"getty" poems
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?
I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.
O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
My minotaur has mad cow's disease.
The FDA is rounding up each one
in a forty mile radius for slaughter.
They're incinerating the bodies
at the trash-to-steam factory. I hear
gunfire and wailing children. Sharon
next door is in shock. She's been
on her knees down on the lawn
mumbling, "please, please, please,"
for the last two hours. Crimson clouds
bleed into sunrise. How will we
escape the seepage?
I'll stop at the Getty for a car wash
before I pick you up. Have some
sandwiches packed.
O for the love of God,
the moos, the moos.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
I miss our Rick & Morty Marathons
and your attempt teaching me how to play Fortnite.
I miss the "I love you's"
and texts filled with blue hearts.
I miss your smile lighting up the room,
the gazing into each other's eyes,
and our quirky giggles
as we glanced at each other.
I miss lying by your side,
holding each other so tight.
I miss ********** anywhere
whenever we got the urge.
I miss our movie dates
and convincing our parents
to stay out late.
I miss our late night drives
and the way you'd mess with me,
turning the radio volume up and down
every time I danced insane
in your passenger seat.
I miss our first kiss on the rock
at Getty Heights Park
and our last in your car
dropping me off.
I miss sneaking out my bedroom window
and our late night smoke sessions.
I miss you sneaking up behind me,
picking me up
and throwing me into the pool.
I miss you holding me from behind,
looking in the mirror
as you whispered, 'I love you.'
I miss doing your English homework
and the inappropriate jokes
you'd leave on the shared doc.
I miss our long hour phone calls,
talking about whatever came to mind,
laughing hysterically.
I miss all your dogs,
but most of all Coco
and taking her to the vet.
I miss your family
and your mom's dinners
and persistence of getting me to eat.
I miss cheering you on at all your
hockey and football games
and supporting you through your decision
to join the Marines.
I miss getting caught,
and getting condoms thrown at us.
I miss our long texts;
good morning and goodnight;
good luck and it'll all be okay.
I miss "bby"
and "your my princess" to "queen;"
"prince" to "king."
The list continues,
missing everything about us.
But most of all,
I miss you.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
Interfere journey Interference body Sweaty Write Mud
mind Breath getty Read Reference speed Preference encryp
To Two Time Self ready flow sacrifice beliefs feeling elf pelt
killing part of myself scuffing dreams bare in the air unfair
outspent **** wiped well being clean provoked hell feeding on mean cornmeal convulsing restitution fed invertly beans bent
soul over to pilot retribution empty zeal stomach destitution
inside the pit spirit fly guide escape veal travel ways of savage meal
out the side five wing soar glide abide Nein but fine wine being shine
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
Youth is only accepted when the cameras are ready.
Pose for a picture by reason of Getty.
Gone are the days of sticks and stones and spilled milk.
We live in a melting *** that has been dropped and spilt.
This is not an adults swim only.
We will all jump into the pool.
This is not a land of first come, first serve.
I speak cause I’ve got nerve.
Our age is not a reflection of our IQ.
Our age is the tape that covers our mouths.
Our age is not a representation of our wisdom.
We won’t be seen and not heard.
Because our voices are the anthem of a rebellion.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
I stumbled upon Descanso gardens last December. Felt neck hairs stand at intention. Wishes of the past linger unfulfilled like paralyzed dreams never to be awakened into life. Fear of replacing the one impossibly interchangeable part of the story I wish be left forgotten.
We met for early dinner. He’s holding out for better and I’m so turned on. We walk the street for ice cream, only to decide I shouldn’t.
I keep my left hand in my pocket. Distantly, I think of getting pizza by the slice with you and suddenly I’m not hungry. He doesn’t like pepperoni.
I love his paintings. He’s an artist, too. I can’t, I won’t take him to the Getty. I want to feel all of him but I don’t want to hold his hand.
Damp blankets call him home to dry. Turning away as the sun sets, I stare at the dirt in front of me, so I know where I stand, present.
You aren’t there. I glance up at the night sky and look away. No more wishing on scars. A shrouded memory of a daydream I once had haunts today I wanted to have just before I woke to the life you never were.
I’m going to the Getty in the morning. Maybe I’ll bring flowers just in case. Or maybe a camera to take photos I will never want to see. Maybe I should just stay in bed and dream a life you’re still there.
Yellow tulips and Rembrandt long your cold piercing stare. We have a date tomorrow at the Getty, it will be lovely so long not to bestir. Bring your favorite pen, as to draw the best of intentions quietly running the palate of my cheek splattered about a cold white marble floor of permeating bitterness. Peering through windows unto the imagination of immortals, bright white fades to nothing
****** be the light of dawn
Now, in step…
Symphonic daydreams tread a measure
Twisted ankles, we graciously fall.
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 3:30 AM UTC
All the money in the world can’t buy love,
if all you receive are material things,
then really what was any of it worth,
I mean what would you pay,
to just have peace of mind for a day,
it seems peace of mind is worth more than any piece of artwork,
just ask John Paul Getty,
or better yet ask John Paul Getty The 3rd,
lost his ear over a few million dollars,
They say “You can’t buy love.” haven’t you heard?
In other words,
a Monet may be worth millions,
but a family is priceless,
I’d suggest not haggling with the well being of those you love,
because when you pay less you don’t know what you’ll really get,
and you get what you pay for,
and love is free so why pay more,
see it seems no matter how many lessons you learn,
there is always more in store,
on the shores,
of Malibu California,
eating grapes & crepes at The Getty Estate,
which was made to replicate The home of The Emperor Adrian from Roma,
built in the spitting image,
John thought he was a reincarnation of Adrian,
see our bodies are worthless but our soul’s are timeless,
now I’ve got so lost in thought that I forgot where we were again,
oh yes I remember now,
like an old man remembering what really matters,
having his moment of truth while taking his last breath by a fire,
with a priceless masterpiece resting in his clutches,
what matters is love,
what matters is the energy of integrity,
because without integrity no matter how much money,
all we’ll leave behind is an empty legacy,
see,
all the money in the world can’t buy love,
if all you receive are material things,
then really what was any of it worth,
I mean what would you pay,
to just have peace of mind for a day,
it seems peace of mind is worth more than any piece of artwork…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
I just finished Face Timing with Sunny, one of Lisa and my roommates.
She’s an edgy half-a-laugh, and I can’t wait to see her in person.
Sunny’s a slipa and seductive gadabout - this poem is about her summer:
She’s a treacherous lover whose infidelities could populate
a city of confessions. Apparently, the streets we ignorantly
travel, are crowded with immediate, sordid, physical wants.
And Sunny, she can see them, like blinking neon bar lights,
feel them, like radio waves the rest of us monkeys miss.
Does she ****** the Waffle House waitress (in the restroom),
the professor (in the closet), the Urban Outfitter salesgirl
(dressing room), the dental receptionist (supply room),
the bar girl who rejects everyone else that hits on her
(backroom), or do they ****** her?
“How do you know?” I asked her once.
“I know,” she said, nonchalantly purring like a big, Serengeti cat after a **** Now, you might ask - it’s legit - how do I know these trysts are real?
Well, at school, she brings a different girl to her room almost every night.
They pass through our common area quietly, on the way to her room.
And, like you and all of us - she carries a camera - and uses it.
Her cloud archive is an ****** deep dive into a hidden America.
Flipping through it leaves me breathless, and I’m not fem-facing.
If she sold it to ‘The Getty’ they’d have to open a new wing.
.
.
Songs for this:
i wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red [E]
Lava by Still Woozy
.
08.16.2:30p
Aug 16, 2024
Aug 16, 2024 at 2:30 PM UTC
Star Bound
Society, sobriety, entirely, I’m finally
Not in denial, my smirk is my smile
No coasting or boasting, no time left just get toasted
Rampaging pages, no waiting in cages, lately impatient
I’ve been standing dismantled, thoughts scrambled, abandoned
Pursuing soothing illusions, mirages emerge influent
These terrors in bearing preparing on perishing
Common ground sound, vibrations deterred losing renown
Bracing the wastes, enticing the tastes, priceless the chase
Overencumbered, numbered the days I have left to plunder
Decisions are rampant, listless the canvas, incision the campus
Unveiled are the plans to ensnare, hail to the king of the fail
Spots on the rocks with my scotch in the locks
Pretty, petty, steady confetti, embezzle the Getty be ready
Losses, no life lost, eternally embossed, drained and caustic
Fires burn urging to earn, no concern, my place in the stars
By: Cosmik
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 10:46 PM UTC
if not already , if I compared my worth to J. Paul Getty,
or my hymns to Shakespeares, or the length of
my thing to a **** stars,
I would be more arcane if I considered my value to be
the way I shine in comparison to a Van Gogh painting in
a museum, or a child's true smile,
my soft hand to a kittens meow,
my feet to a cows or my ******* to a sows,
my god given shine to the sun or stars, it is non-sensical
to compare oranges with a rotten apple.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
She pipped
a gypper
when she
was arterial
motion that
favor law
not crap
in our
legislature while
her isolation
in craft
are the
same families
with Getty
on Thanksgiving
if Serengeti
whir machine
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
Looking out from my summit,
Out below on the mountain of my mind,
The words of Getty Lee and his friends,
Sprouting from nowhere,
Telling me that the human being is like a planet,
And that planet is divided into hemispheres,
But one cannot exist without the other.
Intellect was one such hemisphere,
In another hemisphere was creativity,
Another was experiences,
And the smallest one was one I had been trying to ignore,
It was withered, abandoned, uncomfortable, alone,
It was the hemisphere of the bad ****
Memories of traumas,
New and old.
But now I knew without those I would be a completely different man than I am now today,
What's a little pain in the long run?
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
It's 9:38 P.M.
It's going to be another night for the profound,
I'm in that same darkened room,
Same kitchen light,
Cigarette smoke not quite filling the room yet.
But it shall soon, because I can already tell it's going to be one of those nights.
The sandman apparently forgot to visit, for my eyes are still fresh and new.
Getty Lee is jumping from the speakers,
The anthem is long and blue.
He's telling me about the protagonist of the story,
He had just discovered a relic of the past,
It's potential for destruction could not be more true.
Of how he takes his own life,
To hide away the weapon he had stumbled upon,
To ensure its location could never be pried from his mind.
I think of old buddies from the Army,
The shenanigans we'd get into,
Of times both bad and good.
It's when I do this that I really smoke cigarettes,
Or use chew, that was a bad habit from the Army, but I'm quitting that.
Neil Peart is thundering out a solo that imprints onto the inside of my skull.
I let the waves of sound wash over me.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC