"doberman" poems
When I get too blue
I laugh at myself
pick up the leash
and take Mr. Brown to the dog park.
He shows me how
to be carefree
will jump and bark
drink a gallon of water
and lick whomever he chooses
without a worry in the world.
Everybody admires his *****
What kind of dog is that?
He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback.
an African lion hound,
but he’s scared shitless of my cat.
what’s yours?
A Visla.
Looks like yours, only smaller.
Did you see that American Foxhound?
That s.o.b. can jump!
Yeah, too bad he can’t pay my mortgage.
The young photographer shows off
his brilliant Doberman’s latest trick –
a double backflip
catching the Frisbee ten feet high
landing on all fours.
The old lady with the blind daschund
says, “Oh, oh, isn’t he wonderful?”
She claps her hands in delight.
The canine Noah's arc show runs all day
with the entry of pugnacious Sharpeis
the arrogance of Poodles
the inscrutability of giant Malamutes.
the pride of leash-holders.
Gradually tree shadows darken the sawdust
and people start parading home,
the **** athletic girls with their boyfriends’ Shepherds
the slow old men with their greying Labradors
the lady real estate agents with their tiny Shih Tzus.
And then it’s silent
I’m the last one there
alone in the gathering dusk
still hearing echoes of joyful barks
realizing how funny it is
that so many people
look just like their dogs
but I don’t think about it,
I just marvel at all this joy.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.
Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.
Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.
Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.
Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.
Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.
Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.
Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.
The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.
Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!
Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
i guess there are
some people
who just don’t realize
how preposterous they sound when
using social media.
yeah, maybe you’re one. no one
is safe from suspicion:
-the comedians (their own biggest fan types)
the witty commentators
jumping in from the far corner.
(you wonder how
someone who learnt every word they know
from about six Archie comics is allowed to
use social networking)
-oh and the girls
who post new selfies
every day. (in fact there’s one,
i swear, posts so often
so regular
i barely need a watch.
“here’s the three-fifteen cleavage shot.”
—she’s long since been hidden!)
and wait here’s that
fella who speaks out about injustices;
firecrackers taped in a doberman’s mouth,
which is awful, sick, repulsive—and bravo
for making the universe aware, i applaud thee,
but it’s the rambling included about what you’d do
if you ever caught them
(curbstomping, mutilating, beatings)
that gives
me goosebumps.
i don’t wanna see this kid’s mug in
the paper next week/point & say
“christ i knew it!”
..so maybe keep the ****** fantasy off the web, eh?
& then of course the weirdness
too weird to
properly recall
example:
an acquaintance's call for attention “i need a hug :(“
and the random girl
probably th’sister of a friend
(which is bizarre in its own right,
adding a friend's younger sibling..
but i
won’t bother delving
there tonight)
who replies:
*“hey you should come here instead
and see the skunk that just came
by my window
if you wanna?”*
—what is this absurdity?
and hey here’s an answer
to your original call:
internet hugs don’t work.
computers don’t hug in binary, man.
0110101110101101111001010010101011011010110101110101010101
>—O—<
—i’ll never understand it.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
quanta is better understood outside of physics,
on a grander scale -
quantum is a quality suggestion that
makes two (to, too) things auto-suggestive
as pertaining in the matter -
never mind - take the concept of quanta
out of physics and you get
a man readying himself for a controlled
coma having his wisdom teeth removed,
with the anaesθetician asking about
the readers' digest, the patient replying
quo vadis? / dokąd idziesz? then
the great sleep plateau - 'where are you going?'
puts any man off, whether boxer,
or paediatrician - ****** lays dead floored
for a minute, plays the dog game: play dead,
tongue hanging ready for a guillotine.
CHOP! and there goes the tail of a Doberman
(jamnik / dachshund on stilts)
and a ρoττł-
y
woo woo woo chim chimney
cha cha cha ooh
the rotting wail - rottweiler -
-ειλερ;
you never mention the u with the v due to
the chisel ease, then again, you don't
say double-o'h but say double u -
too shay frowning at a shave;
****** i'll make your language my playground
given all these post-colonial ***** aiming
for a signature and credentials,
this **** could pass the London brigade,
but take it to York, it would be a massacre
of a bureaucratic lapse of credentials...
a viking invasion more-or-less;
oh **** quantum physics, Charles Dickens
and the Victorian Era - Jack the Ripper the antonym,
both are the desired cages of energy requiring expression
to make testimony that such an age existed,
a particular congregate of expression, never universal,
boxes and pockets, however much inside one
is a question of your dietary requirement,
quantum physics is better explained with history
than hard science, and atoms, or the craze of subs,
people need a bigger picture, not everyone own
a ******* microscope or a telescope,
teach quantum physics using history:
Philippe Augustus of France mattered,
at the Battle of Bouvines - Otto IV? not so much.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
Rattlesnake
Boom is the gangly
Doberman at the door
When it opened I froze
And she did as well
One too many fingers
Bashful stew of gashy meats
Pulsating, squirting, blood spurting and flowing back
I take a deep breath
And my joints lubricate as if by magic
Doom rakes a killing
And yet grave is my slumber
Low, humbling, thundering
I push too hard and it collapses
In is where I belonged, now I wept thrice
Buttoned up tight
You tilt as a broken table
It was so and it creaked longingly
Crept up from under somewhere
And never looked back
Mal was indeed
Trickling once and twice and thrice borne
Diurnal my beloved
Of once and twice and thrice borne kind
Of seaweed and ***
Out of a split dome
A gashed most dastardly
One of the cloaks covered me well
Under a lock with no keyhole
Filed my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files
One too many mirrors in this madhouse
For all the blind to see
Conjuring spells with a swollen tongue
Heard the pacing and followed through
The left after the left and the right after the right, hi-ho
I take from myself
And be no thing
A rumble creeps and wakes when not tended
Forlorn sensitivity
Starving tumbles a hoom, a waan, a rushed impregnate
Words birthed in barren plains
Some one thing creaks and hums and cracks
A dwarf dances in by a jazz darkly
Limbless jig in two movements
Jeaned out weens and them spurts one big black whale up up upward
Time is a flat **** stain
El amor de mi vida
A misery of cheese
One of loves, one of lives
Gargles reflowed uncivil
Leave white and follow through
Break my bones pulling in
Kicked inwards nervous gaseous porous
Corked out flesh see one lick two
Rumbarumbarumba
Off a wonder land
Bane is my juice
Soon follows rot
Tender, sweet rut
Shadow tongued drips and wets
I don’t need to recall the melody
It left a map so large it became the land
By the name alone I find a way
Of a one off beat and two rushing in, tu-pah!
Drum the ear and work a sweat
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 7:23 PM UTC
we know how those doctors about to retire type:
index punch, index punch, left hook index tap,
brawler's right kiss index tap -
thumbs are for the spacebar!
but this little oddity got me thinking: i can tell
you that my grandfather had beautiful handwriting,
and a massive library, and all of this... under
a communist regime... more books than
the modern capitalist household, let me tell you -
oddly enough i followed suit, never truly recognised
my father aged eight at victoria coach station -
4 - 8 under my grandfather's construct -
6 - 8 psyche of a child given a doberman by
his mother and left, upon return asking
for a devil's mask in warsaw, the same devil
mask a furore at a fancy dress party in school
ripped by friends all wanting the share of
suffocating under plastic.
but this got me thinking, i never had the
proper handwriting fluidity for an A grade in
english during examination, that's always a grade
more than anything you put your mind to
in terms of content. so... on handwriting fluidity:
omega alpha beta flows nice, because the greeks
managed to convene that letters had to
have names, no wonder the export of greek lettering
into mathematics and science...
imagine if it was the romanic letters:
that's *** arr squared: peeing on the arc of triumph
seeing sqaures?! bonaparte with a bunch of pirates?!
no! πr2, the area of the ****** circle!
never mind that, that's just me overstepping
the giggles, but i think because of the non-complex
denotation of the romanic letters we have terrible
handwriting, just like it sounds, punched in by dyslexic
judy separately: look - a' b'e c'e d'e e' z'ed.
no wonder the alphabet turned to programming
and cyborg fancies - plus it's no fun trying to remember
alpha bravo charlie... i mean, it's a bit **** that nato
phonetic ******** over the phone: oscar v. ω?
ω! romeo v. ρ? ρ! sierra v. σ? σ! let's face it, greek
too ancient and romanic trying to speed up... no wonder
there's a bit of charlie and the x-ray;
or maybe this whole phoneticism is a way to say -
keep that ugly so we can lego it into beautiful stances
of the fencing tongue.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
.*don't worry, inter-racial mingling is prominent in the first generation of a white dad, and a black mum... 2nd generation? well... that depends... if a woman deems her father in high esteem, she marries a white guy, and her children end up, pejoratively white... or she carries on the splinter fetish... and marries a camel-jockey... and hey presto! a full rainbow! slurs... ******** slurs... let's begin with one... in the north of England... vermin says so.*
i'll just say the uncomfortable ********
that you wont:
Oreo to a *******
****** your ***** all night...
made crumbs...
your incy-wincy spider
of a **** couldn't
get you a one-night-stand...
******* to an Oreo:
so... you think that i care what
******* ***** chooses, or
makes preferences of?
or are you worried that
i don't really want to ****
an Oreo girl?!
well... unless she's from the Bahamas?!
****** make a choice!
hey... **** as many...
what is this innate,
a priori presupposition judgement
where...
where...
like...
i don't want to **** your
women? what's up with that?!
you boast:
now i'll boast...
it's only fair that way...
yeah, and with regards
to the women you ******
i started thinking (as a child)
of injecting human ***** into
the body of a dog...
after all... my best childhood
friends were dogs...
Axl (a Doberman),
and Bella (an Alsatian)...
what?
your best friend was
bush-meat?
****** we can party...
but some advice...
you know the best place
to put out cigarettes
on a human body?
near to the bone, on the knuckles...
it's like...
coupling nearing the bones
is...
a complete hard-on.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
Your son was injured and I'm as sorry as I can be.
But you had no right to **** a dog who wasn't guilty.
Your son was attacked and nearly killed by another Doberman.
You thought that it was my dog so you shot him with your gun.
But the guilty Doberman was caught two days ago and he was euthanized.
You killed an innocent dog and because of that, you ought to be chastised.
My dog wasn't just a pet, he was also my friend.
I cried as I buried him because it was the end.
If it wasn't for your son's predicament, I'd have you put in jail.
That's the only thing that's stopping me from having you locked in a cell.
If you shoot another innocent animal, I won't be so nice.
Before you shoot another animal, you'd better think twice.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
I love that my cat decides when we eat cat food and drink water.
(My cat eats the cat food of course; I just have to put her first
in the sentence because she's cooler than me.)
She looks up at me, lazy green eyes suddenly expectant;
tail twitching and curling into an upright S,
she guides us between thrown pillows and an oversized
Doberman kennel,
door wide open, confusing my path,
but Pasha gracefully darts past, a prr of joy escaping her tiny cat lips.
When we reach the kitchen, all five seconds of our journey,
I reach for a glass, and my cat, she meows,
loudly and loudly-er until I acknowledge her cat bowl.
She insists I stand by it, and she looks at me once more,
waiting for my fingers to materialize on her fur,
petting her neck and her head.
Once she is satisfied, she buries her head and I close my eyes.
And we drink. We eat.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
I should, by all practical matters, quit looking through old photos of when my life was much "simpler." Childhood photos, to be exact. They serve only as a reminder of how old I am, and how much older I soon will be. (Yea, I know, ending a sentence with a prepostion is against the rules of proper penning.)
Looking at these pics, I catch myself playing the game of "whatever became of who?" Those other kids on that cul-de-sac in Corpus Christi, Texas, "waaay, waaay" back in the mid to late forties. One, in particular, comes to mind.
His name was "Duke" Jones. Perhaps, the most popular "kid" on the block.He was our next-door neighbor. An excellent "fielder" when we played baseball, heck of a fast runner, not much of a hitter. But, he was a lot more than that. For, you see, Duke, was a dog. A Doberman Pinscher, a former guarddog at military installations during the war, and rehabilitated before re-entering civilian life. And, he loved children.
Duke knew everyone on the block, knew the postman, the milk deliveryman (yes,there was a time when dairies had milk delivered to your home, but that can be another story), knew which house we lived at, the vehicles our parents drove, he was our protector. If a stranger, such as a door to door salesman, entered his territory, he froze, staring, watching, positioning himself between us and the stranger. If that stranger stepped on to the walk leading to a front door, Duke would start moving, stealthily, instincts, training, taking control. If a strange vehicle entered, he took notice, watched, intently. My mother and father often said, "We have the safest block in the city."
Our family had moved to another city in 1951, when we got a letter from Duke's "parents", telling us that Duke had passed away at age 16. Looking at that photo in my hand, Duke hasn't gone anywhere.
copyright: richard riddle: 11/02/15
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
I am the cracked leather couch
That was left in the yard.
My arms have been torn
By the temperamental cat
You rescued from the shelter
I bleed white puffs on the side of the house
Where no one can see
I am the old charcoal grill
With the rusty red lid
You bought for
The fourth of July and used once
Caked in black grease and white ash
I sit in the gutter
With a sign that says “free”
I am the ‘78 Ford Bronco
That was stripped down for parts
On blocks in the junkyard
Where a doberman uses
The passenger seat to daydream
About her brothers and sisters
She doesn’t remember
I am everything you’ve always wanted
At one point in time
But I’m afraid my time is up
I am now the ***** the “yesterday”, the proverbial scoff
With a neon-pink sticker
“50% off!”
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
*When I become electricity I'll
need hashish to complete my
wiring
A schematic of pills and liquor
for my quest to soar higher
For in my days trapped in flesh ,
emotion revealed my ignorance
Trust was a spring loaded trap that
bit my ankles repeatedly
Benevolence was a pit viper coiled
in the weeds
Women were my downfall with ploys and tricks
Promises revealed themselves as fleas spreading disease
I stumbled upon a capital city which turned
out to be a movie set
Contractors from the four corners of Earth were
busy filling it with fake furniture , mannequins made of
wood and plastic limousines
Gunfire led me back to reality that evening
Doberman pinschers exposed their teeth with
unmitigated anger* ..
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
I finally got the pony my father deserved
He wanted one so bad
But it's a big red ****** pony
Sorry dad.
With eyes shooting lasers in the sky,
An animal from hell
Screaming a thousand goodbyes
To the quiet sheeple standing by
Its my inert decision to have a horse
A horse from hell instead of a friendly one
Because i got vile, sick, venomous, scarred
A horse bathed in divorce
For there is no ******* remorse
For little horseys you keep thrusting
The carriage of a thousand ponys
Little blind dumb fat ***** pulling a string to a storyless thread
All you need is one
A monster
Let's speak horoscope you little *****
What sign are you, oh thats so nice
My sign reads terror your eats spice
I'm a doberman, the stars spoke now
Born under a sign of dog, A killer
I rise as you plummet kid
I burn flames when you're just a little spit
ITS MY ******* HORSE NOW
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
and there was a Fiona,
and me working the Edinburgh
***** nightclub
picking empty glasses
from the parkiet...
emptying ****** into
bottles of beer,
getting cornered by skinhead
homos eager for a blow...
Fiona...
played her the mandolin,
outside her window like
a ******* twised Romeo...
rod steward's maggie may...
then there was Janina,
a love worthy of a canvas,
and a rose... roses bewilder women...
not ough pearl or oyster shells
on them... come next spring...
like any Dutch tulip addiction...
frivolous scoop...
n'ah... this ***** hit the bull's eye
of the bell tower...
ich troje's song
zawsze z tobą chciabym być...
a commoner party song...
became a critique of my skull...
as she deemed it,
the protruding occipital of Africans...
and the squashed, flat "missing"
protrusion was a sign of degeneracy...
even though we shared the same ancestor...
from a pop song...
toward a flat occipital...
wheat-gob bulging jawline
of African Amricans?
they stick corn cobs in there or what?
come on... even Somalia pirates
know the diffrence between not liking
a pleb song, and making comments
about the ******* cranium...
oh wait... and all of this...
in art class...
so I sketched an answer for her...
her youth...
eyes with no pupils and no iris,
pure sclera... looking into a mirror
and a babushka...
if they **** for a reward
of 72 virgins...
god give me strength...
anticipating 72 doberman
or alsatians, or rottweiler puppies...
too much fictive love,
when the reality demands...
once upon a time,
when a young couple were
to be married,
the parents of both bride
and groom...
invested in...
the rewards of retirement,
and the anticipation of reinvigoration
by youth in the format of
grandchildren...
now?
oh you know the subsequent script...
**** off.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC