"glop" poems
Even during the darkest of nights,
I am with this thought of my future,
Nothing scares me just enough to stop.
Even during the blackest of days,
I am with the memory of time past,
Nothing depresses me enough to pop.
Even during those hours of blues,
I dispel each of the purples in strait,
Because in being sad, I find just glop.
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 8:51 PM UTC
I'm too confused to turn my thoughts into poetry so I let them mix together like paint until I make a nasty, muddled mess. I'll glop them on a canvas and call it "Love, I Guess." I'd like to crack your skull open so you can feel this raw. Then I'd fill your head with termites and watch them as they knaw. I want you to feel helpless so you can understand why I'm so breathless. Why am I so loveless? Why am I so hopeless? Just feel nothing and everything all at once, or, rather, everything and do nothing about it. Maybe I'll feel nothing so I can do everything wrong. I'll dance a dance or sing a song and let rain fall around me without covering my hair because I just don't care anymore. I just don't care. I'm in like and love and hate and jealousy and loneliness and an unfailing passion to have everything I've never had before. Crack my head open and take out my limbic system. Let me be numb. Take out the memories. Let me be dumb. Clean it all off and put it back in. Let me feel whole again.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
Honey, I love you, really I do
just like a hog loves slop
your big stick-out ear I chew
what the heck is this glop?
I kiss your chops, pucker up
hold me tight in the pen
mud pies are the runners' cup
if we win, we'll run again.
Dear, I nestle near your nuzzle
smooch me all over my face
take me apart just like a puzzle
I've lost my dignity and grace.
But first we have a race to win
slather soil, don't dare foil
beat the pork out of your twin
let's make it worth the toil.
I can always tell you two apart
you say you wonder how?
I can look at your counterpart's
moon when he take a bow.
Yours is handsome, his only cute
Hammy, you are my choice
let's cuddle in our birthday suits
tell 'im to drink with the boys,
so we can be alone, you and I
take a bath in tub of mud pies.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
It wasn't that bad, that trip to the ER,
And my sickness didn't leave a physical scar,
But I must admit I got carried away
While making that soup one fine winter day.
See, my friend went and dared me to make the stuff,
And to this day it could've been a bluff,
But when I am dared, it's a serious matter,
So I started to whip up a little bit of batter.
Right into the fridge, my hands were busy,
Making that soup really got me dizzy.
A fish head, salsa, old dried beans,
Mustard, spinach, and coffee creams.
That glop must have boiled for hours and hours,
And that kitchen, I swear, it needed a shower.
At any rate, I don't yet feel regret,
But I'll tell you right now, the key word is yet,
Because I still have a big medical issue,
And on top of that, no social life, too,
But the occasional heart attack won't make me droop,
Because I loved making and eating that soup.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
beautiful girls do not know they are beautiful
they are told they are beautiful in phrases of objectification
a little girl will grow up thinking she has to give her beauty away to society
to the boys who want her to be a certain way
to her parents who want her to be opposite of what the boys want
to the other girls who want what she has, thinking her beauty is something of a secret
no one will tell her that her beauty is her own to keep for herself, to share with others when she wants
no one will tell her that she doesn't owe anybody anything
so she'll give it away
a little girl will grow up thinking she has to be worth something
that her value won't ever be enough
that she has to weigh this amount, wear these clothes, glop on that much makeup so her real face becomes paper thin underneath the mask of plaster she'll try to pass off as her real face, her real smile
she'll starve herself, she'll gorge herself, she'll look in the mirror with such disgust,
hating every flaw that was once unnoticeable to her untrained eyes
her eyes will become hawks hunting for prey of impurities
her body will become a battlefield
and there's a chance she might lose
girls grow up
thinking they are in debt
some girls grow up
knowing they don't owe anyone
anything
but most girls grow up
without knowing how beautiful they truly are
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
our second of two lasses conceived
sometimes within a blink
the exact moment auguring conception
difficult to identify or pinpoint
whence seminal liquid
********** from a ******* *****
birth of second daughter thyself and spouse created
while immersed in the ****** drink
generally occurred during
our naked lunch sans primal cop
yule la shun, via carousing with amorousness
when a seminal dollop
of passion circa May 1998 that pregnant verity
became definitive when the ultrasound
evinced a miniscule glop
pronounced by obstetrician and gynecologist
with an impending due date
yet unpredictable until the wife did evince
a swelling abdominal area, an ordinary fate
once pregnancy without doubt
ascertained both of felt great
lee excited at prospect thee eldest
would become “big” sister,
which less than total devoted attention
she would naturally hate
upon begetting youngest punim
indubitably saw her (Eden) irate
yet any jealousy temporarily deferred, offset
and thwarted upon the birth
of Shana, whose anniversary
she exited birth canal when a dearth
of being cocooned in the womb
suddenly necessitated adjusting to life on Earth
when formerly inducing
a bulge within the uterine hearth
and this papa nearly nineteen years
wept tears of joyful delight
with a complete set of anatomical features,
and gender as the girl found wife excite
head, cuz decision asper circumcision,
a moot point re difficult conscience fight
club and prediction as per average adult height
of female progeny, number two found the sight
a biologically whipped miracle I held tight.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
I feel my power waning
Like the Amazon
So lush
Yet cut down so slowly
By the cruel hands of men
Why me?….
In this whole wide sphere
Do you make a mission to commission me
for decay
Like a city I lay pristine and pure
Yet within my choked out pipes
I pump my veins in sewage glop
***** roads
They part
so many paths winding
So stars may twinkle and beams of the future
May sparkle with arrogant smiles
Be mine
Or be gone
Whichever suits you best
Don't toy with my thoughts
Nor meddle with my soul
I wish to be alone
Yet I yearn for company around me
Shaking hands
Scheming plans
Smiling with rotted teeth
And now…
Now, such a funny little word
A slimy word, a detestable word
For it describes the moment at hand
Though, with salivating lips, only desire the "then"
The kettle screams with steam built up
A child runs from home
(Enough)
A word so sweet so pure to taste
For it means to stop to cease
To end a trail of present things
A happy word
Where I throw my work down to the floor
Responsibility is away on vacation retreat
I want to be alone
But I don't
So maybe stay a while
With my indecisive tendencies...
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 10:46 PM UTC
toward thee spunky gal,
whose impregnation and debut appearance
way to brief a tale for Aesop
cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted),
out the birth canal aye did bop
analogously compared
to a mealy mouthed measly crop
a spindly tangle of arms and legs
radiated (starfish like)
dangled and would uselessly drop
like a raggedy ann male counterpart
(raggedy andy - how original)
with limbs that didst flop
and tis no small wonder, thyself as one
newborn baby body electric
easily confused with bony glop,
which skimpy weight
leant convenience as sigh grew older
to alternate jumping
(ala pogo stick mode) and hop
from one skinny spindle shank leg to another,
and manifold orbitz whip
sawing round the sun
bore witness to puny laughable specimen
of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight)
grew long straggly hair,
which NO ONE (except me) could touch,
nor most definitely NOT lop
off (this fetish) compensation
for very slight physique
in dewed time begot
pencil necked geek milksop,
now at an age prowl lix sing viz
dragging, crawling, battling...
slight abdominal bulge
unlike widower octogenarian biological pop
whose once strapping superman
like build atrophying (sad sight)
since grim reaper put objectionable stop
upon head of harriet harris,
whereat two and a half score years
her longevity did top.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
now, comb may tooth how zen,
sans eight plus ten
'twill be thirteen yars
when me late mum agonizingly relinquished
an indomitable loo ving life,
which strong fighting spirit
(spittle and vinegar) yen
reached a juncture,
(sans metastasized ovarian cancer)
forewent heroic measures, which ken
not avail bottled anger within this sole son
telling thee, he didst love ye
never communicating NOR often!
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
The freedom u say
The freedom I go
O goodness this not me
I'm going too slow
Walk faster I say
But then I stop
What the heck move
Then I glop
I guess not today have to
Pray must be tomarrow
There's always another day
Don't give you
That's all I got to say
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
I did not engineer
Nor attempt to construct
The human soul
No
Not I
The mere idea seemed frivolous
Damnably gelatinous and
Above all else
Impossible to comprehend
How silly it might turn out
Indeed I thought this
I did attempt however
To make a spicy jam
One evening at the
End of Winter I believe
Lovely time
When this,
What I consider the beginning of a debacle,
Began
I threw together
Bits, and things, and twigs,
And professional spices,
And Illicit words, and
Brown sugar,
And old tea,
And harmless fun
And Puppy Dog Tails,
And I’m allergic to snails,
And something that I called Steve
It could have been Tom
But it looked like a Steve to me
Despite its arguments that it was
A Barbra through and through
I stirred and fiddled and sang
To this black and thin glop
I indeed attempted to call
A spiced jam concoction
That was tap-dancing in circles
On my stovetop without permission
When, no I know, the usual happened
I became bored
Yes
Yes Indeed I did
Bored
Thoroughly
Bored
Bored
Bored
Where was I?
Oh yes.
Bored
Bored of this
Damnable,
Jammable,
Fred Astaire
Not spicy jam
So I left what would become
The self-engineering diluent,
Now a vicious, viscous, and crude thing
That would become the human soul
On the back burner
While I cooked some pasta instead
I prefer pasta
It is delicious
Not like that mistake of mine
It continued to be a mistake of mine
It was not pasta,
It was not spiced jam,
And I never remembered to throw it in the Hazmat bin
Whoops
For a year
I believe
It could have been a week
A very long and tiring week
Or seven years
When I heard the back burning
Singing back to me
About apples with a crisp bite
About fireworks that misfired
About drug needles used to sew together sanity
Was this too spicy?
With its two voices of
Hospital dust
And
Captive applause
Oh my,
This couldn't possibly
Taste good
I believe whatever this has
Festered into without
Adult supervision,
I believe it might be beginning to turn
Like milk and wine
I bottled it in a wooden bottle
And left it on the stoop of an orphanage
To find a good home
I wonder if this not spiced jam
Has found a good home
Last I heard
They all went from it to They
And attended Engineering School.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
Are You Going...?
*Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa
largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum
nóstrum. Ámen*.
Miz Busy with her homemade apple pies
Uncle Alfie lapsing into a snore
Young lads and lassies making goo-goo eyes
Miss Billie’s cookies (shhh…they’re from the store)
Children frolicking only with their ‘phones
Jolly old Ed basting burnt barbecue
An altar boy gorging until he groans
The teenagers’ gross game of choke and chew
Young marrieds getting into a squabble
Politics roaring like a thunderstorm
Bubba came drunk; he’s beginning to wobble
Tox ‘tater salad that’s gotten warm
Unidentifiable glop upon a stick –
No, I’m not going to the parish picnic
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
A little black square,
Jumping out of
The blank and white page.
Bleeding ink,
Oozing traces
Of what's beneath.
A little black square,
Jumping on,
The blank and white stage.
Spewing pink,
Glop.
Seeping slop.
Spitting out words,
In chaos,
Disorder.
And then it's gone.
The paper has soaked it all.
Back in,
Again under,
Beneath the surface.
Of my world.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
it's June###
(if you lie awake,
trying to pronounce June,
in NYC).
weed-whacked by flies.
a handball court taking
pains to paint both wall to ball--
black and white.
halved in cold heat on impact.
with a glop of grey.
sparing players with a stroke.
as the backs of blue buses melt
and bumble, into a wealth of streets.
sanitation blowing those types of kisses.
with wheels going round and round,
de-ranged with reup and rot.
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 2:32 AM UTC