"flamingos" poems
I know where to find you
drunk in the garden
having another existential crisis
conversing with the plastic pink flamingos
they think you're 'hollow'
and that your exterior is too polished
he sees his own reflection when he looks at you
Your youth was made up of
cringe-worthy hair styles and room temperature beer
with the taste of **** and vinegar
and the prospect of milk and honey
alas, you're 24 now
perfecting the art of escapism
disenchanted, delusional
You're just clearing your throat
to say nothing at all
ahem
and continuing to romanticize recycled lifestyles
in the name of authenticity
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Flamingos are my VERY favourite bird,
I love their adorable faces and their feathers of soft
Dark pink satin
They look so innocent and sweet
Never fly away, my sweet birds
If you would I would cry very hard
My tears would make an ocean for them
To wade and swim through
And my love for them would turn
Into to a mighty palm tree, tall and strong
With it's lacy green leaves providing shade
For you, my adorable Flamingo
And my thoughts about YOU would
Be transformed into infinite grains of sand
My blue eyes would turn into the sky
That you would fly in
But please, my dearest Flamingo
Never fly away forever
Or my heart should break
And turn into the blooms of Bleeding Hearts
My heart would be like petals squished and ruined
Never to be put together again
~Marian~
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
Of Nannies ‘n houses ‘n Pink Flamingos
Cars ‘n clothes ‘n foreign lingoes
The rich hate the poor, the poor hate the rich
Did you see “Her” today?
Boy, she sure is a *****
How did they get here, a chauffeur you say?
‘Cause Mom and Dad are Always away.
They remembered her birthday
Or so said the staff
A party, a clown
Just make her laugh
The rich hate the poor and the poor hate the rich
Did you see “Her” today?
Boy, she sure is a *****
He stood on the corner outside a shack
Schoolbooks in hand, his lunch in a sack
He remembered his birthday
Or so said his mom
His dad wasn’t drunk
Just tired ‘n run down.
The bad hate the good and the good hate the bad
Did you see “Them” today?
Boy, they sure did look sad.
All the dreams and the dollars
Or missing of such
Builds a foundation or makes us a crutch
Better built on kindness, compassion and love
Understanding that all are the same from above
We all hurt the same deep in our heart
Forgotten, abused, life plays its part
Dressed up in spangles, bobbles or beads
A yard full of flowers, garbage or weeds
Under the crust is a person who bleeds
The bad hate the good and the good hate the bad
Did you see “Them” today?
Boy, they sure did look sad.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
Saturday alone on a love seat
for two with my roommate
plucking away at twisted nickel
across the room.
Unshowered, unmotivated,
a maybe Monday.
My clean laundry's a footrest
for ***** feet fresh off the
almost autumn asphalt.
Come visit us.
Be unshowered and unmotivated
on this maybe Monday.
Don't worry, the door's unlocked.
There's just a few hundred
flamingos waiting to get in,
but they should move
at the sound of your unshowered,
unmotivated, maybe Monday footsteps
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
Late last night I saw something fall from the sky,
I happened to be in the kitchen making tuna on rye.
As I looked out my window it landed in my yard.
It crushed the pink flamingos, the wife took it hard.
I stood there at the window taking in the sight,
Bright lights flashing red, blue, and white.
Then suddenly a door slid open, I was seized by fright.
But my wife had gone out the door, in her hand a kitchen knife.
As the little green man stepped out, he was looking fine,
In a tye dye tee shirt, waving his hands in a peace sign,
Looking like he had come straight from the sixties,
I think he was expecting to find some hippies.
Thinking this guy might be peaceful, I tackled my wife,
As she dropped the knife, I yelled, "He might be nice".
The little green man then pulled out a bic and gave it a flick,
As he held two finger to his lips, I realized his vice.
As I had given that up long ago, I had nothing to share.
But the little guys face showed such despair,
I went into the house and got the beer from the fridge,
And grabbed the Nacho Doritos for this astorial kid.
We sat on the lawn chairs out under the sky,
drinking the beer, eating tuna on rye.
I asked where he was from, he just pointed up.
When we finished our beers, I said good luck.
Back to the spaceship the little man went,
his steps were unsteady, I think he was spent.
He got in the spaceship and closed the door.
As I waved goodby, the spaceship took off with a roar.
I heard on the news later that night,
That something had crashed in a field, lips were tight.
But I heard a rumor, that someone was found alive.
I guess I should have told him not to drink and fly.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
hammock and a stack of playboys.
first emerged,
boy.
feature trees and teens and punch drunk lovers.
chalk murals,
girl.
into the quiet density of love.
quiet city.
dance party, usa.
we end up making movies about our fathers
whether we know it or not.
home videos.
we double down on arcade tickets
& spin for a kite to tangle.
climb the town hill and bury our warmth.
kiss to forget or remember this bliss
& strange language.
strange sprawl of lights seen.
the homeowner’s association melt a pile of plastic flamingos
into an idol osiris.
dead god.
& wait,
wait for halloween.
our parentals diligently sweat.
they are conjurors of snacks and supper.
they are creatures of the ritual routine.
we ritual.
we homework.
we breathe easy, waiting for nothing.
(except for more holidays)
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
My grandmother likes salami, God, and bougainvilleas
I like to think she likes tenuous pink things-
but then there’s the salami.
One day she taught her daughters to string neck-
laces from bougainvillea petals
like-ponies-in-a-junkyard
I think I chewed too much bubblegum in mass
because I picture God pink
an ethereal globe of a poppable pale pink.
And for some reason, I like to think Brother
Charles saw that too
I bet my lungs are somewhat pink:
more pink than my berry red blood
but less pink, sweet and/or hairy
than a cotton candy poodle.
I forget if they were strawberries or rasp-
berries too
There are things that are pink
but then there are things that are pink
and shadowless.
Like subterranean lungs,
God, the future, and
the smell of flamingos in the dark
The future is still pink and
somewhat fruity
like a lukewarm strawberry milkshake blushing,
or was it maybe just the taste
of my pepto-bismol stained lips.
One of those ponies was my mom
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
Beautiful
and
Improbable.
Like so many
of our
human
relationships.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Nightingale dances to a union jack's tune
Blonded and bonded to the winter wind's croon
Black leather lost, soul-searching for safe havens
Soothing the streetlight as she serenades,
Healing the moonlight as her honeymoon fades.
In flocks, it is said,
That safety will travel
And numbers protect those that fly,
But the heart, indeed, is a lonely hunter
So land your weary arms in mine.
You can return with the swallows to Capistrano
Or follow the flamingos as they swoon and sail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
It's the lark, that's true,
That sent me to you -
Nursing the daylight until it flutters then soars,
Nestling the twilight by the hospital doors.
In the dark, it is said
That the truth hangs lower,
And slower move the birds in time
So un-tether from your trembling sadness,
And land your weary arms in mine.
You can sing the songbird's symphony
Or fleece the feathers off a sparrows tail
You can hang onto a hummingbird's heartbeat,
Just wrap me in the wings of this nightingale.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
We danced around handbags
in Budleigh Salterton.
We oiled the hips on
yesterdays snake;
we were blue rinsed Madonna
and Fred Astair wanna.
we were flaming flamingos
on a shimmering lake.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.
No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.
The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.
The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.
The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.
The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.
Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.
Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
Pink fluffy apples
Green juicy flamingos (hiccup)
Black sour marmalade
(hiccup)
Orange lumpy liquorice
Purple tangy mushroom
White rich yoghurt
(hiccup)
(hiccup)
(hiccup)
What did you put in my drink?
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC
Distant night built a home at the heart of the forest, sun had long forgotten,
lovelorn moon set up its nest for memories-
in that lake where 1000 migrant flamingos live for months,
When the hands of dark night creep towards them on the sly
flamingos tightly shut their eyes and dive deep in to the waters of sleep,
when the evergreen memories of ****** moon each one desires haunt.
As the moon wanes, the night lay in wait, in its forest home dreaming white flamingos
that swim in the pool of milk the moon has created for her sweethearts.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
There's a party around the block,
Where flamingos run and eggs fall from upstairs.
The roof is tumbling and the pool is overfilled with humans and animals,
There's a zebra and ten monkeys running through the house.
****** *********** is rising everywhere,
To the kitchen and the bathroom, to the backyard and the deck.
Balloons are scattered on the floor,
There's food fights in every room.
There's a car crashed into the wall,
People are running around in togas.
The music is blasting through the glass windows,
Everyone is jugging boos and sniffing toxins.
The bonfire is sparking with Barbie doll heads,
The smell of burning rubber spreads throughout the sky.
People are wild with horse masks on their heads,
They're fist pumping and thumping to the repeated beat.
Males and females are racing around **** in the halls,
Paint ***** and BB Guns are being fired on every window.
Glasses of broken bottles are lost in couches and beds,
People are swinging on chandeliers.
The walls start to buckle and shake,
Cops arrive but are being tazered with their own tazers.
The house is being tee-peed,
No one knows why the tub is on fire.
The music starts to get louder every second,
Tables and chairs are being thrown across the rooms.
There are piggy back rides on the front lawn,
Drug addicts are polluting the air with taboo smoke.
People are sliding down the stairway with helmets and pillows,
Many of the people are hung upside down unexpectedly.
Girls get dragged into the bedrooms,
Fights are happening here and there.
Some people are passed out anywhere,
Others are bungee jumping off the roof.
Furniture is left outside,
Lips are locking in the closet.
Fireworks are going off while people are dunking their heads in water,
Twerking is being done almost everywhere.
The house is a total wreck,
And the sun starts to rise over the horizon.
I don't know about you,
But this party was something new.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
vague games enable and our liturgies co-mingle in an inkling of the I.
your mind succumbs to the soul. the rabid rain is ironic and the font you spell ' god ' with
is all scrawl and scrumptious. you lump this dream into your dolphin of Delphi
and squeak cute symphonies of deep brood.
you choose your Oblivion.
and that's how Angels kiss. they force the Word through your Animus
and greet your weakness with squinty eyes and Lion's breath.
you're the next best thing since that one thing that had no soul for god to play with.
it never complained. you might look and you might not see
what you're not supposed too. but i know you'll be happy with lemon-drops
and long dark naps.
that's how we do,
like a crispy pillow is a cloud with a lobotomy
and all my barbed wire is wine.
Like i'm the king of unbearable sublime. you anoint the fallen. i spike the punch, judy. you sunshine.
eulogies wet the pavement. darth mauls
the halls of our peril
and the dry
sparrows
you had no love but you had a thing that went thump
when you met her. and some other cocka-mamy thing.
and your narrow view
of the wide ha ha and the mute " **** this "
and why not?
we're all caught in the same frame and the gorgons are massive. you have to elect a hero to laugh at Death with and might get a girl.
you're nothing at all and that infuriates the reality you were dreamt with. you have no kin, but your family hasn't been.... you were unhinged
from the stark grim and the tide pool. why do you think i say things that ain't been language but has always been lingua nova ?
why would i lie ? this is the scepter of the vengeful design and the glee demons of first love sipping from a chalice of lost love
with closed eyes. this is the pier and the ocean. the dime store Picasso hanging the velvet Elvis with the perfect circles
with the little
cube inside...
aching for flamingos.
or not.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
It’s inherent, a ritual passed through ages, fashions change but the outcomes the same. We make ourselves desirable, attractive. We plump out our manes and puff our collars, rouge our cheeks and lips, blood pumping to all our organs. It’s our tribal wear. We soak up sweet alcoholic nectar, loosening our inhibitions and bringing out our inner basic urges.
We hit a club called the watering hole, gorillas on the door filtering out the runts. My paws stick to the floor and the walls drip with sweat. The disco lights burn down on me with a heat like the desert. You can’t move without making eye contact with someone. Single men lean against the walls, and lurk in the shallows like alligators. Waiting for a young philly to wonder past a little worse for wear. Snap. Men dance with their tops off, sweat making their skin glisten like a serpent. The first thing you have to do is get to the bar, its packed and the bodies push against you as all trying to get to the front. The first few drinks numb you and make you confident, you begin to be seduced by the music and dance floor. The air is humid and the smell of smoke has faded away, just leaving the smell of body odour coming from the hippo taking up most of the dance floor. The main smell overpowering all this is *** pure unfiltered *** the place reeks of it. This place is a meat market, but there’s all kinds of animal on show. You’ve got your flamingos who stand there beautiful, looked at but not touch, you’ve also got your warthogs content rolling in their filth, you’ve got your grizzly bears sniffing out the honey. Me I’m a hyena, (laugh) a pack animal, we hunt in small groups, dotted around the stage, causing mischief among the herd, we’re jokers, entertainers, it might all look like a laugh but cross one of us and feel our bite which is certainly worse than our bark.
There’s one though, he’s a lion, king of the beasts, everything else is just meat, he locks onto his target, he stealthy crosses the dance floor to prey on it, there’s plenty of meat around but that’s the one he wants, it’s a game, we lock eyes, I can’t move, it’s survival of the species, and he’s top of the food chain. Once he has me he takes his fill and leaves me to the vultures.
I lick my wounds to start again. And then I realise the hunter has become the hunted.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
The slow dance with yourself, prom.
No partner in crime, no getaway.
Caught, red and white all I see.
The sirens of my heart, ringing.
No Heer, No Ranjha.
No Paris, No Helena.
No Laila, No Majnu.
No Romeo, No Juliet.
Ties and Dresses
Corsage and Coronary
Royal Red carpets
straight from the heart.
Epileptic lights
Face in a sea of masks
Empty hands and waiting eyes
Welcome to the Lonely Masquerade Ball.
Where no faces exist
home of the masks.
Where no hip is free
Siamese twins.
Only heart that beats alone.
Only open eyed one
Only closed lipped one
Soulless, Loveless.
Hordes, Masses, Groups.
Flurry of flamingos
Cackle of hyenas
Litter of rabbits, garbage.
The ugly duckling
Oscar Wilde
Stars on Earth
Rainbows in storms.
Missing posters, wanted.
Revolving doors, wait.
Get the getaway car
Go Go Go.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 4:33 PM UTC
What is it with society
it can't leave girls alone
to be the way they want to be
they have to **** and moan...
"Now this one she's too skinny
with a blatant lack of ***
legs stolen from flamingos
and arms like two matchsticks.."
"Now this one's far too chubby
observe her thunder thighs
see her wobble as she's walking
it's clear who ate all the pies.."
"Now see the tattooed freakshow
flesh tunnels, garb of black
in burly boots and trenchcoat
she must be taking crack.."
"and what of lil Miss sunkissed
with her streaky perma-tan
who dresses like a two bit *****
but never keeps her man.."
A war on flaws is raging
as media fuels the flame
mixed with the tongues of gossips
it gets stronger everyday
we're taught to judge a person
by looks and shape alone
regardless of their inner selves
their talents, dreams and goals
It really is a worry,
to watch our young girls grow
bowed under weight and pressure
with self esteem so low.
So tell them that they're beautiful
it's not too much to ask
and please be sure to tell them
that the media's an ***
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
It’s not about the money
it’s not unusual
it’s not over
it’s not a tumour
it’s not easy
it’s not easy being green
it’s not easy being me
it’s not enough
neverwinter
never let me go
never say never
never back down
fix dead pixel
fix drywall
fix design
fix dripping faucet
find me spot
find me
find me guilty
find me love
why are flamingos pink
why are people gay
why are flatworms flat
why are we here
why is the sky blue
why stop now
why am I so tired
why do cats purr
then I got high
then I learned French
then I saw her face
then I got bronchitis
what is quinoa
what is love
what is the fiscal cliff
what is dubstep
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Human.
That is what we all are.
But sometimes,
we can be more.
We are heroes.
Courageous,
benevolent,
and sprightly.
We are monsters.
Cruel,
******
and avaricious.
We are mice.
Meek,
timid,
and reserved.
We are flamingos.
Peculiar,
distinctive,
and eccentric.
Sometimes,
I believe we forget
that inside,
we are all alike.
We may not have the same hair,
eyes,
or personality.
But our skeletons are similar,
and our hearts are the same.
No matter what,
at the end of the day,
we are all
Human.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
I don't know why the sun shines.
Can't tell you why it rains.
Unaware of why the sky is blue,
Or how it holds up planes.
I know that rivers run south,
And that flamingos aren't really pink.
Know how to use proper grammar,
Getting a degree in how people think.
I may not know what you know.
Of course, you don't know me,
Everybody is different.
We all have our cup-o-tea.
Whether you know why the sun shines,
Or you haven't got a clue,
If you open your eyes, heart, and mind,
I will do the same for you.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC