"gob" poems
How dare you treat me like this?
You must be taking the ****
Have you no respect to pay?
Will you just send me
On my way?
The problem’s Yours my friend.
With you I can’t contend.
You are just me, me, me.
You’ve left me totally free.
I’m better off alone,
With no-one in my zone.
You’re such a bigot and a snob
And nothing but a ****
Who fobs me off
With drivel
From your gob.
Your haughty arrogance makes me mad
As you are nothing but a cad.
Okay so you have all the power,
And over me you sure do tower.
But don’t be thinking that I’ll cower:
I glower waiting for my hour,
For my dog’s day
When You I shall devour!
Paul Butters
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
He struts through the street
With an arrogant stride
A staffy at his feet
Fills him with pride
Baseball cap on his head
Peak points in the air
Yea blood I'm hard
And I don't seem to care
Trackies and hoodies
Are the code of his dress
Big golden chains
Hang low on his chest
Sock's pulled up high
Above his designer boots
I'm a council house chav
So proud of me roots
I'm hard and I know it
And I'll rob ya of bread
Don't mess with me
Or you'll end up dead
His attitude stinks
Filth falls from his gob
With a chip on his shoulder
He don't want a job
But under the bravado
He's as quiet as a mouse
Living his life
From his council house
His mum is on drugs
His dad is long gone
No wonder this bloke
Turned out to be wrong
So show him some kindness
Just a friendly word
Might just be the the thing
That stops him doing bird
I somehow much doubt it
But its worth a try
Cause deep underneath
He's a friendly guy
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
Many people worry about their weight
In case it stops them ever getting a date
But gaining a few odd pounds is nothing
Just the result of a few days' greedy scoffing.
It's when you gain a couple of stones+,
And oozing fat smothers all your aching bones,
When your butts squelch against each other
Then you know you are a big fat mother.
But the cure for this is but a simple job:
You wire a padlock o'er your greedy gob.
Take daily laxatives and have no fear:
All will be relieved by constant diarrhoea.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
.*well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman ************ or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.*
in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
i moved away from
fine art nudes...
found an alternative
outlet....
https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5
i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...
it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...
who the hell needs
****** glory-holes,
******** crap?
pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...
**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
**** is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...
m.i.w.i.l.f.
mom in waiting i'd
love to ****
who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***
****** *****
who said we would turn the
******** avenue?
oops? for not being
adventurous enough?
adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***
******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...
i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
There was a ping pop and fizzle, I heard my new born grizzle, like fine rain it started to lightly drizzle.
There was a fizzle pop and ping, the force upset my ring due to the sting.
It took on a life if it's own and the poem went out the window.
It crawled out my ****** like a possessed rabid zombie, the worm had turned and gave a wink as it continued to slink out of my hole.
I swallowed the air which had thickened as a result of the gas creeping out the pores of the beasts own ***
This thing was a body in my body but nobody knew not even me!
I fell to my knees face to face with my creation not born from my mother but sort of like my brother.
Good grief! I had eaten a KFC bargain bucket the night before, I smiled and it smiled a gob full of corn on the cob teeth.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
this is the first time i ate
a watermelon, like i did today...
it's going way back
back to the times we
were apparently apes...
so there's this gorilla
sitting on a windowsill,
with diced watermelon pulp...
oh wait, what's in his bowl?
the outer-layer,
including the hard skin
of the watermelon...
you're ********
he's eating that too?
what, ever see a gorilla
peel a banana to get a
babushka jew-head out
from the outer layer?
(insinuating circumcision)
gorilla eats the whole thing!
and he's sitting there,
insinuating: fibre...
excess chewing,
keeps the dentist away...
so between chewing on the outer
layer of the watermelon
(including the hard skin) -
he drops pieces of diced watermelon
pulp into his gob, to water
the chewing dynamic...
what? you do it with apples
and pears, and cherries, and grapes...
the gorilla says:
fun experience...
intermission of a gulp of beer...
it's hard to imagine a gorilla
being the size that he is,
having the cullinary skills
of saying: oi! oi!
don't fry that plantain!
eat it raw!
half an hour it took him to chew
through the red pulp and the outer
layer...
and he thought:
**** as painful on the jaws
as i might have chewed a gum
for 2 hours.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).
Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.
Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”
It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.
And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...
And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.
But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”
*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
70 anyos ka don gakabuhi
Sugod sang mabun-ag diri tubtob nagradwar sa UP
Halin sang magkapamilya asta sa pulitika ginpili
43 ka tuig ka don nga pulitiko
Nagserbisyo sg mayo kg wala eskandalo
Ang ngalan malimpyo kg palangga sg tawo
32 anyos don ang buluthuan nga imo ginpatindog
Ang CapSU-Dumarao nga padayon nagapanikasog
Madamo na ka beses nga ginbagyo kg ginlinog
20 ka gobernador na sang ikaw magpungko
Ugaling ikaw guid ang may nabuligan sg damo
Gani para sa akon ikaw ang “Kampeon sg mga Capizeño”
13 ka president don ang imo naagyan
Sugod sa ti-on sg ikaduha nga digmaan
Asta sa ti-on sg tadlong nga dalan
2 na ang binalaybay nga halad ko sa imo
Kay ikaw indi guid madula sa akon painu-ino
Gob. Tanco, ikaw sa guihapon ang akon idolo!
1 duman ini ka maragtason nga ti-on
Kay ang Amay sg CapSU-Dumarao ara sa guihapon
Nagbuylog kg nagtambong sa amon pagtililipon!
-10/14-15/2014
(Dumarao)
*for Gob. Tanco’s 70th Birthday
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 10:15 PM UTC
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
2.8k
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
This land, what the hell befalls you?
I ask father again - where the voice dwells
Ours is a nation of eaters, no leftovers for
The wandering souls. We cry for a roof to call home.
Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
To the grumbling minors, arrows are thrown.
Our dreams now roam in the street like the
Rome of Demons. A dome of doom.
Abiola. Giwa. Strike with your papers.
May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 9:47 AM UTC
if you won't learn a second tongue, that's foreign to you, like, let's say french, or spanish... don't expect me to "integrate" into your society, and leave my mothertongue in a ditch, in the gutter, in a forgetfullness... i'm keeping mine, and you'll have to cut my tongue off, to make me forget it!
why? what's the main reason? the r! the R!
the trill!
well... i have another name for the so-called trill...
great oral ***
for one...
but in my gob... that letter equates to
a rattlesnake... the english took the ketamine-numbing
approach to the R... the french? they, they...
they just ******* hark it out... ha ha... as if they were clearing
their throats from too many cigarettes the previous day...
my R is a rattlesnake...
so, once more... oh, i learn your language, i'll even
beat you at it... given my current expression...
but forget my mothertongue, and not have the odd sing-along to a song
in my native (tongue)? forget it...
you numbed the R... you're almost swallowing your tongue
when expressing it...
where's your serpent regarding
the letter? oh... an anaconda... quasi-bear-like hibernation
after eating some animal in one gulp...
where is the snake's **** by the way?
do they have one?
i'd love to see a snake take a ****
but that's like: a month's, if not half a year's worth of "indigestion".
n'ah... i'll integrate, for sure, i'll use the tongue,
but not using the native? forget it!
you learn a second tongue! we have to meet halfway, after all.
i feel sorry for R in the hands of the french, or the english...
the former are harking it... the latter are numbing it...
me? thankfully using it like a rattlesnake.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 11:16 AM UTC
Dripping *** she stood there, completely unaware
That every man about her had turned around to stare.
For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled
She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled.
The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape,
Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape!
…And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake
And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake,
Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure,
She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure.
Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob
Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob.
Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed
At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast.
Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd
They all dispersed their different ways without a single word.
“Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play
With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away.
Ha!
Marshalg
Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play.
Pukehana Paradise
14 April 2013
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
You'll eat meat
And love a bacon sarnie
When you're ******
You'll smash a biryani
But when it comes to
Chopped pork, rinds and ham
No one wants to eat spam
In the Great War
We survived on rations
And beat zee Germans
With ******* passion
The lads didn't complain
About what they had to eat
Whether it was a le carte
Or mashed-up meat
But these days
That's not your jam
And no one wants to eat spam
It's great in a fry up
And ******* lovely in a butty
Get the kettle on
And get comfy
And enjoy
A cup of ******* tea
And eat your spam
Perfect with ketchup or HP
And don't complain
That it ain't real meat
Just get it in your gob
And enjoy this tasty treat
But most of you
Are to blame
And like the majority
Don't think it's the same
You're into avocados
Poached eggs and all that
And can't stand the thought
Of a chopped pig in a can
When you were young
You should've listened to your nan
Now it's a ******* shame
No one wants to eat spam
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 5:01 PM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
We doh cur fer fancy werters
Bring us bangers in mashed terters
Gie us pork-pie caressed wi mustard
Rhubarb crumble topped wi custard
If yo’ve got a full day werkin
Black-pudding, eggs, beans and bercon
Un doh keep saying, ‘it’ll do ya no gud!’
We wont loads o’ graerty pud
If yo’me hungry jus the job
A great big hondfull of suetey gob
Grannies rice-puddin wi a gob o’ jam
Branston pickle on hunied-ham
Fish-un-chips wrapped in old newsperper
Ma’s bread puddin, nah that’s the cerper
Un if yo’ve got a babby-sitta
Wash it daen wi Bonks’s bitta
Black-Country fowk doh wont fancy starters
We wont bercon wie grey farters!
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 1:48 PM UTC
Isa ini ka ti-on
Ginakabig nga maragtason
Bangud yara ikaw upod namon
Oh halangdon ang imo ngalan
Kay kami sa imo labi sa tanan
Kanami pamati-an, kanami pamatyagan
Sa imo pagtatap ipahamtang
Kon kami yara sa alang-alang
Ikaw isa ka mananabang
Gani imo ipadayon ang edukasyon,
Maayong lawas, agrikultura nga mainuswagon,
Pangabuhian kg pagbuhis nga eksaktuhanon
Gob. Tanco, ikaw don guid! Ikaw don guid…
Ang tampad nga naga-ulikid
Gani salamat guid! Salamat guid!
Lantawa kay naghugpong ang bilog nimo nga banwa
Agud ipakita sa bug-os naton nga probinsya
Nga kami naga-apin guid sa imo kg sa iya
Matuod nga malipayon man ini nga ti-on
Para sa amon tanan nga mga Dumaraonon
Bangud amon kasimanwa ang subong gobernador namon!
-10/13-14/2013
(Dumarao)
*for Gob. Tanco’s 69th Birthday
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
genuine anger, that implodes?
kinda makes
you sleepy.
been listening to too much
lindsay ellis: drinking...
in vino veritas verbatim...
ghost writers?!
you have to be kidding me...
kovalski!
- yes sir!
inquire about
the *bookovski
method*!
- the hyphen is
counter to the concept
of a prose narrative
in paragraph form,
translated into poetry:
fwee! fwee!
jittering away,
like a sparrow might!
**** me, does anger
make you sleepy...
if anger implodes...
that's like...
the... ultimate
sleeping pill;
it's a friday? some *****
taking
place in central london?
thank god i'm not thinking
about picking up and marrying
the scrap-heap of counter incels.
all i seriously wanted
was to become a bus driver,
the route 5...
**** anger is so exhausting
when it implodes and
does, but "doesn't" have
an outlet...
you don't teach kids
martial arts by kicking
one of them in the *****
and watch them curl up
like an oyster exposed to electricity
asking, or rather, demanding:
is there a kojak, a liver, a brain,
and an altogether in there?!
like an echo into a cave...
imploding anger:
makes you sleepy...
like the adversary of adrenaline...
or the emperor's throne room scene
music...
oh look...
yet another yawn
attempting to lodge itself
into the gob of a chimpanzee -
caught on camera,
"supposedly" laughing;
then again...
it would refer to the:
bankrupt broadcasting corporation,
given: sheeee shaville;
well... a sort of... oops?!
don't worry, you have ********
it's like the new niqab...
seems a bit... pointless to **********
if you've been circumcised.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
A gob of squash
in a saucer with a hub
let a carrefour marque
with an apple ding
in swirls of romance heading there
a crowd of superfluousness as a hip is king
and a patch through the field
that roll lushly on green for this round mesh
while exquisitness hit so sweet
in a shade of sky
where ablaze in silky attire
with her brazen desire again.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
*the sky on my back
is heavy now, and the thin light
a shadow.
i am perched in my godforsaken.
but my wings dare the holy
and my mind
tumbles up
like a last supper of glass worms
and extra ******
strychnine.
in the blink of an I
there's a wink
with a slovenly iris...
and a dull pearl
chink-blissed
in the shattered tooth
of my gnawing
gob.
a low frequency
in the high place
of my moon ***** cul de sac...
and an exact replica
of my dispossessed
reflection... a memory
that forgets best
as it mulls over
and dwells more ******
than the asking price
of my naive
assurety.
it is perfect. and glum.
but the gem is the thing
on the tip my tongue -
seeking and slithering
betwixt.
it's a fixed
star.
or
some
awful charm
looming in the dismal
and lurid
in the
Carnival.
you
are the ghost
that feeds my starvation
and the means
to an end.
a complete drink of sour kindness.
lopping off heads
like a queen of knaves and barking mad
mittens.
it's very cold
where we come from...
but we go
back.
and to
return
is to
speak
a
lost word
where we
found
it...
leaping reason like a squirrel
to a bitter branch
where the apples
are stones
and the leaves
are not amazing
today*.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
They fought like crackers
for the coveted prize
from the green bud banter
to the Sunday guise
whipped in a frenzy
by the Callaway score
torn asunder
at the elfin door
The hoodwinked watchman
holding council at post
stung by the folly
of the second floor host
a wild card shuffle
from numskulls and fools
high on their trade
and obstinate rules
Trenchant voices
remarkable cures
Billy’s brigade
and gob smacking boors
wreaking havoc
(in a flatulent way!)
staunch and bitter
and riled foul play
Scissor tailed catcher
and one eyed crow
trolls and packers
unfortunate woes
Lloyd’s forgiveness
and scowls at the chart
***** of fury
from a shot gun start
Gadfly’s and gripers
are unorthodox
the nineteenth hole
for **** in a box
tribunals and judges
a cold reverie
another fine year of the M.O.D.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC