dollop packs a mighty wallop!
Ain't afraid of any stain, decomposing, half chewed, culinary rejection.
Don't even bother with rubber gloves, cause that's for sissies.
The dirtier the better, cause I love the sounds of
All out war, the rushing water, the futile screams of
Grease departing this world, down the rabbit hole,
My gleaming, victorious sinking of the enemy shipping
You think I am the first to celebrate in verse
This storied fight of right over dirt?
Recall please this famed couplet, for now be known its true inspiration!
"Oh, say can you see by the Dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"
Though Men Like to Load the Dishwasher (You Didn't Know?)
Is another poem of a similar ilk, when technology is unavailable,
It is fact verifiable and unassailable,
That if you give a man some room and some privacy,
Ignore the shouts and war cries from the kitchen emanating,
Male aggression can best be expiated,
When playing war games in the kitchen, a live action movie,
A video game that never grows tiresome,
And violence is necessary, for the enemy's complete annihilation.
Thank you my dear, no medal need be awarded,
Scored this poem as my just reward.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
i'm walking down the street
bare feet, without a care
**** uber, metro, I hate public transportation,
i'm dirtying up this sidewalk, for a few years already
i'm writing down a will, in my mind, close to my eyelids,
because i'm on the wrong side of my mind
i feel sick, tasting the bitterness of humanity
when I wipe mankind on the side of the pavement,
at the very deep, there's masculinity mixed with *****
i'm walking down a bridge full of empty shells
i pass hordes of girls who are smiling insincerely
and again, i feel a boost in my veins
and again, i'm louder than mirrors
and as in the mirrors, voidness space,
and it is me, who takes the best from it
i absorb this poisoned air.
In the ears of mine, i can hear electro heat,
i feel like one man one Jean-Michel Jarre,
rain is pouring through me, sticks to me like fog,
i wrap myself in the warmth of two MDMA's,
someone glances surreptitiously and steals my soul,
you have a backpack full of cash, i have a suitcase full of emotions,
i'm going on a journey through the cursed city
like a hermaphrodite with a broken rod,
streets, like stigmas, cry with hollow screams,
in front of clubs content abortions on the sidewalk,
let's leave this lie, like the walking dead
assertiveness and pride to the gutter washed away.
And again, this booster is kindling my veins
i'm dirtier than a new jerusalem
and similar to it, i'm sticking to everything
and so I'm taking the most out of my heart
and I absorb this poisoned air once again.
and so the booster flows through the aorta
it is flooding my tarred heart,
destination reached.
and my wallet is shimmering with bitter crystal
nothing will change the course of this chemistry,
betrayed. betrayed by their own bodies
vidi, no vici, veni on its own,
and i'm catching a laugh, standing still in the subway
i am still absorbing poisoned air.
hatred.
jealousy.
i've seen enough.
today, in my city, sun rises in the morning.
you will remember this day forever or forget it for eternity.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
Because we both know the sound of gunfire
Except I, didn’t grow up in a war zone
It was a different kind from yours
Our bullets were words
Sounds of breaking glass
And the shards of which made it into my cheerios the next day
Chewed them anyway to spite
The sound that
Breaking makes
You,
you know the sound of falling bodies too readily
you can mimic them in your footsteps
The smell of rotting corpses
What kind of scars shrapnel really leaves
What the color of blood really looks like
I see that shade of red every time you speak
The way you keep it hidden in those paintings
In the drawer that I sneak into when you sleep
Know too well what evil looks like
I can find a place for all the words buried in my chest
inside your bullet wounds easily
If I were not a coward
Staring into the dark irises of men in uniforms dirtier than their conscience,
Find it easier to look into a barrel of a gun
Only one of them holds salvation
No, you are not afraid of guns
Nor the sound that breaking makes
But I still remove the safety pin
Just in case
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Pin me down
And show me bad things
I can do to you later on
I never been made love to someone
Who was ******
In their dingy
Smoke stained apartment
Our love nest I actual
Scream god is great
When you give me loving
In ******
Make love to me until I
Have my essence flows
Let’s get dirtier then your
Walls
Lap me up
As you give me special kisses
Make sweetly love to me
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
compasses, clocks, knives, are useless now.
clues, few.
coffinlike rooms full of certain exclamations,
4am empty train stations full of dangling questions.
selected memory, particularly of being
cruel to love. character,
existence, poetry, it all becomes layered
like crime novels.
blurred and unblurred,
in stained-rag mind, faces and places and
the theme,
tense, it is an age
where nothing begins and i myself begin to
(be) mean
many other things
in addition to what i say.
"what is the meaning of this?"
"i don't know."
"what should we do?"
get jilted again, spiral drunk, die on the
floor, bored, playing
sick,
i don't know.
"been there,
done that,"
it's a slow slowing and a trying to forget,
hands dirtier, shards smaller.
i don't even know if
this was an accident?
through climaxes and comedowns,
still carrying clouds
around; to cash the check, to the party,
to the pharmacist,
to the burial ground,
craving a reason to go hungry.
god, how big are your hands
god, will tomorrow be better
god, what have i done, what can i do, how
the more i remember
the more i just remember the young day
i had screamed so hard for so long at the unanswering rain
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 5:05 PM UTC
Creek
I call it a crick
when I was ten- no eleven
Maybe ten and a half
My dad worked as a mechanic....like I do now
I remeber he came home one day and kicked off his ***** workboots by the front door
His hands were always dirtier than a son-of-a-bitch
He always had grease and dirt under his nails when he got home
and would run them under hot water and glo-jo like I do now
Them hands were COVERED in scars
*....mine aren't that scarred yet
and I'm hoping they never will be
I got out of this town once and made it half way around the God **** planet
But I came back when aunt mary-lou died
the only thing I remember from that funeral
....the girl across from me was wearing a red thong
her name was Megan (I had a dog with that name once)
She was aunt mary-lou's friends **** *** stepdaughter
She had that look like
"I am way too good for this trailer park ********
And I smiled and thought
"I know you are"
*
Well my dad came home
To find out that I had broken the bb gun he got when he was fourteen
And instead of yellin' at me
or beatin' me
he told me to go get him a beer
and he let me have a sip
I thought he was gonna tear me up and down like a red headed step-child
Or put his cigarette out on my palm
But he didn't
He just sat there
and still to this day I wonder why I didn't get the usual
Truth is:
when I came back from getting his beer on that fateful day
I thought I might have seen my dad wiping a tear from his cheek
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
You are Irish. So am I. The Kennedys are, and so is half of ******* America.
We aren't special, you aren't unique, so put down your Guinness you freak.
I hate people being so proud of a land they have never been.
Our freckles and our hair and skin is the color of ham.
You act like the Irish invented beer
and are proud that the Celtic women have a big mule rear .
Our ancestors had to escape such a ****** forsaken place.
and you act like god chose you to procreate some master race.
I know that your family and mine spent years in mud.
Dirtier than swine, just to feed your family a diseased spud.
Our pink grandparents came here, and put down every other race that didn't match their rosy face.
So go find a leprechaun with a *** o' luck.
Don't raise a drink to our ancestry, because I don't give a ****
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
Being cheated on hurts. So. Bad.
The way I loved before, I know I’ll never be able to get back to that point ever again.
My sense of self worth has gone down, I now question my trust in my own intuition, and my hurt feels like a pain I’ve never felt before.
“I’m so glad I never have to worry about him.”
Something I used to always tell my mom and friends.
I always thought his love for me would overpower his desire for other women. I was so wrong.
I felt stupid. I felt played.
I’d had opportunities to do him as ***** (if not dirtier) than he did me. I didn’t partake in those opportunities because I felt like our love was so pure and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin something so beautiful.
I was wrong.
I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed.
While I was sick, I thought he was being true to me. I fantasized about having his kids upon healing. I thought our love grew stronger because he was there for me at my lowest.
I was wrong.
Instead, he was spending time and money - something we both felt we had such little of- on someone else.
I feel hurt. I feel unsafe.
I don’t trust the same way I used to. I don’t look at him the same way I used to. I don’t have “forever” hopes like I used to.
Hopefully someday I’ll heal.
But for now, my heart hurts.
I’ll never be the same.
Jun 21, 2024
Jun 21, 2024 at 11:58 PM UTC
Why would you ask me if I'm okay
Don't I look like I'm okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline
I’m not Jacqueline anymore
No, I was never Jacqueline,
But I didn’t realize that when I was younger
And who do I ask about my gender
Don’t tell me God
I have spent so long praying
There are depressions in the floorboards from where my knees collided with faith
But I don’t think I have faith anymore
God doesn’t answer my prayers anymore
Why doesn’t god answer my prayers?
I know for a fact God answers my friends’ prayers
why doesn’t He answer mine
I think it’s because He doesn’t love his queer children
I think God needs to go to a PFLAG meeting
Or at least one needs to be held in a church so He can hear the words of acceptance echoing throughout his house
Mom told me they didn’t know if I was a boy or a girl until I was born
But I still don’t know
Let’s do an ultrasound on the part of my brain that decided not to feel like a girl
I must have decided
But I don’t remember doing it
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl,
She laughed and said, “I know, you feel like a woman.”
I told my friend I didn’t feel like a girl, and she said, “Not so loud, I don’t want my parents to hear.”
And she was right, because at some point “gender” became a dirtier word than ***
Because even though her parents won’t admit it, they wouldn’t kick her out if she was having *** as long as it wasn’t with someone of the same ***
And I’m in a same *** relationship with God
Because in religion class they told me He was genderless
But we still call God “He”
People still call me she
But I’ve never told them different
They said we’re all created in God’s image,
But I think I’m not
Because God doesn’t make mistakes.
No, I’m not okay
And stop calling me Jacqueline.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
waiting outside of the recording studio
near the train tracks and the tall buildings
running out of time.
an old gypsy woman
wearing magenta rubber boots
and riding a stained crimson fixed gear
passes me, trains come and go billowing
their impatient whistles
as I take double exposures of them and the sky
with my lomo 35mm.
Ate nothing but six shots
of espresso
and a pack of cigarettes last night, with
a side of liquor which
reminded me too much of memories too good
to be worth remembered .
Best advice I've read in three months;
wear sunscreen, and realize that
good advice is wasted on the young,
advice is also a form of nostalgia,
the givers of it reach out to the dirtier parts
of their memories, clean it up into something
hopefully worth salvaging.
another train passes and I start to grow
impatient myself, a long day of work
ahead of me.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Life
is just a larger
dirtier version
of high school...
(No one really gets ahead)
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
I am a walking talking PSA for the incorrect way to live
Number of dollars in my bank account matches how many ***** I give
Counting change
Pay for gas so I can go to work
I get stuck behind the transit again
I'm gonna go berserk!
A little ****
Start my day
..Or more like a lot
The location of my pipe I've somehow forgot
Mismatched socks
Greasy hair
Bloodstains on jeans
For breakfast had coffee and a bag of jellybeans
Bearing ***** nails and even dirtier mind
A hole in my pantseams right in the behind
Positive thinking not doing me any good
Failed everything I have tried believing I could
Negative thinking has not worked either
Applied both
Found success in neither
The marks humans left on skin and my feelings
Turned my pride into a pile of peelings
Where am I going?
Haven't a clue
Trying to climb out of the hell I fell into
Going crazy searching for an escape route
That does not exist because there's no way out
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 7:59 AM UTC
Pencil and paper turn into stylus and screen;
our world is industrializing like we've never seen.
Manufacturing products out left and right,
and soon enough our prototypes will join in the fight.
Are we possibly producing more than we can consume?
Do we understand that technology could lead to our doom?
Convenient, oh sure, as we just sit here and get fat.
We have iPhones, and iPads, but no eye contact?
The air is getting dirtier and unhealthier per day,
and we believe the government when they say it's okay.
Do we not realize how much harm we're actually doing,
even though a better world is what we're pursuing?
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Talk to me
Talk to me about half-finished journals and empty theaters
Talk to me about the calluses on the soles of your feet
Do you think they look like art?
Talk to me about the bobby pins stuck between the sheets of your bed
Talk to me about the broken doorbell in your childhood house
Why have you never gotten it fixed?
Do you think it says a lot about your family?
Do you think it’s a metaphor for your parents’ relationship?
Talk to me about the ghosts in your head
I wanna see if they look like mine
If they were friends in some past, unfulfilled life
Talk to me about kites
Talk to me about knee high socks
What do they remind you of?
Talk to me about spilled lemonade
Does the sourness still linger on your tongue
Long after the mess as been mopped up?
Talk to me about your 10th grade English teacher
Do you resent her blatant favouritism?
Do you wonder why she didn’t like you the best?
Do you ever wonder why
It seems like nobody likes you the best?
Talk to me about the peonies in the garbage chute
Talk to me about untied shoelaces
And an 8 year old’s skinned knees
Talk to me about slippery floors
Talk to me about illegal downloads
Talk to me about Tarsiers
Talk to me about oil pastels
Do you prefer them over any other art medium
Because they are dirtier, messier and more difficult to work with it?
Talk to me about recycling
Do you think it’s pointless?
Or do you think it’s gonna make a significant difference?
Talk to me about Broadway musicals
Talk to me about Hercules
Have you ever dreamed of being immortalized
Through the whispering of the stars?
Talk to me about god
Do you think god made man
Or did man make god?
Talk to me about clay pots
Talk to me about cacti
Talk to me about the color grey
Talk to me about plastic balloons
When did you learn that the art of letting go
Is closely intertwined with the tragedy of loss?
Talk to me about films
Talk to me about knuckles
What do you tell your grandmother
When she asks why they are bruised and wounded?
Talk to me about Geishas
Talk to me about roadtrips
And that one time when you were 15
And you drove away in your older brother’s car
Feeling young and reckless and so so alive
Talk to me about pain
Every stabbing hurt
Every mouth filled with blood
Talk to me about joy
Both the abundance and the lack of it
Talk to me about love
And warmth
And light
And the sound of coming home
Talk to me
Write your life’s story on torn Christmas wrappers
And I will hold them in my hands like sacred beads of prayer
Talk to me
Open the cracks of your spine and engulf me in the shade of your eyes
Talk to me
Let me in
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
The caramel corn has taken on a subtle hint of hand sanitizer.
It is enough to **** all the germs.
A kernel escapes and the search party is unsuccessful.
The tile in the bathroom reminds me of other jobs.
Janitorial work,
cleaning up after others.
The tiles in my store were larger and dirtier.
I can't think,
this headache is raging a war.
Aided by my cube neighbors fan.
I snore at night and dream of helicopters.
Things usually come back around to bite you,
like a snake
or NASCAR.
America,
the Land of the Free.
I have lied so much that
it comes out as the truth.
A rusty swing set sits in the backyard,
choked by weeds and broken furniture.
The overstuffed purple couch
has seen better days.
Tonight,
it will sleep alone.
When I am feeling down I count the ceiling tiles,
getting lost at fourteen.
Fifteen is a liar.
What would happen if the stars did re-align?
Just for one day,
the cost of beer wouldn't be so high.
Then again,
the liquor store on Jefferson sells Tallies for $1.19.
Let's not be greedy.
I will buy two of them to make sure that when I sleep tonight,
it is soundly.
The phone keeps ringing with complaints.
People are more interested in their neighbors
than the fire.
Forget about this poem.
It is better if you just skim this literary travesty.
There is no substance.
This new day is failing
and it will soon be cleansed.
Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned.
Please,
watch over those I care most about.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
i love the way you
feel me up in public places,
****** to nameless faces,
tell my friends to ***** themselves:
"it makes me feel protected".
command the god of heaven down,
wear your flimsy clinquant crown,
weave tales of fictitious sounds
that i will "soon" be making.
i love the way you never bathe
i love the way you never shave
i love the way you never made
an effort just to please me.
-
and the rain fell backwards that night
and the fires restored houses
and we all took showers and got
dirtier
and
dirtier
and
dirtier.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 5:24 PM UTC