"eskimos" poems
My back is tight, knotted
I'm not entirely sure why
But I would trap a dozen
Eskimos for a massage, honestly
Enter the sad realization that, despite
Bruno's good intentions, he is unable to
Fulfill this request with paws
Oh, but that's alright
It's one of those half-hearted dreams
That drifts along in wispy bits
Every now and again
To whisper and invoke a peace
Within the cataclysm, but don't dare
Turn around, or it will be
Gone
Like the ghostly fingers untying me
One loop at a time because
They've lost the scissors
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 5:42 PM UTC
*a butterfly kiss
two Eskimos rub their noses
the French do it best*
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
I never knew here to be one who would accept my roses
Or even one to exchange kisses like Eskimos, rubbing noses
But I could tell you it was her smile that gave her away
Even amidst the mud on her cheeks she gained throughout the day
She was never one for dresses, no, her jeans fitted just fine
Her figure flattering, though her clothes modest, humble in her design
And she would sooner throw a punch than look for rescuing
Yet she showed her princessly ways every time she'd sing
She would rather raise a mug than a cup of tea
And romp around, laughing all the while, on the bed with me
She'd giggle when I burped, and defeat me all the more
Then lie with me to look at the ceiling from her bedroom floor
But when she cried... oh when she cried... there crying she would be
And you would see no figure that was all the more dainty
No words said as she'd bury her face deep into my chest
Strong is she, all to me, in sorrow or happiness
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 1:28 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
This burning in the eyes, as we open doors,
This is only the body burdened down with leaves,
The opaque flesh, heavy as November grass,
Growing stubbornly, triumphant even at midnight.
And another day disappears into the cliff,
And the Eskimos come to greet it with sharp cries--
The black water swells up over the new hole.
The grave moves forward from its ambush,
Moving over the hills on black feet,
Living off the country,
Leaving dogs and sheep murdered where it slept;
Some shining thing, inside, that has served us well
Shakes its bamboo bars--
It may be gone before we wake . . .
3.3k
Hair stands upon jolted skin folds.
You never could eat a salad.
You look pregnant with a fat pig!
Large enough to eclipse the sun!
Large enough to cause nuclear winter for everyone!
Grass ceases to grow with every step that you take!
The earth weighs a percent more whenever you ingest!
Your rolls could warm the Eskimos!
An orchestra of clapping flesh fills the room with every movement you make!
You don't seem to care about the people you run over when rolling in the street.
You say it is their fault for getting in the way.
They all look like Indiana Jones trying to outrun a boulder.
Too many happy meals can make a lot of people unhappy.
Man sized pancakes dot the side walks that we all used to tread.
Skinny people no longer exist, they are all dead. You mistook them for French fries.
You are just as imperfect as me,
So who are you to point a chunky finger.
You think you are so big behind that screen. Lecturing me about body standards when you look like you washed up on the beach this morning.
Stop crushing your high horse and come down just a little bit.
Time for you to get a serving of your own medicine.
Gape those ears wide and give a listen:
I don't live to look good for some fat *** greasy, disgusting pig on the internet, jerking off to ********** **** while his mother makes microwave pizzas upstairs!
So jam that finger up you ***
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused
-the memorabilia of hope,
the rusty steel of life.
The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.
-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.
When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?
(-from http://www.condition.org/ )
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
No more komakazee crows
No more angry nehibors and
Their apple guns.
No more slow winks.
No more toilet bowls
And no more ham.
No more wet hair after a shower.
No more drooling on my face.
Remember that **** dog.
Remember you and him kissed like eskimos.
Remember sleeping in my train tunnel.
I wish I still played with trains.
I wish I still played euphonium.
I wish we never lost our house.
My old friend, is it time for me to go away.
You were the last.
The last pet mom ever will own.
She told us no more animals.
She cried tonite,
She said im so sorry soxy.
A longntime ago
A longtime 6 hours in school felt.
A long strected out cat
Waited for us on the steps.
I rubbed my face in his glossy chest.
I rubbed my third grade nose up and down
His body hoping for a play bite.
His tongue licked my ears three times,
Three times until he took a bite.
My hands resembled the bird,
The bird he never killed.
He turned me into a contortinist.
He made my leggs cramp.
He made my matress his middle ground.
His middle my yoga sleep.
After showers he hunted my head.
He layed on my face.
He licked my dripping buzz cutt.
He licked the milk off of my first mustache.
He ruined the left over ham.
He made my favorite sandwhich
A challenge.
He could smell me open the can and mix the
Mayonase with pickles.
He left me a dead mouse on my train tracks.
He had white drops of paint on his paws.
White furry paint,
Mom told us he had sox on his feet,
He was born with the name we gave him
Sox not socks,
Not the socks you get tired of wearing.
Not the socks you get mixed up durrning laundry.
Our sox kept us on our toes.
Our sox.
The **** cat
That really owned our house.
Hell always be sox,
The **** cat,
The **** voice my brother made up.
The **** drool I let rub against my face
Will never go away.
Ill kiss him like an eskimo.
Ill biuld him a eskimo fire
And hope he chooses to
rub noses with My dog J.C again
I hope he goes gently into the nite (Dylan Thomas).
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
That day when I met the Eskimos
they were sitting by an ice cube house
On the hot Caribbean Island of Brim
I was about ten
The Tourism Board parade them like cattle on an auction block
Somehow, this Trinidadian floosy remind me of Eskimo Nate
All eyes in the shop were on her hips
those
bewitching and enticing moves
As she walked away,
Her long dread locks swing from side to side
I knew it wasn’t black pride
who was she trying to impress?
There wasn’t a man insight
just a beauty shop full of high volume of estrogens
and mixtures of hair bleach and toxic fumes
so difficult to consumes
The hairstylist just knew how to work it
with her deep orange outfit,
her usually looking pouty lip;
would make a Godfearing woman turn tricks
The **** bowlegged female *****
Never seem to quit.
She remind me of a younger me
a very long time ago looking for a mate
stylish, feminine young thing
But look where that got me
An unfriendly divorce and years full of hate
The youth of today will carry on the old Madame tradition
If you got it flaunts it.
Make the cowboys want it.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
Painfully awake at two in the morning
Candy talks about space weapons
And their orbital, falling metal rods:
Terminal velocity, bunkers and deep ***********
The blood swells and my heart cranks
The warmth and wet of solid teeth on flesh
200 different words for ***
For a tribe of ***** Eskimos
With a treaty banning lack of such madness
No metal rods shall fall from the sky
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:30 PM UTC
i took a trip to iceland to see the eskimos
to see if when they kiss they had to rub there nose
i boarded on a plane to the icy shore
to see if was true or something to ignore
i built my self an igloo and carved it from the ice
it looked rather comfy and so very nice
i took a look around all along the snow
to try and solve the story of the eskimo
then to my surprise an eskimo appeared
he had a furry coat and and a hairy beard
then came along his wife they began to kiss
noses rubbing softly they were full of bliss
now i know the myth and now i know its true
when eskimos are in love this is what they do
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Like a ***** on a blood buzz
That surrendered to the dragon
Like Jupiter in a strange land
Water colors and cannibals
Like lemon world, minus candy
And true promise and false let-downs
Like McCandless or a Thoreau
Down a river lacking mystic
Like a soldier safe from harm's way
Watching pen-pals throw big grenades
Like echoes heard from a black hole
Filled with demons and Madonna's
Like an idea in a time warp
Full of castles and time capsules
Like a fire burning brightly
By Eskimos throwing blankets
Like Orestes punished greatly
By loud sirens in double-bind
Like a big world in alignment
With a spindle made of chaos
Like paisley love remaining still
While new age brings adhesive hate
Like a black swan, last unicorn
Asleep during apocalypse
Like kind vultures killing a beast
Because his stripes were too crooked
Like a family unforgiving
Of an angel born of their blood
Like a bad cough in a clear throat
Of a drunk God with bronchitis
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
whisper-soft
my arms close around empty space
i'm chilly
with a contrast of your heat
to match holly berries
my mind rambles nonsense
while your sweet scent lingers
and I crave the silence
of new snow
rolling out of bed finally
makes me feel like Rose
after 100 years of sleep
my eyes with silvery moon dust
and a quilt like a royal purple robe
i am the empress of evergreen needles
brother of mine,
hide-and-seek
is no fun for me
when you make it so easy
your eight-years-yesterday feet
showing underneath a curtain
of deepest blue
i catch you like a fish
squirming in water, and cold
warm you with a hug and quilt
your happy, golden smile a reward
little boy, how do i save you
from the world
how can you hold such genius in your head
while my own mind empties out,
graying matter growing sluggish
i think it's all i can do
so instead of sitting
to stay warm
we dress up like eskimos
and romp through a frozen fairyland
naming it for itself, a snow day
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 8:53 PM UTC
"Sanskrit has 96 words for love; ancient Persian has 80, Greek three, and English only one. This is indicative of the poverty of awareness or emphasis that we give to that tremendously important realm of feeling. Eskimos have 30 words for snow, because it is a life-and-death matter to them to have exact information about the element they live with so intimately. If we had a vocabulary of 30 words for love ... we would immediately be richer and more intelligent in this human element so close to our heart. An Eskimo probably would die of clumsiness if he had only one word for snow; we are close to dying of loneliness because we have only one word for love. Of all the Western languages, English may be the most lacking when it comes to feeling." - Robert Johnson, "The Fisher
King and the Handless Maiden"
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 3:42 PM UTC
when Noah told god,
He, was gonna save the world,
from his **** flood
(the sorry storybook, in fact, got it wrong),
god mystified, Noah well versified
how he was agonna do it,
the man with the plan
how to salve the world
two by two,
Noah replied, and that's not lied,
see below, see below,
two poems,
sorta side by side,
but not
read down, across, whichever
One Two
starts two, is multiplication,
one X two equals two
one boy one girl,
or girl whatever,
needs you, one boy
get a room, in an arc.
everybody just get a room
no god, universal remote
one tongue, inside you,
misinformation, miscue negation,
miscommunication, no care about divides,
miscegenation, the house rules,
black asian even, white, red and blue.
got wolves, deer, making hay
got The Eagles, with The Beatles
sleeping with the, gone feral, loving
zebras, the lambs,
bunk mates, making the cutest babies.
everybody's singing, we can work it out
even the cats, the dogs,
lovers of the K-nine, loving them feline sea lions,
and now everybody loves the snakes for their
long tongues, physical abilities and the resulting
****** prowess.
enough of this two by two **** were a bad divinity idea
to begin with. Everybody get a room, learn to fit,
whatever parts you got, just stick 'em in.
The Hunans I had to segregate, cause they be another type.
but whoopee if the white boys can't get enough black love,
the asians explaining the karma sutra and the Eskimos are curling their toes,
yada yada how come when it comes to *** everbody loves the other side.
When all were aboard, Noah got a beer, and said I sure hope there is some football on tv, cause everybody loves football.
If anybody sees a zebra striped pigeon, give me a holla!
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
while you were hawking your unawares
i was peddling snow to Eskimos.
they where ' into-it '.
i was intimate with the monkey's paw.
and you
you
lit glory through a hole
in your argument.
you cut it to ribbons
for your hair.
and danced with everyone
by your
Self.
by your self.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
Can I keep you in my pocket,
And bring you around everywhere I go?
I have a wonderful little idea for you and me,
Do you want to know?
We meet eyes across a dark world,
And we cause an explosion of light.
Our bodies shiver, that warming, joyful kind,
And the feeling rushes from our hearts, just like a plight.
Our hands fit together perfectly,
And we kiss like Eskimos in their igloos.
We can build up a small house on a hilltop,
With a glass ceiling, if you choose?
I know how much you love the night sky,
And you know I love it too.
I would lay there with you always,
As the skies turn from blue to black, and black to blue.
On our hilltop, we'd be surrounded by green grass,
And flowers would grow between each blade.
There would be a tall tree overhanging our small house,
And, on hot days, we would sit under it for some shade.
I'd make you laugh just to see that amazing smile,
And your eyes would twinkle brighter than the moon.
You'd pull me closer and let me stand on your toes,
As we both danced to our favourite tune.
You'd whisper words no one has ever told me,
Three words that mean so much more.
And you'd wonder as we get lost in each other's eyes,
If our hearts had once known each other before..
If I keep you in my pocket,
My dreams may one day come true.
You'll meet my eyes across the dark world
And then I can live happily, in the light, with you.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
i guess you can only become
a poet after having read
the brothers karamazov,
bolesław prus’ lalka, don quixote,
the critique of pure reason
kierkegaards’s either / or,
russell’s the history of western philosophy...
i can’t think of any other way...
otherwise you’ll be in the itchy fingers
pile of ‘she said, with expressionless mutation
how good it was to burn the bridges of madison county
and start a cannibalistic ***** colony.’
(wait a minute darwin, why aren’t any eskimos blonde?
it’s north enough for them to be bleached scandinavian.)
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
You ripped me open like a present on Christmas Day.
Cold hands in a warm bed on a dark night.
The Eskimos and butterflies taught me how to kiss you.
You smell like cinnamon and shampoo and too many tears.
Jumping rope and sticky grins and blacktop promises in chalk.
I would trade my sanity for another kiss with you.
Sharing music with you was like reading you my diary.
Soiled sheets tell stories I could never bear to share.
Sometimes I wonder if you really smoke to **** yourself.
You taste like sin and safety at the same time.
I remember holding your hand, never wanting to let go.
Kiss me like I am oxygen and you're on Mars.
The lines on your hands are rivers, whispering your past.
Good music and elephants and heartbreak remind me of you.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
What one believes
seems to roll with chance,
the where
the when,
and to whom
one is born,
be it Pago Pago to the South of France,
before the current time (BCT)
or two thousand years thereafter.
What would Einstein come to know
if born a thousand years ago
in a village of Eskimos
where the highest calling
was laying upon a chilly table
a slice of seal,
fillet of fish,
or slab of blubber.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
i want to humbly live
with the eskimos
or in a kibbutz or
in a time when
most of the people around
were nomadic
with no attachment
to a real home.
to a big home.
i wanna be
where people
live in huts
by the sea
i wanna wake up
and see
palm trees
i don’t care
if i slept on the beach
the night before;
i realized last night
in my bed
that i’m always
where i’ll be.
right here.
i wanna wake up
and see
something
beautiful
i don’t want
beautiful
to be a ghastly
rendition of
“luxury”
i wanna be free
like what a bird is
to the wind
i wanna dig in
to the roots
of where i
come from…
…where we all
come from
i’m gonna
remember
what it’s like
to be one
somewhere
down the line
we lost the fact the
earth is our home
i don’t
wanna wake up
groveling
by my marble topped
counter top
weeping
because the red final
notice form
says to me
i’m leaving
that is not beautiful
did nomads even
know
that feeling?
i’d rather deal
with illiteracy
over our raging prideful
human stupidity
i wanna see the people
rise
instead of claw at the
quiet desperation
eating at them raw
i wanna see the people
love
like they don’t know
what greed looks like
like they could get up
and get their waiter
a drink
ever think of that?
let’s get her
off her feet
let’s make it easier
for her
instead of harder
where
can we meet
in the middle?
when can
we shine
the black mans
shoes or kiss
the land of
the pyramids
when
can we bring it
all in?
what happened
to the Brotherhood
of man?
what happened
to man?
we are not
the nomads;
we are a
whole new
species…
we are not
the same as when
we were young –
when God created us
out of universal will to become
before we found out
what greed felt like;
we are not the same
jeez
how we have changed the game
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
The Eskimos know,
The land like,
The back of,
Their hand;
Home is white and,
Glistening.
Home, it is cold,
It is harsh
"It is beautiful", they say.
Home is beautiful.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Eskimos always die gloriously,
Killing fat ***** in the Arctic sea.
Swear I saw one with a whale's eyeball on his thumb,
And he just screamed at me.
Asked "Boy what's the matter? Can't you **** like me?"
I frowned and said I rather be dead than **** your gentle enemy.
Made a home of ice,
Don't need a fridge.
I live in the Antarctic,
Where ****** is gigantic.
But who here cares of it now,
So far away from all of us.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
Having shot up
(with two flavors of insulin)
before bed,
I've been instructed to snack.
So I drop fifteen pills
with an ounce
(of water)
and wait for the subtle wave
of unreality
to flow through me.
Never thought my Eskimos
would be four doctors
and a dialysis nurse.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC