"disgorges" poems
I wrote a poem on a bus
but to hear it you must
climb to the top
of the bouncing metal stairs.
Slither snake-like
past the rail
and sit
on the rainbow nylon bench.
I'll be there
at the top of the bus,
reciting my rhyme,
written as we ride along,
past shops and houses
with musty nets
and peeling paint
on dingy doors.
There's the old woman who
lives in a house no bigger than a shoe box
who had so many children she didn't know what to do!
But they've all grown and flown now and she's all alone
with no-one to talk to but herself.
Look at that kid: grimy smile and mischievous eyes,
skateboard-scuffed knees,
darting out from the roadside.
Screech!
As we stop and angry words.
The kid glances back and tosses a vee
leaving just his smile behind.
The bus lurches on
at a snail's pace and stops at a stop
for a giggle-girl-gang
to chatter up the stairs
with a clatter of feet and voices:
weekends and boyfriends,
music and laughter.
The bus trundles and sways
past shops all shuttered,
old folks gathered by doorways
talking about people
dead and forgotten ...
except by them.
Into the town now:
a river of road-rage
as our bus ambles onward
toward car-parks and markets
and rat-racing shoppers
And stops by a brown pigeon-stained temple
of public philanthropy,
a gift from a long-dead civic leader
and now proud home
to dogeared tomes of PC persuasion.
Our bus, like some Trojan horse,
disgorges its riders
who spatter and scatter
like rays of dawn light
to shop till they drop.
So, just me and you seated
atop the steel stairway
and you say to me sharply,
“So where's your poem then?”
I look at you strangely:
“It's happened around you,” I tell you quite curtly.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 11:35 AM UTC
The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.
The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
4.3k
Fine wine, your line of perfection, profile absorbed
Within the printed page, taking you away
I want to say “Stop and listen”, the minutes ticking away
To nothingness, we won’t replace, they are lost
Fine wine, spilled onto the page, blood red; it disgorges
Its ruby glow, seeping into page after page
You leap to save the page, now wet and unreadable
Looking annoyed in the process, what a pity
Fine wine, these minutes are ones to remember with irritation
Cursing the red stain instead of the intrusion as welcome to
The monotony of the dirge, Groundhog Day of stale breath
A profound chapter not worth reading; close the book on it all!!
Fine wine, legacy of a long held sameness, dawdling the
Hedgerows, cutting the quality of what could be into what isn’t
And so on and so forth, dragging feet and knuckles; skin
Peeling its life away scuffed and failing, our souls drowned
Fine wine, secretly savage, blood red, vibrant and exotic
Or bored, buried in the sand dunes, beige and baron, your bottle of plonk
Oasis a mirage, a delirium to reality, a pretence to soften the blow
Life or existence with a hint of amaretto warmth to keep afloat
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
left cup runneth over/
right cup half empty/
if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/
I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/
(D)Disgorges over the underwire/
D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your nipple/and/
breathe/
no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/
I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/
will he still want to touch you/
you/
sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/
even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/
you/
strangulated bagpipe/
moulting pompom/ ****
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/
what is that/
what/
who are you/
you/
waning gibbous/
my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/
itsy bitsy titsy/
you make me/
sad/
you/
teardrop defying the laws of gravity/
or/
is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/
place/
I've noticed only/beautiful/things/
fall/
shooting stars/
autumn/
my left *****
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
Watery morning
sunlight
filters gently through
browning oak
leaves nevertheless
another Algiers
rush
hour grips
convulses
disgorges
one
rattling car
after the
other.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Poets issue from the heart
There's nothing to be said
For those who write in words of spite
To leave their truths for dead.
So really....Poetry is simply
A camera for the mind
Where one expresses sentiment
The heart won't leave behind.
And...Release is felt
By he who writes
Of ardour of the soul,
As though the act of penning words
Disgorges passion's goal.
But...The beauty felt
In handing forth
The gemstones of your mind
Attains it's goal when only read
By they who seek to find.
And in fact...The beauty felt
In sitting down
To read old tomes of mine
Delivers pleasure in revisiting
My best snapshots of time.
So friends, Poets
Please feel at ease
For what you seek to do
Is simply make this world a better place
And for that... I THANK YOU.
Marshalg
@the Pukehana Paradise, NZ.
Sunday 10:21am, 24 march 2013
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
bath salts
single malt
a mouth of candles crown
the tub
the body
from spilling out
into the cold surround
the brimming sill
capsize the moat
foam disgorges in a luppy spawn...
doff your gown
evacuate
your own company ?
pour sacredly
to drown
- 'Chin-chin'
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 6:42 PM UTC
Out of the fog she chugs
Wheezing asthmatically into the surrounding haze through soot caked nostrils
Vapor condenses on cold steel skin
Iron plates slammed shut and joined with thick ribbons of weld
Rust pustules erupt through salt yellowed emulsion
Figures peer through brine scoured panes
At the dock now, she is lashed to the pier, her gaping maw offered up to the quayside
She disgorges a clattering stream of mechanical effluvium
It spills onto the cement in roiling metallic rivulets
Until, she wretches her last mouthful and sighs, exhausted
Then with no respite, she is force fed, held fast and stuffed
Gulping and swallowing the seemingly endless flow
She groans under the burden and sinks lower in the water
Until finally, fit to burst, she is released from her *******
She bobs languidly away from the dock
And slips back into the fog from whence she first emerged.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC