"dispenser" poems
Their mouth NEVER ******* seems to shut up & just stop
& **** snitches don't hesitate to quickly name drop
Twisting everything they'll hear
Creating lies & rumors like it is their career!
SO WATCH YOUR BACK, they are only a pretend friend
They're scary & **** identical when they're an impersonator
Nice & kind so they seem, turn away they'll be a backstabbing hater
NOBODY has time for all that ridiculous nonsense
Just attention seekers, without their usually faithful but now gone audience
Desperately trying to remain in the center of attention, cleary blind to the EXTREME obvious!
You never really deserved to ever be forgiven
I'm done wasting my time & voice on someone who will NEVER listen
Ohhh yah a FYI, a friendship isn't a competition
But more like a dynamic duo always down for a random mission!
Oh well, no coming back now I'm not changing my decision!
Deuces!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Transliteration:
Jana-gaṇa-mana adhināyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhātā
Pañjāba Sindhu Gujarāṭa Marāṭhā
Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga
Vindhya Himāchala Yamunā Gaṅgā
Uchhala jaladhi taraṅga
Tava śubha nāme jāge
Tava śubha āśhiṣa māge
Gāhe tava jaya gāthā
Jana gaṇa maṅgala dhāyaka jaya he
Bhārata bhāgya vidhāta
Jaya he, jaya he, jaya he
Jaya jaya jaya, jaya he.
Translation:
Thou art the ruler of the minds of all people,
Dispenser of India's destiny.
Thy name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sindhu,
Gujarat and Maratha,
Of the Dravida and Odisha and Bengal;
It echoes in the hills of the Vindhyas and Himalayas,
mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganges and is
chanted by the waves of the Indian Ocean.
They pray for thy blessings and sing thy praise.
The saving of all people waits in thy hand,
Thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, victory, victory to thee.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.
1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.
11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.
2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.
7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.
6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.
5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.
8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.
10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.
3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.
4.
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.
9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.
12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
I’m just trying to eat my french toast and drink my coffee but you keep cutting me off as I’m about to take a sip take a bite asking why I like it with sugar i add a spoonful of creamer and you’re laughing
but not in a loving way
talking about my schoolwork and my plans for the garden
and you skip over the congratulations and mention your ex girlfriend
going on about your ex girlfriend and my face has hardened
i drink my coffee and try not to listen
i eat my french toast and i don’t pay attention
i’m looking at the man with the book eating alone
i’m looking at the waitress wishing she were home
excuse me and i’m up
the bathroom is empty and nobody saw me
the mirror is clean and i am *****
the lights are brighter than i want them to be
and the soap dispenser is empty
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC
** *the dispenser is out of water & i'm
going to die of dehydration*
no kidding. i've really thought about it
and considered it as a way out,
but the pain is unnecessary
so i decided to cross it out.
that's an ancient game already
i've forgotten all the rules.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away
there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.
is this a literal housewarming
i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell **** and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.
i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.
i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.
i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.
i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ****** i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.
ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.
a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.
I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.
You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.
The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.
It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great **** great *** could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."
But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.
She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.
She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.
"Pathetic," Edie muttered.
An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.
Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.
Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.
Oh well.
Submission.
She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.
"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."
She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
a thigh gap
a peering spine
a cat eye
a cerulean highlighter
all of this and more
all of this, yours
21 mind-blowing *** tricks
5 ways to convince your doc you've ADHD
all of this and more
hack your closet
hack your pantry
your cellar door
all of this, yours
an e-thank you note
Facebook status remorse
an it's complicated
all of this and more
self-checkout
automatic hand dryer
automatic towel dispenser
automatic doors
all of this, yours
ask Siri where to bury the body
ask Jeeves where to buy the Molly
Google "the triumph of death"
and salute it with Bacardi
all of this
all of this
42 celebrities who used to have braces
8 Instagram hotties we love
42 gin recipes sure to inspire envy
all of this and more
how to love yourself
how to be a gentleman
how to make sure you marry the one
all of this yours
******* that read Angel Off Duty
boxers that read Reporting for Duty
ride the escalator all the way to
Jesus's heaven
fist bump Little Richard
and that kid from Malcolm in the Middle
watch St. Peter wave all the **** sorority girls
who've recently died in drunk driving accidents
to the front of the line
breathe, in from the nose out from the nose,
pick up a copy of Men's Health and read
an article titled
69 ways to incorporate gravy into the bedroom TONIGHT
all of this and more
all of this, yours
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.
Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been ******* Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.
No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
Deployment confirmed, Flight Leader at ready
Mission parameters locked in the pipe
Target subsystem structures, hold the course steady
The last thing I want is a wipe
Miles of shrapnel, anti-drone hail
My brave flight cut down by a half
Magnetics engaged, we land on her tail
Free at last from hot metal and chaff
There can be no defense for this aft rail dispenser
Plasma torches will have out her heart
A soft spot at last on the tactical sensor
One final call and this party can start
"Flight Leader here, subsystem disabled"
"Prophet tactical, fire at will"
A surge of blue plasma, the deadly beam arc
We andrones must die with our ****
No graves will be dug for this 'drone flight destroyed
Disabling that aft rail smoke-caster
But our sacrifice bought what the Prophet predicted
Elegiac ion disaster
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
I used to think this a term for athletes
Late in their careers
Past their prime
Yet I sit here now
Looking at the pill dispenser
Filled to the brim each day
Not long ago I didn’t even own one
Until the litany of trials and tribulations began
A never ending trail to doctors
Blood and ***** tests,
CT scan, then MRI, followed by
an endoscopy and an Ultrasound
Now four separate ailments identified
The fifth without a diagnosis
Stealth, planning an untimed attack
No grandparents, parents, uncles left
A dear high school friend gone at an early age
My buddy for many years departed
Now this
My youngest brother passing
Far before his time
A two week cold or flu sapping my energy
Then some bug decides to invade
So I curtail eating, on mostly fluids now
I feel weak
And exhausted
And washed up
Andreas Simic©
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 7:24 AM UTC
It’s raining in the kitchen
And soaking the dish towels I just washed
But maybe it will clean the ***** dishes
I’ve been meaning to put in the dishwasher
Snow is falling in my bedroom
It was already freezing when I woke up this morning
So I’ll have to unpack the winter sheets from the attic
Another tedious chore for the day
Sweltering heat attacks my skin as I enter the den
Thank God I installed a ceiling fan the previous summer
Hopefully my wax stamps don’t melt onto
My half-assed business letters
That would be unfortunate
Then I discovered there is hail pounding into the tile floor
Inside my bathroom and shattering my ***** mirror
Now I have a reasonable excuse to buy a new one
The glass soap dispenser shattered
Bubbling and oozing across the stained counter
There’s weather indoors
Maybe I’m complaining
But this is a bit fascinating.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
And there, ascends the seraph winged of fire
into realms azure beyond ours
that here lighted our lives
with courage and dreams:
what humble the beginnings, that
we see not in humility of conduct,
what joy of the spirit
that does not come flooding into our hearts
and dream, that does not lift a people
that millions rise, ignited
heeding your call,
O King by demeanour,
in palace but a pauper with books,
and the rhythms of our souls
when parched for some,
wandered we
by the mirage wells of a nation
dessicated of hope,
oh Thou dispenser of our destinies,
did you not send a message
scribbled across a smile
that connected silver curls of age
that now leaves us broken
for we shall never be the same
until we meet you there
in realms azure beyond ours
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
You're wasting your breath
Just standing there finding another reason to ***** at me-
After inferring a ***** onto me, when I said I wasn't feeling up to go out,
You nag on my driving,
When I'm the one driving you around,
So find another reason to ***** at me-
If nagging me about not putting the toliet paper roll on the hook helps you sleep better,
Okay.
But let's remember whose going.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Heartbroken, sleepless, sick, and sad
I touch the nib of my pen on this white paper
Hoping to write timeless poetry from
the perfect ingredients I sought
In my loveless days,
Yet, I struggle to pen down
the thoughts,
O, my Muse! the dispenser of my woes
Have I offended you by breaking vows?
I implore you to return my solitary days,
This feeling is unbearable,
Heavy,
And mind-numbing,
Now, I know what I craved for
is poison,
It's nothing like the film, books, tv shows, and other
audio-visuals,
But like, someone has punctured the knife in the palm
and slowly taking it towards the shoulders,
to the chest,
to the whole body.
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 4:45 PM UTC
She opened my mouth
And began to throw all of her
***** things inside.
The collar of her shirt laced
With a smirk.
She filled my mouth with soap
The seat of her jeans between my teeth.
Normally she'd walk away
But today
She sat on top of me
My insides swished around & around
Thumping & bumbling around.
She closed my mouth and sat on my face.
A collection of all her ***** things
Coming clean
Including I,
Without need for a change dispenser
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
instead of the thrumming of crickets
cockroaches
and the constant lull of the frogs by the lake
instead of late-night parties on the other side of the wall (didn't they know we were always in bed by 10:30?)
the drunken laughter of strangers
the foreign tongue that made its way into the dialogue of my dreams
instead of keeping myself up at night from the terror of
wondering what poverty-stricken, starved man might break through our poorly-fitted door to violate two helpless girls
my lullaby is the hum of a dishwasher
the creaks in the finely-polished floorboards
the purr of the computer
the cracking of ice as it slides from the dispenser in the fridge
a symphony of first-world luxury and comfort
i am up at 1:45 in the morning
and i couldn't be happier
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Be mindful of the gap between
the stapler and tape dispenser.
That my boy,
is where evil breeds hate.
Bacteria waiting for the right moment.
A sickly blitzkrieg.
We are alive,
here in the office,
Looking for the next paid holiday.
One that will come too soon.
Forgive me for rambling,
it is what I do best.
Alone in my thoughts
and feeling like I am back home.
The road to ruin.
How can I help you today?
Oh,
I can't really do anything for you.
I do not care.
I respectfully request that you stop.
This poem will ruin your day.
I would feel bad.
Let's forget this ever happened and
get back to what we do best.
Staring into space and hoping it reverses.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
Crouched between the table & the wall
with his eyes in his hands
& his mouth in the shape of a small
barren island in the Atlantic Ocean
he waits for the blow to fall
Opposite him in the angle formed
by a filing cabinet & a drinks dispenser
a tiny furry creature does the rat-fink-a-boo-boo
its eyes blinking furiously
its ears revolving like an out-of-control radar station
Somewhere a radio plays
& a voice gabbles something about moonshine
& binge drinking & little green men out of Upminister
who are SERIOUSLY NO SERIOUSLY GONNA F--- YOU UP MAN
Later there will be music & lights & long legged
lovelies will strut their funky stuff across the walls
while a siren sounds in the street below
& the woodentops come calling
cudgels primed for some ******** ultraviolence
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC
the quietness of content
between two people
walking down the sidewalk
after splitting a pint and a crepe
is something new to me
the quietness of unsettled
emptiness in the dregs
of heaving lungs in a public toilet
is familiarly foreign
and suddenly unwanted
i occupy booth seats
instead of the space between
two metal dividers
and a toilet paper dispenser
i study the dimples of your cheeks
and the scent of your hair
i've become a student
learning the feeling of having
instead of a teacher of wanting
i do not see any crookedness
to your teeth or my own
i taste lager and nutella
strawberries on your breath
and don't ask
what else?
no sign of do not disturb
in my eyes
only, please continue
speaking
when i sway to the counter
and ask for the check
i am surprised by our obvious pleasure
when the waitress giggles
"oh i'm sorry,
i didn't want to disturb you"
i didn't realize we looked so happy
so together in a moment
shared over candles and two forks
on a coffee shop table
i admit it was
effortless
i see now that
food, love, humans
the things i made complicated
were
effortless
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Lean forward
And **** the stain
From my shirt.
Use your tongue
To lap up my error
And my father’s error
And my ancestor’s error, too.
Pull my hair back
Like a Pez dispenser;
I’ll let you promenade
Down my jugular
In return, let this cube
From my rouge pint
Feel you, see you
Three-hundred and sixty
Degrees around
Peaks of flavor.
If my loving you
Is sinful, then let
These sultry demons
Pick at my *****
Scorching its pinions
Asunder.
Let my soul
Plunge south
So I can rest
My dreary head
Under your shades
And your grass-patches
Let my hands
Reach north
To the sky;
Holding your ever
Radiant sun
So that I may love you
All morning and
All night long.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:26 AM UTC
i'm this close to never talking to him again, but we all know
that will never happen,
he's like the three shots of ***** i knocked back on a thursday,
hot and stinging down my throat,
wishing there was someone else there to keep the warmth going.
i ******* hate the fact
that
he's the first one who made me blush,
before then i never had
but all you have to do is mention him next to me in the car
and my face is a bed of roses.
i'm ******* sick of waiting for a message
any sign that i wasn't just a distraction
a mirage,
any sign that this attraction i'm feeling
is worth it
at all.
i hate the fact, even more,
that he is the closest i've had
to romantic attraction that i can hold in my hands.
that my friends can talk about the boys they've gone through
when i've had this rotten apple core sitting in my stomach
for three years.
and the thing i most hate
is the tingling feeling
of having no one beside me at night
even though i'm fifteen
it's so tangible i can bite it.
i know it's cliche, but
i'm stuck in this hole
this garbage dispenser of no good,
and i've never felt so alone.
i need a new addiction,
so maybe it'll be easier
to quit him.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC