"gobs" poems
The shades of gray are nearly infinite-
mirroring attitudes regarding our sin.
Degrees of separation give distinction
to human perception of ugliness within.
Living now in this ‘Age of Information’
has not made life much more palatable;
visible is God’s Truth and Satan’s lies,
as individuals determine what’s palpable.
Gobs of available data doesn’t translate
into experience and useful wisdom directly.
Real sapience, is shown by the Holy Spirit,
when the ideas of faith are under scrutiny.
Biblical principles enable all to overcome
corrosive powers of intellectual pollution;
however, personal change, only occurs when…
one has the mindset for a Heavenly solution!
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.
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Author Notes
Inspired by:
1 Cor 2; Phil 4:4-8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
Little tiny Jellyfish,
You look like gobs of snot.
Then I went and stepped on you
and found out your not.
Little tiny Jellyfish,
your kiss really hurts a lot.
Next time that I walk the beach,
on snot I will step not.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
Spent my hard earned money buying stuff I seen on commercials
with two singers claiming all they use was the stuff I bought to fix faces.
Both them women got to be telling fibs if they said a little bit of
skin fixer works good did not work and used full bottle and nothing.
I googled them womens pictures and seen how they faces look bad
and messed up and both got blotchy skin and look real tired in pictures.
Seen all them commercials with them woman I am talking about
saying all they used was that stuff but saying did not work on me.
I would be fibbing if I posted I thought those women are pretty
in google search pictures of them without tons of makeup I see on their faces.
No make up do make them look like not so good as women called plain Jane.
Simple telling when women ain't plenty made up or they not wearing skin fixer
when they got them dark circles and darker spots like some pictures I seen when I google.
We got a few women looking very pretty cause they got that natural beauty.
I not grandma old but I got crows feet and cracking lines on my face.
I been trying making up my face with gobs of crap and went to expert at store
where rich folks shop and I know I did not look good like she lied to me
telling me I looked good but that mirror in that store showed me truth.
No more making up this face cause I was born to be what I am not pretty.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:01 AM UTC
Birds jump to the branches
of trees at sunrise,
But in the morning man
wrestles with whys.
Why do there seem to be
too many cuckoos?
Why chirping so noisy
what are the clues?
In morning the sleep
descends from its core,
and chittering of pigeons
hurts a man more.
There is a lot of tension
and a lot of stress.
Working late at night is a
suffering a mess.
Yes fatigue on mind,
whenever Man feels,
At times, smoking or
drinking appeals.
At roaming late night
the cosmos retort.
A Reckless freedom is
not its support.
Be it testy coca-cola or
a pizza or a cake,
Nature always opposes
without a mistake.
The sweet, the chicken,
the fish, juicy curd,
The cosmos advises
that these are absurd.
While Orderly pattern is
nature's workforce,
But freedom is nature of
a man of course.
As many are options and
choices so gobs.
A Man and this nature
are always at odds
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 11:33 PM UTC
Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."
This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.
Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.
But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.
We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."
tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.
Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.
But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.
Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?
There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.
Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.
These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
Surely these surly bits
Must be burrs caught up in my
Makeup -
Making up reasons for
Why my spit was accidental.
I done been through a
Rough patch or two -
Crawling with these
Thorns in my knees
Across funky plateaus
That poke their chests out
In their scouts
For sunnier flora.
Though,
I assume their search
Didn't go over so well.
'cause these scabbings won't heal
Like I want them to,
Buried under gobs of
Ointment
That was supposed to take care of it
(And
One more bandage
Just in case).
I'm just moseying on through,
With my feelers out,
Making sure you're someone
I have to know.
In and on my way
Somewhere
In this crazy field,
Waiting for sunflowers
To bless my prayers
While I continue to
Make room for myself to
Slip past
Without being noticed.
I'm smiling so hard
To keep the soft-hearted
At bay -
Trying to avoid being forced
Into pinpoint relations
With clueless drifters
Who refuse to stay on their side.
They only mean well -
I know this,
I do.
But, the simple has yet to escape me.
Send your
Sympathies
To the weak ones,
Roleplaying
Alongside the meek,
For these are the creed
Who,
Without giving heed,
Deliver their lives
To bliss.
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 11:02 AM UTC
We just swallow & stitch on
flimsy pharmaceutical feathers,
with gobs of spit and wax.
We circle the sun
hoping this simulacrum,
weighs more than a hedon
We practice ephemeral mechanics,
only with bridges on the river Styx,
then wonder why winter never seems to end.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 8:15 AM UTC
My belly, a pimpled basketball,
puffed with pasta,
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth,
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl,
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own.
I do what I can to feel bliss among ****
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles.
Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple
pinches of this or that.
my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes.
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Said he 'shut yer gobs ye ****** boggers'
Keen on blatherin' ye spent yer days with yer tongue sharp as a dagger
O ter be 'onest ye be pattin yer boat.
Aul' ducks,yung ducks all makin' faults.
Cats eatin' bazz i say blather ye boyo
A man makin' money, no divils in county mayo
Yer gobs flippin' like hoors feckin ****
Smart fellas know ter kick yer barse
Me,a **** in carrickfergus jammy am i?
Come 'ere ye be told a secret ye culchie
A man pushin his **** tryin ter find his way
Be wide ye yung boyo lots o vultures on yer way
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC
Fighting dimensions that are not real
Virtual hatred virulent viral.
When man grows up
Something happens . . .
Some apathy kicks in.
*(Moon spits its half-light in greenish gobs and smites my ashen shame
No, dunno where to hide my life
Lame with wide-eyed horror)*
Telepheric jollity and catherine-wheel of fun
Like a mist . . .
*Equation of hope / /
M a n k i n d
=
Kind man* . . .
S T, Sat (in)Auspicious 17, 2013
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Though phantoms may be howling at the edges of my mind
Ripping away gobs of flesh until my soul lies exposed
Rotting off my skull, hanging loose from my tired bones
Whilst the terrifying multitude of my unseen fear
Hath become like the vile, gnashing teeth of night's Reaper
As I bare witness to the demons rising and writhing
Within the silver pool of my own lean, haunted reflection
Yet I cannot turn away; Even in my darkest hour
I must summon the courage to stay; For this is my reckoning.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:08 PM UTC
When you smile at me I see the tips of your fangs peeking out from behind your lips
Your words drip from your mouth in gobs of venom
And coat the minds of those around you
Keeping them numb and compliant
Until it is time to strike....
But I have seen your fangs
I have felt the cold sting of their bite
And I know that no matter how sweet those words
They are still poison.
You can’t fool me, little ssssnake
For when you flash those fangs at me
I’ll flash mine back
And there is more than one kind of predator in this jungle.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
I, a willing ******
sacrifice to this
deity dreamt up by cavemen
trading shells
for gobs of ******
meat.
In my pocket
I hold paper bearing
sacred holy writ,
and on the internet
somewhere
are hours of my existence
documented in binary
like good deeds
in a seraphic tome
ensuring my someday mansion
in the sky.
Rappers wear the dollar sign
like a gilded golden crucifix
because the wealthy are
the holy men when
Jehovah is money.
If I were to preach
against this theology, become
the antichrist, the anarchist,
throw my cash into a stack
and light that ***** up
I’d be burning myself
at the stake.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
brewing potion with ritual
reciting chants, merely verbal
niching these little caviar
a mixture of gravitas and war
such ladle so long enough to combine
a virgin's blood with a spoon of wine
perhaps adding a buckskin would suffice
this hellcat's hellacious bliss
a bushel of a misogynist's intestine,
must not forget to hitch gobs of sharks fin,
augment a pair of an old man's sight
then smatter the hogs' teeth bite
sing song this dark lullaby
you ought to hear plead and cry
smell and smear this fatal brew
any life it shall take and shoo
death will come and it will reign
blood will begrime and it will stain
thoroughly toting the daring deathly hex
seeking a prey who must be next
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
the enfeebling mistake
veiled as a no-no
the little miss brazen **** bears the brunt
of what now must be a joke
incoherently fishing about for the juice
indecent glycemic index
meter says 30
profile says 10
or 15
milligrams of the judy blue pastille
no gobs to say about she
but when her jeans genuflect
no tiff
no tease
be a lamb or another even-toed ungulate
and give the poor girl what she needs
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
a 'good' poem crumbles in your mouth. it doesn't
tell you, chiding, "this is how i should taste" -
instead decomposes into the loam of ages.
no single flavour is the same
to every person.
a 'good' poem forces open the jaw,
climbing in. it begs no hospitality -
it needs none. and as it clambers on your tongue
(trying to avoid incisors), only taste
keeps you chewing, rolling gobs of words over molars,
wondering when before you've felt them
without knowing.
sustaining life sustains a string of
otherwise insubstantial little letters no better
than ideograms, clicks and chirps
all ones and zeros, really.
we embroider and tack up that
which our minds give meaning to.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 9:10 PM UTC
It's the big day of the big yard sale
Where every thing must go
There was much to much to haul out to the front
So I opened up the home
There were gobs of people everywhere
Wandering around with arms packed full
I'm making money hand over fist
This idea was really cool
You see my neighbors came to me with their front door key
And asked if I'd watch Binkie their cat
While they spent a few days away, I said sure what the hey
So they showed me where everything Binkie was at
While they were gone Binkie got bored
He missed his masters who were out of town
I thought a yard sale would be just the thing, Binkie purred that'd be neat
And of course it brought Binkie's good mood back around
Now before you start thinking bad thoughts of me
And wonder how anyone could sell everything they had
I want you to know I had a slight twinge of guilt
Right before I sold Binkie the cat
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
I fell of a pavement curb once.
I was a tightrope walker with an audience of thousands;
I could smell damp straw and hear the gasps as I lost my footing.
Girls threw their hands to their faces
and relinquished their eyesight to their boyfriend’s shoulders,
who took the opportunity for a shifty *****
My chin split and the blood didn’t show up on the red dress
but the audience had gone.
I can still put my finger in the hole, see?
Even now, 30 years later.
The tip of my index finger goes right down to the bone,
missing muscular structure,
and it makes me think of a skull with a cleft chin,
kinda how Kirk Douglas will look given a few years of grave time.
If I wiggle the finger in a circular motion it makes me wince,
something about gristle, gristle makes me wince,
even the word, a sensation of chewing wool.
It was never fixed.
My jaw clicks on the right side and, just this one time,
I yawned and couldn’t shut my mouth.
Blind panic lassoed my heart and yanked it into my throat,
perhaps it was even visible.
The longest 10 seconds of my life in which I spent a night in hospital,
sat up in bed, howling through my wide open gob.
How would I drink tea?
I don’t yawn properly now, I do little demi-yawns,
too terrified of the consequences of Open Gob.
How would I smoke?
I used to wonder why it was never fixed.
Why wasn’t I taken to hospital
and given stitches and x-rays and pain killers?
I worked that out when I was older.
It could easily have been a fist.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
Big fun time with you was hearing you sing jingles,
walking next to you hand holding strolling b beach,
slowing my pace and letting you lovely shorty keep up.
Pleased at you stumbling in the dark into my arms,
smile on my face and arms warming you from cold.
Hearing you whisper my name when I kissed your lips,
holding your face and kissing you until you relax,
moment has come my love.....time to fade to black.
Memories never faded Pet. Liked that you weren't into wearing gobs of makeup and still aren't. (smiling here)I never had to clean makeup stains off my pillow cases. Love you and always will.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
I got tons and tons of spit,
And vinegar dribbles of sour,
Lemon lime frothy gobs,
Ripe with a distilled scent,
But leaden with this dull ache taste,
That I try to get rid of but can’t…
No matter how much I spit,
I am cursed…
To hate myself and to hate others.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
lost in the desert of noise
eating greasy gobs
pain is the penalty of life
drugging in the hotel bathroom
spitting out the window
trashing all there is
complaining about the ****** mess
screaming no i didn't do this
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 9:05 PM UTC
Down the entry ..up we ran
Fighting ,shouting, laughing cans
Days of old where nothing mattered
Play outside until ya shattered
Knock on doors and make a scarper
Light a banger .. could n be dafter
Chase ya mates on bikes all rusty
Pulling wheelies ...fetching plasters
Build a den from scraps of wood
Hide for ages till its grub
Bottles sought to take to shop
Swap for sweeties gobs that stop
Not a phone nor worried sight
When you turn up late at night
Eat ya nosh see Kojak chase
Fire lit ya in dads place
Jimmy's on all snuggled in
flick 3 channels theres nothing on
Of to bed with ***** feet
Only bath time once a week
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 5:10 AM UTC