"globby" poems - Hello Poetry

Lordy it's a pretty day though humidity may ruin the glue must use less water or else the whole contraption will fall apart- balloons pop wire melts oh no Machu Picchu is ruined just a globby mess of beer bottles and pizza boxes how can I describe how you look like a less attractive Jason Segel and not even nearly as cool still pretty smart though but something tells my brain there are plenty more even better maybe a male model with a heart of platinum- or chocolate! what a perfect man eat your heart out.

0

Jun 3, 2012

Jun 3, 2012 at 2:12 PM UTC

matalie-niller

Paper Mache

Lordy it's a pretty day though humidity may ruin the glue must use less water or else the whole contraption will fall apart- balloons pop wire melts oh no Machu Picchu is ruined just a globby mess of beer bottles and pizza boxes how can I describe how you look like a less attractive Jason Segel and not even nearly as cool still pretty smart though but something tells my brain there are plenty more even better maybe a male model with a heart of platinum- or chocolate! what a perfect man eat your heart out.

17

(I.) Only a fool would try, in line by line Of fair assessment honestly expressed, To paint with words the finest of the fine Beauties of which you solely are possessed. No elegance would not seem spread too thin; And he who'd try would never be believed, For none would see as truth the truth therein, But think it all a lover's eyes deceived. So candid pics and videos must record What speech could never adequately limn, And would be doubted elsewise word for word,— The evidence being hearsay and far too slim. Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:— All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out. (II.) Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose. Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs. Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows. With microscopic mites your shiny skin Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies Flitting around about and out and in, Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's. Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth. Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan. Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can! But here again the painting is askew: It lacks that certain something that's in you. Yes, rubber soul. *

0

Mar 16, 2015

Mar 16, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC

sam-hainev

Blarney

(I.) Only a fool would try, in line by line Of fair assessment honestly expressed, To paint with words the finest of the fine Beauties of which you solely are possessed. No elegance would not seem spread too thin; And he who'd try would never be believed, For none would see as truth the truth therein, But think it all a lover's eyes deceived. So candid pics and videos must record What speech could never adequately limn, And would be doubted elsewise word for word,— The evidence being hearsay and far too slim. Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:— All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out. (II.) Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose. Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs. Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows. With microscopic mites your shiny skin Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies Flitting around about and out and in, Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's. Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth. Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan. Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can! But here again the painting is askew: It lacks that certain something that's in you. Yes, rubber soul. *

32

I can almost taste how tense those muscles are when they swing the red-hot tire-iron into my face again and again And oh, how the blood keeps coming and oh, how it pools on the uneven concrete Steamy and globby and staring at my contorted jaw and the hard lines of arms using my skull like a drum More thwacks and now human barbecue as teeth drop into the syrupy mix and float like islands and I think of A.1. steak sauce One second of silence and I wipe my hands on my thighs The only difference between jeans and a dress is about six inches and I start to wonder Which six until my head jerks left and then right again and God, don't those ******* arms ever get tired I lick my licks and lap up the red that must be running down my chin Tastes like maraschino cherries and some other flavor I can't quite grasp I search the tip of my tongue for it but find only the holey ridges in my gums and suddenly I realize Maybe that flavor is the six inches that separate jeans from dresses But then I laugh, and somewhere far above me someone else does too.

0

Jun 20, 2015

Jun 20, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC

doubleu-el-ar

Which Six

I can almost taste how tense those muscles are when they swing the red-hot tire-iron into my face again and again And oh, how the blood keeps coming and oh, how it pools on the uneven concrete Steamy and globby and staring at my contorted jaw and the hard lines of arms using my skull like a drum More thwacks and now human barbecue as teeth drop into the syrupy mix and float like islands and I think of A.1. steak sauce One second of silence and I wipe my hands on my thighs The only difference between jeans and a dress is about six inches and I start to wonder Which six until my head jerks left and then right again and God, don't those ******* arms ever get tired I lick my licks and lap up the red that must be running down my chin Tastes like maraschino cherries and some other flavor I can't quite grasp I search the tip of my tongue for it but find only the holey ridges in my gums and suddenly I realize Maybe that flavor is the six inches that separate jeans from dresses But then I laugh, and somewhere far above me someone else does too.

13