"gobbling" poems
come sit on my words
dear reader
like outdoor furniture
for thin hips
while spooky poets peer up under gaudy umbrellas
nervous about making a good impression
all of your hosts
snuffed candles burning-out
for metaphors and alliterations
begging
one poem at a time
for a light
that we will never see
go ahead
antagonize me
you, who live in an idealized passed
fear the future
and ignore the present
while i hide like a little girl
behind the bare legs of poetry
that will show you!
my head a hanging web
that feels words like cosmic storms
tumbling stone heads
onto boulders of terracotta shards
my ink smells like stinky saliva
a dragging wet tongue of ambiguity
a kabuki fight to the death
unwinding paper machete viscera
and plucking out make-believe hearts
while gobbling fortune cookies containing
jokes, platitudes, and fortunes
that never come true
in a dreamland of masturbation's
i'm trying to break something in you!
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.
the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob
contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.
a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning
realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.
trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.
the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell
keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.
of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life
but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.
the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.
some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.
but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
i have fallen
between the stumps of the mango trees
to me their
leaves have become my umbrella
i sleep surrounded by dark soils
a typical shade of my mind
while watching each fruit bloom
green to a yellowish red
my skin starts to mold
its still a pretty site to have
seeing others shine
seeds of envy aren't planted in me anymore
cause i know
when their brown branches brake
from teach fruits gluttony
i will have company
by gobbling up
there's plenty of space
between the stumps of the mango trees
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 7:43 PM UTC
Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.
Abortions will not
Let you remember the child
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
Cock-a-doodle doo.
Pigs snorting and grunt.
Bleat baa the sheep.
Hidden in the trees squeak the squirrels.
Gobble gobble gobbling turkeys.
Low oxen moo the cows.
Hohi-a-hohhle hi
Bray donkeys so similar.
Rolling on the red dust.
The village.
A swallow-tailed bee-eater.
Calling and singing.
A green barbet, dark brown head.
Answers the call.
A red-capped lark, black bill.
Entertains the morning.
An emerald-spotted wood dove.
Seated lonely somewhere.
Coos to the extravaganza.
The village.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
It was my birthday,
Sixty Five years turned to grey hair.
My love and I, and two old school
friends on a breezy Fall day.
Over Tea and a lovely frosted
three layer cake, we cajoled
and joked about our age,
all turned senior citizens that year.
And yet in truth, we all agreed,
none of us had ever been as happy as then.
The cake was sliced onto china plates,
Each piece served flat on it's cut side.
I noticed something then as we all
took our first bites.
Our forks all started at the thinnest corner,
on the bottom layer's side, gradually
excavating the two lower levels of fluffy
cake, saving the best for last, the top layer
where all the sweet frosting remained.
It occurred to me then that indeed life
is like a three layer cake, the last top layer
can indeed contain the sweetest bites.
That rather than gobbling life hurriedly whole
it should be savored more like patiently eating
and enjoying a three layer cake.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
I can't quite wrap it around my head
**** polishing hobgoblin
Gobbling hot fudge banana split sundaes
topped with ***** cherry toppings
What I'm looking for
Just on the tip of my tongue
Just the tip
I can almost put my finger in it
*On it
Oops!
A slip of the lips
Verbally retching
Wretched word *****
Armed with an armada of double entendres
Sensationally double penetrating your ear canals!
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
14th Feb 2014
They are all around us,
within, without, above, behind and before us;
Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate
with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own.
I throw a stone
send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their
comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia;
drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools.
There are rules.
It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly;
secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human,
throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate.
Such ill-fate
that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness;
parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil
Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast.
And the Beast,
Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table,
fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression,
slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
a polar vortex
swirls eastward
on Siberian Tiger paws
bounding over
Appalachian Highlands
gobbling geography
gelling Great Lakes
spawning Erie blizzards
sculpting Wabash ice floes
clogging commerce all
along the Ohio River Valley
this voracious
juggernaut’s wide maw
bears icicle teeth
laughing as it swallows
Pittsburgh, Little Philly,
and a Big Apple, before
gorging itself on
generous portions
ladled into
simmering crocks
of steaming
Boston Baked Beans
growling
blue arctic
air blasts roar
bursts pipes
savages the heat
of blasting furnaces,
bubbling boilers, hot
belly stoves frantically
drinking oil, flaming gas
burning wood and
burping soot
the blistering
jet stream claws
screech a slashing
stratospheric hum
as Frigidaire blasts
swallows breath
brittles limbs
chafes cheeks
gnaws earlobes
crystallizes tears
nibbles nostrils
cubes snot
numbs toes
bites digits
diving sub zero
gradient subdues
batteries to
deaden states
delays buses
derails trains
cuts power
constricts veins
preys on
vagabonds
and animals
get the homeless
off the street!
bring the animals in
check on your
elderly neighbors
don’t get caught outside
and shut the **** door!
do you own stock
in the Public Service?
beware the polar vortex
and next months heating bill
Sonny Boy Williamson
& Otis Spann
Nine Below Zero
Oakland
1/6/14
jbm
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
The curious activity of men/women
makes me wonder precisely when
both will learn how to conjoin
with rabbits, geese, bull and lion.
Talking incessantly like birds,
roaring like lions. However absurd!
snapping like crocodiles
or habitually waiting in human files,
torturing like cats
water-boarding rats,
rolling like logs
snarling like dogs.
snorting like pigs
gobbling up figs
In everyone an animal lurks
whether saints or jerks!
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:31 AM UTC
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
Filled up with 150 different flavours of ice cream, 100% fat, 100% diabetes. Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
All night drive-thrus, the Golden Arches of heart disease.
Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
Super sized, double order of fries, any kind, anytime.
Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
Gobbling up commercials selling the same **** a million different ways.
Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
absorbing political excrement like a big fat chocolate candy bar.
Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake,
Gobbling up fear and propaganda, I slurp up lies, and wash it all down with a big **** you to a blatant reality staring me square in the face. I assume ignorance and deny responsibility. Give me more.
I am the swollen belly of a snake, bursting, spewing ***** over cities, because we knew deep down it couldn't last.
They filled me up so full I vomited violently until there was nothing left.
I am the empty belly of a snake and I am hungry.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
There goes the rich man walking down the street
With a godly gait and patronizing eyes.
He’s running late for a massage to his feet,
Exhausted from gobbling all what money can buy.
Do not dare invade his personal space;
We’re not worthy to reside in his presence.
If you must speak, do so with great haste,
For his time is precious and of the essence.
Come and marvel at his opulent mansion!
Gather around; bear witness to such glory!
Let’s praise and worship his lavish fashion!
Better befriend him or you’ll be sorry.
But surely when his gold mine runs bone dry,
He will fall into oblivion, left alone to cry.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
My father lit a cigarette and smoked the room up
with choked circles,
he rewrites every woman
he sees,
metamorphosis asunder,
because nothing is on tv.
My mom was hauled blindly
away from love to evening's riverbed
--to **** the fear of
correction away.
Birds talk about fish
that fly in airline crusades, gobbling up wise owls.
Blossom talons pluck
--up their words,
the closest a lie can come to the truth
and be set in stone None of them
will be remembered
the way they want to. footnote retribution.
The wandering dead only care about
modeling on the covers
of psychology magazines--hailing reviews that digest indulgence
beautifully,
carving chocolate waists
down
to starvation--we melt away to gnats
in Prozac hives
shingled with academic love papers
& bible covers.
Dear Alice,
you stole our table of tea, our shaved vigil,
our western rodeo,
our alcoholic omega.
Midnight on the dishonored battlefield
with the scythe beneath us,
we murmur love back into
our sheets of high horror.
Your meteorite adultery could not wipe
this hard drive clean--what we would lose...
the things we cannot touch.
Cloud 9 LSD,
its warriors passing
weapons down to the flock's ashes--to wives who fear
the wrath of their husbands. Chlorine gills quit
cold turkey
--sinks overfill under unorthodox skies--the turning of centuries
is nothing like flipping
pennies
into wishing wells.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
fifty trillion of them,
give or take an exponential few,
programmed to replicate, then die, ad infinitum
spawning perfect copies to ensure
molecular harmony
their perfection could not keep
their host from huffing on tar sticks,
gobbling bacon by the kilo, or worshiping the sun's crisping rays
until one of their eternal days, a perverse mutation occurred
one at first, then two, then four, then more
forgetting that all were once destined to die,
in a crimson clockwork fashion
apoptosis
the new invader would hear nothing
of this strange word, for it was the emperor of maladies,
its geometric procession a spinning spectacle to behold,
purloining space from the mortality hobbled trillions
evicted by cancer's kangaroo court
it will have its reign,
this galloping ghost maker, until
the host gives up the fight, and
that which fed its gluttony
will starve it as blithely
as the body gave it
******* birth
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places
grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira
instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately
The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written
the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
dwelling in a bathtub full of ember
skin, transparent like a plastic raincoat
max' core is a cage, his mouth like a cave
tags are scratched into his hands
he is walking over liquid letters, since
doctors replaced his blood with milk
cats are drinking from his open wounds
max is asking the mirror:
who could i be?
who do i want to be?
what will i become?
who am i now?
his memories are windows
the head is mutating, it will explode
thoughts are gobbling thoughts
wishes **** other wishes
the young max longed to be old
the old max wants to be young
a life, hidden in a purple casket
secrets drive each of his moves
addicted to the white magic of death
self-destructive, not trustworthy
he exchanged his kids against trance
sirens are singing songs of oblivion
take him away from this journey
trapped is he in placelessness
he became the thing he dreaded
nightmares are haunting his dignity
will his actions turn into an epitaph?
a funeral, under the heaven of his skin
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 7:58 AM UTC
The bugs need to eat too, and I'm their wretched feast,
They are a banquet of despair, a relentless beast,
I'm caught in their grasp, entangled in their might,
As they strip away my strength, cuddling me day and night.
The bugs need to eat too, their chants so clear,
Consuming my soul, where shadows leer,
No escape from their hunger, no end in sight,
Despair, my constant mate, swallowing the light.
The bugs need to eat too, as they burrow in my mind,
Feeding on my thoughts, leaving sanity behind,
Their hunger knows no bounds, their presence ever near,
Gobbling up my very being, filling me with fear.
Jun 7, 2023
Jun 7, 2023 at 4:45 AM UTC
Fingers locked
in female hands
a riddle
like legs free of clothes
crumpled jumpers
in a corner
resembling a salad
of what-the-hell-went-on
last night greeny-reds.
Dolled up
bees' knees
next time
not a person to impress
or dazzle with a fedora
top-shelf aftershave
charcoal-black shoes
gobbling this week's wages.
Miss your mouth
completely
see if you tick
the thirty-one boxes
know nail polish
birthdays
better than second-hand
lips and teeth and tongues
and lips
stash wit in a drawer
humour under the bed.
Spot the odd one out
like finding a disease
in a bloodstream
always observe
an owl in the room
watch others hurl feelings
I miss you's about
gobbledygook
resort to stories
only your pillow knows
they want the fire
not a lonely snowman.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I am young but old
Not chasing the singing dragon out into the night
Dumping the dragging lull of liquor into my being
Like it will fill the cracks in my psyche
Thwart the emerging of my being like some slick spector in the recess of my mind
Gobbling up my intellect one atom at a time
Relevant only to the tantilzing beat of the bass
The ghetto melody making me elated to the fact that
A white hick hippy want-to-be can never be a ****
I am young
With the knowledge that time is in my favor
Wild wanton ways of youth touch my limbs with excitement
Too much drugs and drunkin dancing in the streets of small time city lights
Where I float on the blissful bubbling blunders of slurred words
And harmless touching that we all know means more than the numbing
Fuzzy fingers of inhibitors want us to believe
I am young
But I grow old
With the acheing feel of gritty mornings
Class time drool-drolling onward towards the final accumulation
Of my efforts
How the liberation of my mind feels fresh and shiney
But at once I feel a regress into old thoughts old beliefs and the worn out mentality of those older
I am old
In that my soul longs for the love that it is denied
Beaten down by the distance that holds it hostage
My tendancy to find rust and petinal signs of age beautiful
Long talks with my mother give me joy
I am old
In that I taste the test of time and see wonder in the generations past
Hoping for the sweet lull of a good nights sleep
Feeling and emoting a progressive approach to a dieing dicotomy
Loving
Hating
Saddended by things that will never change
I am growing receeding and more importantly changing
Looking to renew the implications of the word normal
But above all the old
The young, fresh and vibrant
I will forever more be
And always be me.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
They call us survivors
I call us leftovers
They tell us we're heroes and deserve better than the hand life dealt us.
They use us as examples of inspiration and make shiny metaphors out of our trauma.
But.
But they never look at you long enough to see that you flinch when they reach, with greedy hands, towards you because to look at you too long would mean seeing the hand wrapped around your throat.
They are never around long enough to know that panic sets in while you shower and scrub at your skin until it's raw and bruised.
Sticking around would mean knowing that you were touched by Poison Ivy and they've heard it's contagious!
They don't watch when you're seventeen and crying into his shoulder, asking him to tell you he loves you, just so you can sleep because that would mean that maybe..you aren't that heroic afterall.
If they got too close they would see that you aren't surviving so much as submitting to being alive.
They sit on the edge of their seats gobbling up details about your so-called courageous story, eating up the nitty-gritty details because they know it will end in some form of you rises from the ashes.
But YOU didn't know that you'd be rising from the ashes when he was lighting his match.
When you tell them, you're still in therapy learning to breathe and count to ten, they have to realize bandaids don't fix gaping wounds, so they stop listening, notice the crows feet and crooked teeth, and turn away because suddenly...you look like a victim
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC
Midnight Master
appears with a bounce
Up& down faster and faster
Orange and black stripes
cause a fear of the pounce
Knowing he has an appetite
searching for something to bite
besides myself
Honey, acorns, and thistles won't do
...hmmm take him to kanga & roo
your quite the chipper fellow
Bouncing and gobbling and the day hasn't begun
where did you come from?
Do you have family or are you the only one?
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
The dump truck stops at his curb.
A pack of wolves file into the house, men in orange vests,
Greedy eyes taking in everything they see.
My father politely escorts them to the place he has hidden our past;
He flings wide the door.
The chains spill, twisted and tangled, onto the floor.
The men leer as he begins his arduous task.
Sweat flows into a river at his feet;
Another obstacle for him to blame.
The chains eat his calloused hands like children gobbling cake.
The river becomes tinted the rusty red of an old Ford truck.
Rivers of blood and water, guilt and denial that he has made for himself.
“Rivers of necessary evils,” he tells them as he fills the truck to bursting.
Evils that allow him to poke and push and torture.
Evils that allow him peace and pleasant dreams.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
Dollar signs painted upon walls
While psychopaths grieve it's surreality
"Not real not real, must have more"
They all chant in unison
Gobbling and devouring wealth
The black holes of greed that they are
Never feeling love nor happiness
Just the want for more and more
Million dollar cars pour from golden driveways
As monogramed gates open wide
Wouldn't you wish to peer inside?
See the extravagant joys that await?
Scarves cover their bones, they are without skin
And soul, they lack as well
Instead they have it replaced
With the almighty dollar
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
Life wants to slow me down
But I'm sprinting all the way to the crown
Boy I used to be lost at every turn
Demeanor of a James Bond
What every boy yearns
I wish to paint pictures
Cant draw so I'll do it through scriptures
Nightmares dominating good dreams
Evil gobbling up my good sleep
Result of a disturbed subconscious
Be yourself, this ain't no contest
Do yourself, you don't need context
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC