"dribbles" poems
You're the Wacky Wolf-man,
Tearing through our pages with a single huff.
Breathing life into us little piggies,
Blasting your way through the daily fluff.
You're the Word Wizard.
Leaving us in awe and in dribbles.
Waving your wand,
Conjuring magical and spellbinding scribbles.
You're the Living Legend,
Almost like a deity of some sort.
Garnering shiploads of admiration,
Through words of encouragement, banter and retort.
You're the Bad Boy Bard...
Never mincing your words.
Unconventional, you howl amidst the flocks...
You never did chirp like the birds...
You're the Minstrel Mobster,
Shooting your Tommy, never missing.
Flicking forward your fedora,
Strung lute ever smoking.
You're one Cool Cat.
Fending off haters with a bat.
Everyone just wants to be that.
Like a superhero whose symbol is a bat...
You're a Gem Generator.
Cogs and gears churning the jewels laid
Machine malfunction! My system's jammed!
Well I guess that's just it... Enough said!
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
Beside a dusty fan droops languid veins
whose movement barely churns up tarnished grime,
as lazy sun exudes through poisoned panes
injected with the film of listless time.
A gentle sigh is exhaled without will
for emptiness of long forgotten mind.
Eyes shudder closed to desolation's shrill
of conscious much too free and so, confined.
Revolting spittle dribbles down a chin
with absolutely nothing left to do.
To entertain and keep from going thin
you spy on friends who in turn spy on you.
Alas! For boredom is the finite trait
of great mankind's insufferable fate.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
I'm choking, flower petals fall into my hands. Blood puddled up, followed by more couphing. My hands stain crimson as I attempt to catch the petals and blood. Red dribbles down my chin and flowers break through the skin on my neck. Vines and flowers continue to grow in my lungs. Causing my disease to only worsen. Is this one sided love. Have you lost feelings for me.. Have I gone mad. My thoughts are again interrupted as a hack up more flowers. My chest is hollow.
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
gurgle, gurgle,
groundcurrent unsettled,
moon unseen like stars
fever dreamed,
dissonance for the melody maker,
dissonance for the retired risk-taker,
dissonance for the hips of homewreckers.
civil, civil,
no minutes can afford the divide,
aside, to the crystal buildings and
the sky's sputtering cries,
compliments to your forehead's ****
compliments to your forefather's rash,
compliments to your aforementioned crash.
the current, the current
rides hot and merciless along thigh,
dribbles down chins and nightgowns,
dries--a permanent badge of scattered life,
electroshock seeps from self-made holes,
electroshock seeps from smoldering bowls,
electroshock seeps from typecast roles.
volcano, volcano,
grumble and moan.
volcano, volcano,
clear cord and stroke.
volcano, volcano,
grieve me in ash.
volcano, volcano,
I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad. I've been awful bad.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
8.4k
Droplets tap the dusty windows
Tipping pleasure on the pane
Dribbles every time the wind blows
Prophesize a hurricane
Kisses linger on the backseat
Desperate to delight in more
Suffocated by the heat, but
When it rains, it starts to pour
Panic storm that quickly closes
Smashing waves upon the sand
Tension tearing up the roses
Stuttered poems, shaking hands
Though the pressure keeps you floating
And the ocean licks its shore
There's no way of sugarcoating
Once it rains, it has to pour
Stick a finger in your ceiling
Let the plants hang onto youth
Sunday jazz, petrichor feeling
Hear it tripping on the roof
Smell it shifting all around you
Leaking through your drying veins
Leave your stagnant dragonfly blue
Open up into the rain
When it rains, it pours
I'll blossom being yours
Downpour cleans the ***** traffic
Rippling madly down the drain
Paints the artist something graphic
While he's waiting for the train
Laughter echoes in the morning
Licking soil and clouds to raw
From the vision that's been dawning
Once you rain, it has to pour
Spitting bombshells pelt your raincoat
Tears in quiet pools of green
Holes inside your getaway boat
Water's sweet but can be mean
You've avoided all the warfare
But the stars rampage for more
Douse the thin comfort you still wear
Once it rains, it starts to pour
Stick a finger in your ceiling
Give the plants a thirsty truth
Fairy lights and freedom feeling
Tunes of our torrential youth
Smell it changing all around you
Bursting through the shrivelled veins
Leave your crippled summertime hue
Open up into the rain
When it rains, it pours,
I'll bloom so much being yours
We're a perfect storm, I guess
Fire has been stopped with less
When it rains it has to pour.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous
She,
That of her,
Me.
Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******
Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.
Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.
Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.
Flying peacocks tickle
My *****
Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.
***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.
Toilet paper and rusty water.
********** on you.
Stocking lover.
Fetish cover.
Woman pusher.
Mellifluous ****
Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.
**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.
Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.
Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.
Tear your flesh
You auto *********
Rip your liver
And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass
Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals
Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.
Kick my shin you
Everything,
Wake up you stupid
*****
Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.
Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****
Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,
Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.
Caustic gastric
You and not me.
Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.
Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.
Blair Butterfield 2004
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
Baby boy!
Pretty little thing,
your flesh
is So divine!
Oh yeah,
that's right;
I like to watch it -
i like to watch your flesh:
subcutaneous fat
padding tender hips
Shifting on a creaky framework of bones.
So beautiful,
so divine,
so delicious -
I will have you for my own, Straight Boy,
I will eat you,
piece
by
Piece.
First,
your liver,
then,
your Brain,
and finally,
I will devour your confused little heart;
I will bite through the muscle;
and you will watch on
as Blood that pumped
through a brain that pushed away thoughts of hesitant homoeroticism,
and a ***** that rose
For me - INCUBUS!!! -
dribbles down my chin...
lifeless!
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 10:21 PM UTC
You
Are untamed
Reckless blood and wit intertwined
A twisted, brazen
mind.
Your mind
Is so clearly different
It leaps and soars, so acrobatic
And your thoughts appear to me so hazy and enigmatic
Your mind is simply not pragmatic
Yet your perception knows no bounds.
You have thoughts that come close to insanity
That sometimes flow in the form of profanity.
Your spirit
Is either very high or very low
Up and down, to and fro
There is no in between for you
Some say you are stupidly crazy
The dull ones say that, the ones too lazy
To see beyond the rugged surface.
The subdued and vapid ones
Will never understand the magnetism
Of your sweet, exquisite devilry.
On your face you often wear
A fierce and restless stare
A wan, discontented expression
As though you're always awaiting
Something bigger,
Something better.
You
Are fluid, swaying fire
And I will never tire
Of watching you burn
I can see you brain boil and churn
As it reels into into areas of
madness and chaos.
Your psyche
Is an endless field of dark reverie,
Of fear and vagary.
I know your night terrors
Your savage dreams of death
Screams and bated breath
Unutterable visions
The grotesque world of horror thats spins itself out
And dribbles into your drawings
All those creatures, skeletons gnashing and clawing...
You
Are gentle and thoughtful
Yet you are terrified
Of this dark thing that sleeps within you.
Your eyes - they’re stunning
They’re tempestuous,
Wild, like some fierce animal peering out of a rusted cage
Oh, your eyes
They are something beautiful, but annihilating
Like Autumn crocus flowers, innocently poisonous
Lids splaying delicately like its violet leaves.
You are tall and strong
And uncontrollable,
And your smile
Is the biggest paradox I've ever encountered
Childlike
And fatal.
You are not
A creature of the commonplace
You are not a slave of the ordinary
You are not a mindless drudge of the mundane
You are free.
Or bewitched, what's the difference
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
Psychopath, questioned and played with, complex mind games with
Paper fortune tellers and crystal ***** utilized by con artists.
Chrome decorated room filled with trippy, grippy, grabby men
With blue cats swimming around their head. Coherent words do not exist to them.
Sucrose breaks you down, sweet creature, and thieves the antimatter in your empty scull.
Your favorite song no longer passes through your hollow ears.
Notes and the beats... A heartbeat. The thrum of a low piano key in a house supposed
To be isolated and abandoned. You are not alone here, child.
The demons summoned her because of the lettered board between a mattress
And box spring. The springs are broken from too much activity,
Don't jump on the soiled mattress. That's how you receive punishment.
But one without two does not match the storybook your mother read to you.
The nauseating tale of role,play and ********** Everyone knows the story, seen the Disney.
You can run, but you can't hide from the memories of horrible visions
Given to you by the gods. Hold on, child. You will grow to be a man one day
Despite the nightmare of being a wolf child who clawed his way out of his mothers womb.
Jolt and sweat, forgotten top bunk , and a concussion;
The dreams are back. The recurring realities of a twin long lost, but somehow inside.
Dream catchers don't make the callback list, can't act for the life of them, but
They are beautiful against the scenery.
A porcelain doll holds the demon that hacked my system and took controll of my history,
And once again, she takes my place, fooling everyone into thinking I am here
When, in reality, I am buried six feet under.
Blood dribbles from the letters chilled into my stone, I curl and let them add more letters into
My back to symbolize the life I led. The collection of poems I wrote about you are the ones they
Cut into the skin on my legs, permanent reminders of what I have felt.
"What have you felt?"
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Poetry is often made impossible
and forgotten it dribbles away
Experiences begot are dried
in dusty memoriam of thoughts
Locked in chipped ornaments
pictured emotions die framed
in an old letter's sentenced pain
Decorative wordy entrapments
cannot fool or command love
however many silvered words
try to stir or grab at thine heart
Whereas times every moment in
your observed, captured thought
does cradle this beating heart
"*We shall gift thought it's
touch and bites of freedom
then love it's sustenance*"
Fun's giggling thrashing bushes
of living sweating poetry
David x
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 3:55 AM UTC
In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.
The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.
But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.
This thought is comforting
And all is well.
Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.
And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.
You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.
And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
this kind of desperation gets repetitive
and i forget the words i used to know
just to make more space for your name
and it overflows from between my lips
and dribbles down my chin, to my pen
onto the letters i will never think to send.
you were the passing breeze
the humming sound of working bees
the touch and go motion of a strip tease
like sitting in a waiting room,
hoping you will finally find me.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
It's soft white alabaster but
a little dingy from overuse
hinting it's age with a bit of staining
around its curved spout
condensation dribbles from the lid down its azure twisting floral patterns
hissing it's boil with a pitched
Screeeeeeeeeeeee
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
1966, my first school book review, aged 13.
**It's hard, to say the least when you are bashful
to give voice to all the words you wish to say
for when your restless feet beneath you start to shuffle
you know you'd rather take your chance and run away.
You have a premonition to be elsewhere
to a place they call 'the land of two left feet'
where self-confidence is ****** beyond redemption
where the introvert is king, and not dead-meat.
As the arms of doom draw near to embrace you
and the ground before you cracks and opens wide
tongues of flame curl around to engulf you...
in the scheme of things you're skinned, trussed and fried.
You take a sip of water and start choking
as a splash of liquid dribbles down your chin
then the teacher offers you a paper tissue
and patiently she smiles as you begin.
Breaking out into a sweat you feel self-conscious
as the collar of your shirt begins to shrink
then you twist and tie in knots that paper hanky
and wished you'd poured yourself a stiffer drink.
Though you fumble for the words, they're not forthcoming
as you pour yet one more glass from the carafe
and while a tongue that's tied in knots may be amusing
in a mouth that's parched you really should not laugh.
Amid a mixture of derision and ovation
with that sickly smile still plastered to your face
you waited for the hard word from the teacher
but she said 'sit down' and well done Howard Brace.
You prayed that you had never stirred that morning
and rolled your sleepy body out of bed...
of the precious weeks you failed to spend revising
for the Book-Review and the text you barely read.
... ... ...**
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
When you look me in the eyes
Loneliness unfurls inside of me
Like a scorpions tail
And stings the soft belly of my heart.
A deep pain
Spreads throughout my body,
Clutching my bones,
Taking me hostage.
I feel my heart swell.
It’s much too big for its cage.
It’s the bird screeching protests
When you try to put it back in.
The sweating begins almost immediately.
I feel like I’m melting onto the dirt road
And you,
You are laughing.
Your smile splitting your lips,
Your teeth snapping like claws,
Distracting me from your molten black eyes.
I ***** my loneliness.
It dribbles out of my mouth in red ropes.
You are already scuttling away,
Already moving onto the next threat.
As I watch your eight legs
Carry your shell of a body away
From my shell of a body
I remember why
I’ve always been afraid of scorpions.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC
Infatuation.
It’s a girthy, 5-syllable word and you’re
In a fat, juicy, situation.
It’s a swollen, darkened fruit
That begs to be taken completely,
Flesh devoured entirely.
But it’s a trap.
The sweet and tangy blood of it
That dribbles down your chin
To your neck
To your *******
To your heart
To your stomach
To your hips
To your groin
To your ***
Down your thighs
To your nervous toes
Is not love.
Nobody wants to hear that.
But some day
- If you are incredibly lucky -
You will look at your maroon-stained palms
And the dry, sticky rivers of years running down your wrists
And laugh until you cry when you realize
That you could wash your whole body
Because love is not in the juice.
It is not your addiction,
Your summer picking,
Your hungry belly,
Your well of adrenaline,
Your rushing of heartbeats,
Your tangling of bodies,
Your jealousy, yearning,
Nor pride.
If you are incredibly lucky
You will suddenly know love.
As silent, simple, and strong
As the fabric of the universe itself.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
He fancies himself a cowboy
In line at the corner store
Concealed carry snug on his hip
(He secretly hopes someone gives him some lip)
The cashier hands him his change without meeting his gaze
He’s surprised and aroused.
She knows her place.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
He fancies himself a nonconformist.
A free thinker
The sheep will all do what they’re told
And he’ll be ****** before he goes peacefully to slaughter.
It was easy, he figured it out
Demanding proof is just an excuse to hide behind doubt
A warrior,
he wields the flaming sword of truth
His wife asks a question; he breaks her front tooth.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
Somewhere a fat man is checking the math as he’s being served lunch
Picking through numbers, looking for nibbles
He dribbles drool onto his chin,
as he dials his guy in The Caymans
His stomach is rumbling, it’s never enough!
To deepen ones pockets, one first must make cuts.
The determinant cause for the silver mine fire
Will read “Accident: faulty electrical wire; Company denies liability
per signed agreement at hire.”
And the cowboy free thinker won’t laugh at the joke,
he’ll just choke
There will be no survivors
But today, The Cowboy nurses his hate,
while Somewhere a fat man is writing the fate of the cowboy in pen,
pleased to be Great Again.
Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 4:24 AM UTC
The Home Owners Association
Came by again today
With open glares at
The green crawling across my chestnut walls,
Blocking out my view of
Their pale tan plaster and
Baby blue curtains.
Fees clutched in hand
Eviction notices in their prayers,
They march up to a house,
Existing outside of their domain,
Bought by a grandfather
And never sold to no developer.
I watch with arms crossed
As they step past tomato plants
Whose fathers I planted with mine long ago.
Pleasantries exchanged
Mean nothing combined with
Cold eyes on me as
I politely tell them that their nobility
Has no jurisdiction.
Later when,
One let’s his dog dig up
Pieces of my lawn-less garden,
I stare from my curtain of leaves
At exposed roots,
The veins of a child’s loss reaching into air.
Tears will do no more than moisten the corners
As I walk outside
Camera in hand
Staring at a man
Who slowly droops
While shame dribbles back into his eyes.
Nothing is said,
Even when he turns and quietly walks away,
Leash held slack in hand
And dog loyally trailing behind.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Basquiat brushes
dribbles bulbous breakdance blues
gilding hip hop walls
Dolphy ****** white jazz
welling crank pipe smoked black lungs
on poppin stickmen
Lorca be mute, vexed
with syllabic conundrums
mal haiku riddles
Eric Dolphy:
God Bless the Child
Federico Garcia Lorca
The Little Mute Boy
Oakland
3/6/13
jbm
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
i enjoy england
with its little houses
hips brushing, faces smushed
together to revel in quaint rumour
among gentrified lilies and pink
lady apples that blush in the summer
its walkways and alleys
dribbles of soft lamplight guiding
the drunkard, moth-brained and ill
with silk threads to a blind spot
of amber where muck can be spilled
the people on transport
with their airy talk, their mindless
silence, heads lolling idly on
windows, eyes crumpling like napkins
against the leaking crumbs of warm scone sun
pretty little England
where exploitation is vintage
and runs like rosé
down the dusty store windows
here we are free to stumble
down streets with sweat
in our hair and manic karaoke
reverberating off the walls
glee drinking is government protected
I'm quite in love with england,
this field of dew and white roses
fed by gore and sweet tradition
where fresh-faced, sunny children play.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 9:48 AM UTC
bath water dribbles up me
i lay smothered in the tub until my head is clearer than the water
it died a long time ago
i just never wanted to accept it
the transparency is covering my feet
i can see through it all
and although i should be sad
i can’t overlook the key components which made my life worth it
i met some great people over the years
i faced my fears and wiped the tears i wept
i overslept and got some rest when it was necessary
i heard my favorite songs til the break of dawn in the back of a bar porch
i met strangers and listened to them tell me how lovely i was
i listened indeed and i always keep it with me
it died a long time ago about 6 months in when i found out i wasn’t the only one getting attention
i just didn’t wanna accept it
thank you for that
in my mind my bags were packed i guess that’s why it was so easy to find the places where you lacked
it was easy for me to want to give up
because i knew it was already dead
love killed you
from the inside out
and each potential victim with bright eyes can’t help but hunger for the emptiness you cradle so deeply inside
hidden amongst the facade of creation
loved turned into a void for you
a void you had to fill with thrills and pills and feels
i’m trying to understand your pain
i’m standing in the rain
with my hands out forever grateful of this simulation
i bathed in pain tonight but i still remain heartfelt and empathetic and i wish to not project it onto others
and see that is why i can’t understand you
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 11:00 PM UTC
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .
Busy little bistro
Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose
Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay
Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a . . . pause . . . between paws . .
Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?
All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high
As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
What I want
For Christmas is
Just the barest
Of necessities
All my teeth
Not just two
So when I eat
I can chew
A skip and jump
Back in my step
So each morning
I have some pep
A pair of glasses
Which self defrost
A set of keys
Which don’t get lost
All my hair
Put back in place
So I don’t have
That barren space
A pair of shoes
With self tie laces
So I don’t have to
Reach those places
A set of arteries
That don’t plug
A nice cold beer
Which I can chug
To have someone
My brain equip
With that new fangled
Memory chip
So it can tell me
My intent
When I stood up
And why I went
A bunch of prunes
Which are pre dated
To work just when
I’m constipated
A gizmo that will
So to speak
Turn off my wee wee’s
Little leak
So I don’t have
I’ll just be blunt
Those little dribbles
In the front
A cork that fits
My *** hole, please
So hemorrhoids don’t pop out
Whenever I sneeze
A longer arm
That would pass
Behind my back
To wipe my ***
On this I’ll end
My little list
I don’t want Santa
To get ******
BOEMS BY JA 103
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC