"gizzard" poems
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…stirred her iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
…home of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
…and no one else has ever seen much better!
Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.
Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!
*Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!*
Abigail Primpot,
...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
...she had an iron ***
Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
I think of her
She comes to mind
Did you buy him a lizard?
Nancy, dearest
Wasn’t feeling her best
When she sliced through his gizzard.
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
She don't wanna speak to me.
Me mind is hidden under a cloud of darkness.
Dere's a feelin' of inner struggle.
I must release reggae.
spliiiiiff
I rise out of me bed in terror.
Me dreamt of a lonely island boy, lost at sea.
Could you imagine, no friends, no food.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
I'm trapped in a reggae box
I can hear me boy screamin', but I can't find 'im.
I call for 'im, "JACO! JACO, MY YOUT!"
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The room is a maze, no exit.
Could me premonitions be true?
Could me boy truly be lost?
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Me vision's too cloudy.
All to be seen is rat-like faces, cringing.
Their snouts snort and sneer to a reggae beat.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
The floor falls from under me.
A lizard's heavy gizzard appears below.
Crooked, sharp teeth shining tru de dark.
No reggae release.
spliiiiiff
Colours upon colours.
An indigo man stabs, then rapes a magenta woman.
Until the reds, and greens, and blues, explode from her stomach.
I must release de reggae.
spliiiiiff
I catch me breath. I'm in me room.
Safe and sound.
Jeez, what a bad trip, still?
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
there's a hole in my head
where the gamma gets in
tickles my brain
giggles my skin
turns my insides
to outside in
throws all my cares
into the wind
curls my hair
into corn rows
florescent's the jam
between my toes
spittles the spine
blows its own nose
grabs tightly my gizzard
then let's it go
adds purple highlights
to the hair on my face
takes my overbite
and sets it in place
makes me want to run
although there's no race
all through the hole in my head
filled by these gamma rays
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
The long white curtain is still hanging on. The baby still
sleeping somewhere in all of that. I don’t mind
a thing. I don’t mind at all. See how slow and good
it can be? He says and points to my gizzard. The one he
insists upon me having. The same one I have given up insisting I don’t.
I’m addicted to the pith and gaff of his arguments,
how stalwartly he rows them down the narrow
passage of our trying not to hurry banter. I curl into the slow
lilt of how he doesn’t mind strolling around inside of promises,
like Burt showing Mary Poppins another chalk Paris. Look! A
riverboat! Lights and parasols. Pretty lovers laughing on the prow.
We’re both still wearing your T-shirt
inside the stewpot dreaming we do between sex. Aprons
and porches, babies and waterfalls.
The kinds of props you bandit from other people’s dreams.
Shorthand for lovers, with an hour to prove they exist.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:12 AM UTC
I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of
the arthouse
where we were reading.
His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.
I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level
of comfort in calling the old gizzard
this municipality's own
Charles Bukowski.
The grizzled old poet
is telling wanton tales
of love and honeydew.
He goes on and on,
recounting the times
that he's drunk
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers
in the backseats
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties
hosted by zebras and
gazelles.
We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.
Seeking to continue
the conversation with
my salty comrade,
yet knowing my own
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.
His interruptions jam my
traffic before I can even make
it onto the onramp of his
particular, peculiar highway.
His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.
He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.
And, now he's chewing the rind.
His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of
zest.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
in the valley of our anon
you're not the only... but that's not your " what ? "
you venture forth of course
with less mad meter but plenty.
you gem your brevity
with terse goiters. you force no order of magnitude
to enforce your oblique corners.... your poetry
has it's druthers.
but alas -
we humans lack the knack to be twice true.
we acknowledge our acknowledgement
and stake claims we claim
we name true
and I've met you
in the cyber what
of our collective
**** the happy naked !
we rumpus in the gizzard
of a lost gator.
wrecking the Ruxpin
of our Teddy Rosey
welts.
Poets Know Who Hurt Happy and Joy The Next.
we are well met, yes.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
I needa write another poem tonight.
Here it goes.
I'm drunk in my veins.
My stomachs in pain.
My poems alone.
My body’s a tomb.
For every beer i drink.
Trying to count sleep.
Minutes at a time.
**** this poems rhyme.
End it here.
**** me.
Carbon molecules are a ****** up species of atomic number mass, that should not critical in this place called "Baton Rouge", either its rough type and jock-ass-mild-temper, need them, hate me, near the river so that i can end my ******* life, with a last drink tipped, into my gizzard.
All the frats are belong to us
Tonight was a good night could I only remember.
**** Bukowski.
I'll **** his ****
This is all he writes about.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
A companion poem to:
When Love Grows Old [1]
a differing perspective,
liking the eye opening
view this occluded,
cloudy closed Saturday,
a morning gray, early days,
it comes with opportunities
aplenty & new word combinations
in a new world awaiting a Magellan
I spy discoverer, and
we
two
have more than 150 years
existence tween us and that
makes me grin, because I anointed
her to a new position yesterday:
Chief Technology Officer
the very expensive machine
that supplies us with energizing
fresh plasma, clean blood invigorating, without which
we could nary drag our antiquated
bodies to the next day,
got on the phone, dialed an
800 number,
stuck het hand deep into it's gizzard innards, and released the
machina from it looping flashing
display of displaying its non-cooperation and its message that
It was unwell, abd she operated,
and made out coffee machine well
again
snd gave us this Sabbath, a reason to be thankful having righted this
left footed poet to a younger
poet boy~man
again, a gain!
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
Eye of nywt, tail of lizard,
Bat wings and vulture gizzard,
Steam, boil and bubble,
Witch’s recipe for trouble.
Cuts of nail, strands of hair,
Remember the green eyes, what a pair,
Stir and mix this Witch’s stew,
Watch it foam, see it brew.
Revenge is cooking up so sweet,
Another touch of magic will knock him off his feet.
Rituals, Incantations and Spells,
Serving him a batch of Hell,
Demons rise to my aid,
Crucify him, make him afraid.
Worlock’s and Witch’s from covens far and near,
Help me with my Rites, help me spread fear,
Snake venom and coffin dust,
Make him pay for his selfish lust.
Spirits of the ****** reach out,
In agony I want to hear him shout.
Nightmares of ghastly ghouls,
Knives sinking in ****** pools,
Always haunt him, torture him!
Make him know; ******** me was a horrific sin.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 5:49 AM UTC
Repetend gerent war ashes
Laspe humanity plume the
White heat lyre of Benu and
Sin actuates titonomachia quarrelling
Over the actinic lymph mother, Gaia
Succumbing unto the familiar solstice
Of Pandora's box wist' nights
Ricketiness randan morn' curtail
The nebulous clouds of lauded occidere
Homeric laughter to stick in ones gizzard
Sans the wraith brazen head to steal
A march upon forty feeding like one
On the vegetable lamb of Tartary
Ridding annulment.
ELEETE J MUIR
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
rotten calendars
cigarette burned gizzard guts
memento mori
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Ode on a Monitor Lizard
I saw a picture of a monitor lizard
Its skin is scaley and its tongue is scissored
I’d back away from that wrinkly old wizard -
I don’t want to be ground up in its gizzard!
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 9:02 AM UTC
there's a hole in my head
where the gamma gets in
tickles my brain
giggles my skin
turns my insides
to outside in
throws all my cares
into the wind
curls my hair
into corn rows
florescent's the jam
between my toes
spittles the spine
blows its own nose
grabs tightly my gizzard
then let's it go
adds purple highlights
to the hair on my face
takes my overbite
and sets it in place
makes me want to run
although there's no race
all through the hole in my head
filled by these gamma rays
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC