"fum" poems
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
You and I
You
And
I
- I
Could drown myself in melted polar ice caps, or illusions of Niagara Falls (or does it?)
Could join a nudist colony
Could dismember my body parts 'recreationally'
Could (or will) document my own downward spiral/lay eggs in vast and immeasurable labyrinths/where the paradox of my self-pity mingles with my bragging/swaggering teen angst and date!-mate!-procreate!- into a thousand descendants of my rotting fleshhhhhh
- You
Present yourself in -
Hallways rambling in front of me with asylums spilling into corridors of confusion
Rrrrrrriiipppp of either paper pulling from notebooks or flesh pulling from bone
Virtual college applications tabbed over with two different Buy Your Own Russian Wife! websites and ignored by your -loving parents-
An arrogant 18-year-old boy standing before the Committee of Elders (pleading insanity)
Twenty-four permanent markers with generic names
The pseudo-poetic lure of "Call ___ For a GOOD TIME" graffitis on the bathroom wall of a Whole Foods you spend six weeks jacking off in
- Look, that's great and all, but
I think you are a (beanstalk), no time to (talk), less of a (walk) and more of a climb - to reach your face, and when I lean to kiss it (fee fi fo fum) I smell the blood of a human one
(I'm tired of stooping and I'm tired of looking at old people)
You
And
I
Could have Been Anyone!
But no,
Just more of the same.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
In{peace}ner
Yet again, I a(struggling)m to sleep,
Yearning for m(soul)y to keep.
Day by pa(day)ss with no remorse.
Death scouring the lands on his tire(horse)less.
There was Mar(First)cos,
There was Ka(Then)in.
De(coming)ath is for all of us,
As morale beg(wane)ins to.
Shots are fired in hot spu(sporadic)rts,
du(I)ck for cover as my shoulder hurts.
Blood flo(down)ws my arm as I grasp my gun,
I close my eyes as my comr(run)ades begin to.
I am paralyzed, planted in the ea(bunkered)rth,
My comrades car(me)ry as they flee.
I fig(sanity)ht, refusing to see my own worth,
As bullets fly by, in an endl(torrent)ess of maniacal glee.
The pain sears, racing through mi(my)nd.
Muscles, tissue, bone, to unw(beginning)ind.
Con(crosses)cern my comrade’s face,
As he looks at my pai(disgrace)ned.
Earth spews the gro(from)und to my right,
Launching us into the thick fum(air)ed.
I scream again as my pa(rears)in its roaring might.
My vis(fading)ion as my body lands on my earthen lair.
whi(Death’s)sper then did creep,
His bre(cold)ath in did seep.
I no pa(feel)in as I know its time,
To join m(mates)y, out here on the Rhine.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
Fee fi fo fum
angry apple is playing dumb
She knows you lied
and she cried
So now she’s about to die.
Are you happy that she’s dead?
are you satisfied that she’s gone?
are you ecstatic that
angry apple’s finally dead and gone?
For all that’s lost
will forever be gone
Fee fie fo fum
Upset apple is dead and gone
I hope you’re happy with what you’ve done.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
it chews
bringing me from the depths of sleep
a half tide type consciousness
to bang on the wall a few times
and fall back
sinking deeper
into the welcoming depths
it chews
sharp and chipping
low on the floor
by the foot of my bed.
i'm awake now
my heart beating faster
as i notice
how close
it really is.
i get up
turning on the light
to take a look around
i don't see a fleeting tail
or a brown fur ball scurry
so i stomp around a bit
a giant
fee fi fo fum be afraid little rat
out with the lights
and back to bed.
minutes pass
and as my muscles
unwind and i truly
begin to think i have won...
it chews
cracking and splintering
louder now
i try and ignore it
but the sound is maddening
each crack
throbbing behind my eyes
like he is boring into my skull
stop it!
i yell like
he would understand
holding my pillows to my ears
nerves broken
heart pumping battery acid
it chews
and chews
and chews
unafraid of me
or my stomping
or my fits
and suddenly i'm the one afraid
my girlish unreasonable fear
takes over
crying
please stop
please
but it chews
coming for me
bringing hundreds
of it's friends
to join the party.
it will be through the floor boards
any second now
it's piercing eyes
and sharpened teeth
looking for something else
to chew.
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 3:10 AM UTC
Ar ar ar
Merry deathmas
Massive boon of life, you
No man feasts on your bones
Not those very fungi
(sorry)
Fi Fum drum you Protoctist ****
Shear the skin from the fun
Stuff
White and node of muscled life
Make your narrow bed of marrow bread
Yeehaw life's a draw
and death presents a certain
certainty
Theres no mystery in
the biggest mystery
That it goes
pumping
with 777ccs of force
and maybe 1200 horse
power
Equine
and divine giant you
cud and horse and seed anew
stool of toad and brush of mold
return to state before
there was...
you?
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
Our English language? A curious thing!
Hammers don't ham and fingers don't fing,
Grocers don't groce and ushers don't ush,
And why is a rear called a toosh, not a ****
What is the plural of mitt? Is it mitten?
And what's a caboodle if there is no kit'n?
Do women count coins when they go through their change?
Is all lucre filthy? Are bedfellows strange?
You can't have the willie, the heebee or jitter,
And patter is noisy unless it's with pitter.
If a guy's queer, is he gay or just odd?
And if a girl's skinny, is she still a "broad"?
Can you do a flip? That's an interesting word...
Flip a house or a pancake or even a bird!
You'd never say fum without fee, fi or foe,
And why do we go to the bathroom... to go?
Slim chance or fat, they are one and the same,
And **** can be naughty unless it's your name!
So if you love words and you don't take them lightly,
You'll find by and by that you can-can write rightly!
Source: http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/war-of-the-words#ixzz35Z943NKD
Family Friend Poems
Our English language? A curious thing!
Hammers don't ham and fingers don't fing,
Grocers don't groce and ushers don't ush,
And why is a rear called a toosh, not a ****
What is the plural of mitt? Is it mitten?
And what's a caboodle if there is no kit'n?
Do women count coins when they go through their change?
Is all lucre filthy? Are bedfellows strange?
You can't have the willie, the heebee or jitter,
And patter is noisy unless it's with pitter.
If a guy's queer, is he gay or just odd?
And if a girl's skinny, is she still a "broad"?
Can you do a flip? That's an interesting word...
Flip a house or a pancake or even a bird!
You'd never say fum without fee, fi or foe,
And why do we go to the bathroom... to go?
Slim chance or fat, they are one and the same,
And **** can be naughty unless it's your name!
So if you love words and you don't take them lightly,
You'll find by and by that you can-can write rightly!
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:12 AM UTC
I like to think that there are worms in all of us
Just crawling and squirming inside all of us
And creeping and loving inside all of us
So simply just being inside all of us
There are worms in the garden, so trim them, so trim them
There are worms in your hair, so trim them, so trim them
There are worms in the basement, excavate the whole **** room
Cause too many worms will spell your ******* doom
I like to think that there are worms inside me
And to think I once thought them as my sworn enemy
The worms of the world have helped me to see
Should I ever be without them, I’ll dangle from a tree
And worms and or isn’t, sadness bitter glee
Fe fi fo fum and a magic floating pea
’Twas a long time ago when the worms were so blue
But now they are happy cause I’ve accepted them true
Now I welcome them in, with their families too
Consider letting some worms live inside of you?
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
Hmm
The quiet density of a heavy ceiling.
I can't tell if caving
or breathing
Or maybe I'm exaggerating
my
phone exchange.
****
Somehow still I just
reallllllly
really
Want to cover up. Deep. Somehow.
My eyes are so full.
I feel sorry for the burn victims that got too close,
But then again, you can drop a cigarette and
BOOM
Outta ******* no where
your french toast
But cover me in honey, honey
And I swear not to flinch
Because these burn have let the skin expose my soul
And my soul doesn't speak in adjectives
but it climbs
And climbs
And climbs
And I don't know what I'm ******* looking for
but somehow I believe everything you've said.
Aloe
Alum
We are the same.
There's nothing else to it.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
Im not sure how much I like it here
The lights strung along these walls are more like little blazing suns
and my eyes are unable to adjust to any of them.
The overwhelming taste of frosting makes my nose itch and
I want to go home.
But I cant, because I was brought here and thrown out of hiding.
Like a dog with it's tail beneath his legs I smiled, grinned really, I was grinning like I had gold between my teeth.
And they laughed their fee-fi-fo-fum laugh and I tried to laugh back but,
You know how it goes?
Giants always seem to ****** your breath away.
Maybe its their smell.
In my head I rehearse
Where's the bathroom?
Where's the bathroom?
But in reality I mean
"How do you exit this castle, and are you sure there's no crocodiles in that mote?"
Besides, If you can count the years of my life with candles on a cake then I haven't lived long enough to die here.
And what happens when I blow them all out?
The smoke is giving me a headache, and I can now feel the wrinkles cracking above my flushed cheeks.
Please save me from this fortress of fumblers because
I want to go home.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
i am sick to death
of stepping on everyones toes
just to walk in a straight line.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
Once the fee fie fo fum ********
Stopped, he was small,
Lying still,
Eyes and lips glued,
Orifices finally stuffed.
What would a priest do?
So, I stretched my hand,
Ritualistic-like,
As a benediction of charity,
An attempt.
I should've worn a soutane,
Perhaps used a kneeler,
But suplication ended.
That night, I looked
Beyond the moon
To starry clusters of ka-boom,
But nothing.
That sealed it.
Death bed conversions
Don't move me;
Death bed confessions do.
Ah, still nothing.
Forgiveness has
A statute of limitations.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
its a good smell, Humans,
it got me a job in a fairytale.
I always was a giant
and beans go well with their flesh
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Aye! Foreign Eye; tooth for a truth! you gnome eyne sane? Troot I owe ewe nah, youths dunno, you fin nah Noll. *** eye us fin nah per se, foe Theo Theo, ewe know O you no, enter ups shun, wot in the hex dies... jest say? Dis' awe beast anaconda sate shun bout Intrusion. O Why? O Why? O Eye, ice bins scratch in at Maya -Maya, day yum eye, forests rail lea bane it she laid lea. Wear Aye, yum Aye, yum Ah! Yea, *** eyes us sane, isis slow ands dims sum. Bess beefs be indy, indy, India, India, Far test fum yore deaf viand as understanding! O My! you oft de deep and of diem, diem... dim niche holes. couldst I ask I such without such plea? Pulleys! Pull East! Scaly wax inner interim oh, honor too, ides doe no, disease?
Lo! Land ** Too old geese sirs seize dearth closure mead wits mine ***** eye; and Naughty Wit Stan Ding disown. Yet fervor from mine arenose ol' hail home, I hath ne'er be -admit I to I; and plead to thee, wizened dis' Beseecher's breeching beach! Shea jest dis' a-greased wit who sow error to dew sew... ***** nil eat.
And therefore store my old hat lore, as I cast in twos that sea... Aye! thee, Foreign Eye! Truth for a truth, if truth it be, truth tell I, true to thee do I e'er be nah; e'er be I, true to thee from noun on; in air go, did jest *** you ditz dun to me, but now a blind eye a-see a freed bird!
- I caste you one lass time in due thus see. Cuss you beast an false eye, my you still dunce see, still blind you be, be dissin' in my sir name an airy way, and mode in air gone come.. a-seaward.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
*** one measly **** sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
There was always something strange about
The tree by the clifftop farm,
It hadn’t been there when I was young
Till the storm blew down the barn,
Then once the land was cleared it grew
At a pace I’d never seen,
A raggedy, twisted wreck of a tree
That my wife said was obscene.
‘Why don’t we cut it down,’ she said,
‘Why do you let it grow?’
‘It doesn’t do any harm,’ I said,
‘It’s there for the winter blow.
It stands where it will protect the house
From the fiercest winter storm,
It may be ugly to see,’ I said
‘But it helps to shelter our home.’
The roots were massive and twisted, and
They spread, all over the place,
They tunneled under the house and then
Came up by the fireplace,
I chopped them off and I poisoned those
That tried to come through the floor,
And then I found there were other roots
Jamming our old front door.
The winter came in a rush that year
And we were buried in snow,
We hoped that there’d be an early thaw
But it didn’t hurry to go.
We stayed inside and we stoked the fire
With the roots I’d cut from the tree,
The food went down in the larder, but
The fire burned merrily.
I hadn’t so much as glanced outside
For a month, or maybe more,
The wind would howl at the chimney pots
But to go outside, what for?
Then Spring shone over the windowsill
And the snow began to melt,
So finally we could venture out,
I can’t tell how we felt.
For out there at the side of the house
The tree had grown grotesque,
It seems it had continued to grow
Beneath its snow-clad vest,
For branches snaked across to the roof
And clung to the chimney pots,
To hold itself upright and aloof
Where I’d chopped the roots right off.
But what had disturbed and frightened me
Was the tree had grown in height,
Its gnarled and twisted trunk so high
It was almost out of sight,
It disappeared in a darkening cloud
That seemed to hover and stay,
While other clouds were adrift up there
It was still there, day by day.
At night, with terrible grinding sounds
The branches moved on the roof,
They tumbled off the chimney pots,
Believe me, that’s the truth!
The wife said, ‘We should have cut it down
When we had the chance, last Spring,
But now it’ll probably take the house
So we can’t do anything.’
I know you’ll never believe me now,
It all seems so absurd,
But I broke out the elephant gun
At the sound of just one word,
We lay abed with it overhead
And the tree began to hum,
It woke me as I listened, and then
The word I heard was, ‘Fum!’
I aimed the gun up the tree that night
At those penetrating sounds,
I couldn’t have fired enough if I
Had had a thousand rounds.
And something hurtled on past me then
To land right down in the bay,
The tree was silent, it ceased to hum
And I chopped it down next day.
David Lewis Paget
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
fee fi fo fum,
I feel ******* dumb
hickory dickory dock
just want the clock to stop
knick nack paddy wack
my life and mind have no slack
where it will stop, no body knows!
my mind always running but I wont let it show!
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
Îmi deschid gura și e fum
De parcă winston m-ar fi luat și câștigat
Ca pe un trofeu.
Cancer deraiat de eu.
Ciuda zbiară.
Înghite ca o termită toată camera asta din lemn răstignită în casă-goală
Roade păr, unghii, gânduri, șoapte
Speranțe.
Deșarte.
Împletite în părul unei alte eu.
Una ce nu e răzbunătoare.
Una rămasă copil stingher pe o strada de București mai puțin tulburătoare.
Dumbrava Nouă portal spre Strada Bîrca numărul 15,
O mișcare, 7 fețe.
Ilinca minte, Ilinca doare, Ilinca crește, Ilinca ucigătoare.
Ce mârşav gând, să scap de mine.
Mă holbez la oameni poate uit și revine
Viața într-un moment maniacal al zilei.
Un spate îndoit, un umăr întins pentru tine
Să-l mângâi, să-l fărâmi în palme
*** dorești.
Eu ard dar am răbdare.
Să pier ca cerul dimineții în favoarea verii.
Rupt din soare.
Jan 6, 2022
Jan 6, 2022 at 2:39 AM UTC