"glob" poems
at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, ******
what can we do with it, this Humanity?
nothing.
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can **** you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape.
it's up to you to figure a plan.
I have met nobody who has escaped.
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life.
from blank gun silencer - 1994
7.3k
There are lobster fisherman
There are those who catch many fish
with big commercial boats and big nets
Many like to fish for the sport of it
for trout
for bass
for perch
But the only catch I like
on the end of my line
are compliments
That's right
Maybe I never got enough praise
A shy, nerdy kid with the low self-esteem
Maybe it's just a narcissistic need
to be noticed
I can sit there for a while
in my sea of creativity
Sometimes I might snag
an old boot
an old tire
a glob of seaweed
or a message in a bottle that says
"YAWN!"
Kidding aside
I write because it keeps me sane
Whether or not I have an audience of one
and that audience is me
or whether I can entertain others
I cannot stop or start the flow of my pen
for any reason but the love of writing
They say one man's junk
is another man's treasure
So when I feel that tug
on the end of my fishing line
with the paperless technology
we have to express ourselves
I know someone was hooked
onto the end of my invisible pen
So I am not too proud to admit it
I toss "modesty" out of my boat
for a bigger, shameless fishing experience
Grabbing my pole to reel in
the sweetness of those kind words
and I say, "Thank you!"
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
On the 15th of May
In the French Laund-er-y
There was a small man,
The Chef De Partie
He was mixing and stirring
And stirring his sauce,
But his sauce wouldn’t thicken
He was at a loss
So he needed to think
and ponder awhile
Until on his face
Was a bright white smile.
“I have it!” He said.
“I know what to do
All that I need
Is a nice thick roux.”
No reductions or tomatoes
Or even puree
He needed the roux
It was the only way
So what he did next
was truly “the ****
He melted some butter
And dumped flour in it.
This mixture was gloppy
And looked like wet sand
The roux was ‘a cooking
But looked awfully bland
Morton must think
How to flavor this glob
Chef Tomas Keller said
“Morton its your job”
He thought and he thought
“Oh what can I do?
Bechamel or Veloute?
What to do with this roux.”
“Veloute I think
Sounds good for today.
I’ll make some of that.
Chef might exclaim, “yay!”
So he added some stock
Of Gertrude McFuzz
It was the best bird
It certainly was
Fond Blanc De McFuzz
Was clear and not milky
Morton’s Veloute
Ought to be silky
He cooked it awhile
Maybe for one half an hour
And when it began to bubble
The roux showed its power.
It thickened and coated
The back of a spoon
This stuff’s almost ready
It should be done soon
He strained it
removing the floury bits
It needed to be clean
No clumpys or grits
It was almost over
It was just about ready
It still needed some tweaking
“Can’t we eat it already?!”
“No” said chef Teller
as he took a lick
Was it good? Was it bad?
Was the sauce too thick
“You did a great job!
Trust me, you did.”
Said Teller to Morton
“You did good kid”
“One thing I will say
That you forgot to put in
It’s the most vital ingredient
In the entire kitchen”
“Its something that most chefs
Don’t use a lot of
It comes from within
The spice of true love”
Morton thought a bit
Like he often does
And then he said
“Chef! That’s what it was”
“It didn’t taste right
It was missing its pop
Its pep in its step
Its fizzle. Its hop”
He learned something there
From Chef Thomas Teller
Food needs more love
It needs to be stellar
After all that
And in the end
Morton threw it away
And started again.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Her fingers were covered in corn.
the corn after chewing, broken
pierced, churned- it could spread as butter
thick on stale toast, if needed
"it's fine, don't you worry, we'll get you all cleaned up"
she stared indifferently
Strings dangled from her mouth, unswept
full of necessary greens ---"mhm there there, this will give
you so much energy" --- drags of breath,
half inhale half choke. nothing to look forward to,
not the next soaking glob, not the cursing woman
in the bathroom, not the spill of light to her eyes
Where are the ladles, Did you check on it? The key? Just moved, most the suitcases aren't there yet. Remember to bring the Did you check on it? pay attention. Have you seen my grand kids?
who are you?
Sunday's are for the active ones
The games down the hall are too far. Why worry with legs, if she could just adjust to the left
the world could sag into an ongoing dream- No demands, no games, no movement.
The nurses hair net had more presence than the splotch of gray against her peeling itchy scalp. Drool leaked from leather lips, dampening the collar of her two month sticky blouse. Arms curled and locked,displaying under the wax skin cranberry patches-
she never wiped them off. Always the soft murmer of
a snore, always the smell of unbrushed teeth and hampers.
"Did you touch those where don't touch me scott scott scott leave my things alone thevenin I need a stop lying I want to go scott, scott? scott. I can't remember any"
I said my name four times before she heard me, knew me
I fixed her pillow and my sister marked off the day on the calendar.
We told her about school, the marching band, each word
filled with forced enthusiasm. She bobbed her head in circles, lazily
rolling her eyes, the curtain shading the empty space. We spent 30 minutes precisely.
She was more than I realized.
I never knew she had horseback riding, violin playing days. She traveled and hiked. We could have been close. Unraveling with the mystery, I felt the lateness of my curiosity.
It was 30 minutes precisely, always.
We acted as strangers, reciting routine and wishing each other a happy day and a quiet love you
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
Your beauty is unmatched
your essence unscathed
you could wrap me in your curls
and leave me bound for days
The thick bristles on your face
resemble a forest to discovery,
your mouth a cave to explore
lighting the way with electricity
generating from our rapport
Sweeter than a glob of icing
on the last slice of cake—
Your twisted expressions
make my chest quake
You’re a lot to take in—clean cut nails
and pasty speckled skin; the
trail of hair on your belly and
your form soundly sleeping
where our motions had been
Now you are far a fields away
frolicking in colorless grass,
lost and in denial of what
you could have made last.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/
like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
(organic ******
as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.
the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)
little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.
star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.
in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
I try and I try
To avoid,
But I'm inundated
With that which
Is neither
Created or destroyed,
Being told what should
Matter to me
By people who know
Better than me,
Keeping me
Steadily annoyed
And readily brought
Right back to the void
In the back of the 'lac,
Like the goodfella boys,
Except I don't make noise
So they don't need to hack
Me up again.
But hack me up again,
I want to be the
Rough,
Gravely cough,
And the disgusting
Glob of
Post cigarette
Mucous
From your throat.
I want to be
The mold that
Spreads on the half
Bagel with cream
Cheese on it
That you forgot
In the back
Of your fridge
Two months ago.
I want to be the
Little puddle of
Fluid in the bottom
Of the trashcan
On the side of your place
That you've never cleaned
Out.
And then I want
You to clean me out.
Steal everything
I own, take
Until the load
Is too heavy for
Your arms, and then
Come back for more.
Break everything
That I love
And have owned
For years and years.
Take my money
Especially, it has
Spoiled my karma
For far too long.
Then we'll be even.
Then I can become
The rays of sunlight
That float in through
Your window every
Morning and catch
The floating dust in
Intricate, glowing patterns
And reach your closed
Eyelids, where I delicately
Dance until you awake,
Refreshed and thrilled
At the beautiful
Day that awaits you.
Then I can become
The buzz of your pumpkin
Spice coffee and the
Taste of your breakfast,
The wind in your hair,
The warmth of your bed,
The cool trickle
Of sweat down your hot neck
While we neck.
Then I can be your happiness
And it can be your turn
To be the slime
That coats my
Garbage disposal.
We can seesaw
Forever,
And feel complete.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
Oh my glob...thanks guys!!
I didn't think I'd get really big out on here....and I've only had HP for like....I dunno, a few weeks...
Thanks to all my new followers and people who like my crapssss!!
I love you guys hugs
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
Words glob like honey
Stuck to the roof of my mouth
Sickeningly unspoken
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
Less ‘ave a spot of fun, shall we?
Sumfin fun to do in ma spare time fo no particula reason,
An’ I like ta share it wif you.
Drop the T’s and pronounce yeh U’s like ew’s
Enunciation is key on heavy consonant words.
Forget practicality an be silly wif it.
Pretending fo a moment,
That there is a glob of peana butta,
On the ref of yeh mouf.
****** ell and bullocks only take it so far,
Yew must remain natural wif towne
But, simply mumble mimzy’s
Followed by ratulsnakes ‘n’ wota fawllls.
Tha best practice comes wif accenting ull day.
An than ull tha kids will think its ace!
Dowent get aggro, jus ease into it.
An fa ***** sake its Herb not erb.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
My Mind Is Full Of Dead Words
Decomposing Onto Books,
Creating A Vivid Picture Of
You That I Never Knew Existed.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Many times, sometimes only once every so often,
I’m burned alive.
The crackles of the fire soothe me.
So that I can carry this glob of pink matter around,
I leap from the tallest tower,
grab onto the slippery side, and descend
like a ball of paper across the room.
When I feel this way,
I want to punish the way my mind hurts me.
While everyone carries themselves with pride,
I walk alone. The pain of being an outsider,
the pain of losing the one focus
you once had, is silently deadly.
In those moments,
the room feels empty. The pain glides along
and I’m carried off by my toes
and thrown in the pit of despair.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
Baby blue cushion with the fabric ties, painting rocks with orange and blue on newspaper, got a glob on the wood only rain can wash away. Clean the glass out with q-tips, squeaky clean, tap remains into ceramic bowl made in 3rd grade, medium blizzard with M&Ms; and Reece's peanut butter cups, a burger at that hotdog place featured on Martha Stewart with bacon bits, colored pencils, Barbie coloring books, Jeep keeps stalling in front of my house, don't eat my burger, Ellie and Duncan, full bag of mini peanut butter cups, South Park, Heavy Metal, The King of Limbs - eh, JWoww, Cupcake Wars, the Big Dipper, aqua colored bikini with a magazine full of pictures, videotape my monologues, short hair, sundresses, Nike shorts and tank tops. Mini with a pen in parking lot in Norwalk, feet in the pool water, ants, smelly dog, big house in New Canaan, white Audi A4, drive with the Mosley Tribes from Loehman's for $75 -- a steal, scotch tape on toenails, purple, blue, and green polished stripes, church parking lot on Duck Farm
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Rolling with my thunderstorms,
violet shifts to black
and you run ashore.
Capsized outside a theatre,
I wrench you out
from the starfish glob of mess
I made, blow the grit
off your forehead,
scrabble for a candle
we can re-light together.
One time, mud snatched
at your ankles.
You screamed but I was seeing
drains and reflections
twisted in puddles
like fuzzy lines on the old TV.
A migraine came;
I threw it up into the sink
and slept.
Lost count of the times
you've tossed me out
in the snow, garbage among
banana skins, frozen earlobes,
but who chucks a duvet
over my frost-flecked skin
but you,
with a clumsy smile
and mascara raining
down cheeks.
Every time.
Tonight I find you
in the evening fog
after searching
every subway station
my legs would allow.
My shins cry for rest.
The busker plays
Bob Dylan out of tune
but can’t blame a guy for trying.
You discover my eyes,
put your face to my coat,
mumble words like you have
a mouthful of ice.
Lookin’ for a friend?
The 11.04 towards
Borough Hall.
We get on, I catch your breath,
count the hundreds
and thousands of steps
to home.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
Wishing on a smokey evening moon
for all the things I didn't get in june
A warbly glob thing prevented me
from uniting with my ev'ryth'ng
Wishing on a smokey evening moon
Wishing on an independence moon
The fireworks they made an awful boom
Jumped out of seat and moved my feet
But inside all I did was weep
Just missing you on an independence moon
I wished upon the moon that you'd be here
to celebrate the colors and the cheer
You're brave and bold and left me cold
I'm mindfuckt by your science so
I'm wishing you'd be here on
Independence day Mc Chievious
July the fourth in o'nine
Wishing on a smokey evening independence day lit gorgeous twilight moon
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
If I ever get addicted to cigarettes,
it will be because of you, Mike—
the screenwriter and smoker from Miami who I met
amidst the gentle crashing of the calm waves. It’s not
that I needed to smoke to accent the stars,
already so powerful in their summer sky without haze, but
I did need the smoke to accent you, Mike, to
hear about the time you climbed a mountain
where the air was so cold and the wind so fierce
that in your tent, your body created an atmosphere
dialectical in its warmth and surreal rain. When I
cough up phlegm in the morning, I’ll be thinking of you, Mike,
and as that brownish yellow glob slides
down the thin metal drain, I know I’ll think
that if I get addicted to cigarettes
because of you, Mike,
then it won’t be such a bad thing.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
Father Why’s Glob
*And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel here
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere
And eek as loude as dooth the chapel belle*
-Chaucer
A famous priest takes pictures of his meals
Writes detailed notes on how they were prepared
As he airplanes around the world attending meetings
To talk about people he doesn’t like
A famous priest takes pictures of more meals
Almost cellular closeups of bits of meat
While he is flying holy in first class
And praising his cabernet sauvignon
A famous priest promises prayers (and cookery tips)
If you will send him money for his many trips
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
pushing, pulling
stretching, contracting
so back and forth
almost as if
our relationship is
made of rubber bands
so I am trying
training myself
to be more flexible
but there's something
I can't seem to
accept; I can't
just let go and not
dwell on with
such unproductive
worry, worrying...
how long do I possess?
just how long until
this rubber band grows
brittle and snaps?
how long until
we're devoid of our
elasticity
and left with
only scrap bits
of ugly little pieces
repulsive grey shreds
scattered about randomly
- mere garbage, serving
as nothing more
than so much *******
littering our floors?
maybe I should
just ask this -
how much time
are you capable
of giving to me
without your being
within my presence
a forced effort?
and not a
personally desired
behavior of choice?
because, you see
although I will hold out
until the last
moment possible
I want to have
at the least, a
meager pathetic hint
warning me and
giving me time
to prepare
my mind and
my scar-riddled heart
for another lashing
so I won't be
entirely broken and
worthless when you
go and break it
break and shatter
chip another chunk away
from what little
I have left
that deformed glob
of an *****
pumping my blood
throughout my veins
and keeping me
a lost ******
I loathe this that
I am already
a weak, ugly
prisoner of my
own malicious
and traitorous
****** beating heart
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
Maybe
If I buy new sheets
I'll have an easier time forgetting you
And your shifting eyes
All morning sun and maroon.
I had better get a new color too
Just not blue...
That was the one before you
With the thin hair and half lies
And winter city lights.
And before that I like to remember nothing besides the yellow daisies on a peachy sunrise of my youth,
But the silky stitches will forever hold
Their petals;
White centered with a splintering,
Tainted innocence;
A pasty white puddle of
Bodies too young-
Caught in the riptide of our
Childhood storms
And a desire for adulthood
Or something seemingly more....
Stable.
Details will only cause us to once again derail
so I must insist you don't question this.
I've been going out of my way so long
Trying to wrap up my Saran facade.
Now every interaction
Feels wrong
And rubs me raw.
My plastic skin is wearing thin
And I might melt against the heat
Of the confrontational defeat
That I suppose ...
We all just get used to.
I keep tripping over perceptions
Strewn across a convex looking-glass
Of stereotypes and slurs that shaped my past;
And I suppose
Made a lasting impression
Rooted deep enough
to now be the
Instigator of my regression
And unrelated, runaway thoughts
That seem to always get deeper
On accident.
Everything will become a hazy memory
And glob into two word phrases
Of the forced politeness
That accompanies the acknowledgement
Of a past regret-
Still freshly gawky
As a transitional stranger;
I am inquiring
In an attempt to find an explanation for this untold something
That remains unseen
Until we're too disheveled
To distinguish it from a
A misplaced dream or idea.
Relativity counteracts the sheen
And perspective is everything,
But I feel myself slipping away
Into a despondent complacency.
I left all my linens in places
I no longer cared to be.
Yeah,
Maybe new sheets are what I need.
C.e.M 12.23.14
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
On my right eye I lost the glob.
Give it back.
I need it to snack on the sack.
You do.
Me do.
Are doo.
Put on your shirt.
Rub me in the dirt.
Wash my face with your glove.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
Meet Chuck: a sixty-or-so year old sweetheart, a retired chemist with puppy-dog hazel eyes, the occasional mucus glob caked in their cracks
What he wants: the usual: a sweet tater, salad with thousand isle, warmed loaf of Portuguese bread, glass of water with a slice of lemon
What he actually wants: someone who will listen.
Footnotes: get ready for this week’s stories of old travels, re-runs of grown kids’ work endeavors, and that one time he visited Chicago for some chemistry conference…
The spice: a lesson on removing professional masks of insincerity, or over-sincerity, as fake as the hanging plants in this place. a lesson on meeting mid-way to realize our chapters are not palimpsests, but offerings to the Book of the Universe, forever in composition.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Look at the ones
with beehives for mouths,
ejecting out opinions
to anyone caught in a net
of overworked words,
every opinion delivered
with a lethargic varnish,
each one a sting
as a glob of soap in the eyes.
But we use our voice
with our lips tightly shut.
Let the art inside us
buzz like a sneeze
waiting for release,
blast out in a fizz
of ink and smudged fingertips.
Hear the consonants trickle
like a tap not quite turned off,
the vowels rising and falling as waves.
Spill your thoughts if you must.
Make a point.
But don’t hurl them at us
with a sour taste ,
sharp as an already grimy blade.
Use them sparingly and well,
let them linger before
evaporating in a trail of steam,
as if a ***** of sunlight
before it slithers
beneath the horizon.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC