"gobstopper" poems
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
i do not think that this is a poem -
but i decided some things about you & i.
if people are colors, you are blue and i am green.
if people are seasons, you are spring and i am autumn.
if people are flowers, you are a forget-me-not and i am a poppy.
if people are drinks, you are hot chocolate and i am pink lemonade.
if people are candy, you are an everlasting gobstopper and i am a hershey's kiss.
if people are clouds, you are a cumulonimbus and i am a cirrostratus.
if people are times of day, you are dusk and i am dawn.
if people are trees, you are a weeping willow and i am a dogwood.
if people are languages you are french and i am portuguese.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 7:20 AM UTC
All day I've licked the taste of you
from in between my words,
but it's clinging to the spaces
and making slick the verbs.
I've ****** clean a few adjectives,
polished a few nouns-
but I just can't get my tongue around
those tricky little Os.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
I type 'Life'.
My greatest invention yet. They are born and
they die according to this curve I drew up using my favorite software.
They'll see soft lights. They'll fight. They'll go.
Where?
I'm working on it
Still.
I type 'War'.
The adventures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
A bunch of sideshows
And there's a massive one scheduled at 8.54.
Stay to watch?
I type 'Love'. They like this a lot.
They react well to it.
Strange how they rise to their feet at the slightest presence of
Love.
I copy and paste
'Love love love love love love love love'
Then I crunch on a moon. Cold, sweet, juiceless.
Hmmmmm.
I type -
'Gobstopper'.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 8:16 AM UTC
got a pink bulb
suckered in mouth—
spit it out. dribble
gobstopper sun,
pause motion to
explosive creation
cake the surface
rubber dumb, POP!
sharp tap like a
snare bubble
vacuum record
in recycling bin
you had it made
su-per-ma-ssive
try again a same
chum the chew
begin renew
anew anew review
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
As long as the paint is wet
my finger writes
my diary
in colourful blends
Unspoken questions
dipped hue after hue
and curl in curl on the tip
of my finger, layer on layer
a gobstopper of memories
which I slowly lick off, every time
I want to taste their flavours
and reread my life
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 3:17 AM UTC
The bloke's a sad sack.
To another joke of a
mad
hack.
He's beginning to
spike up
as if the heart beat
of a heart
attack.
just point and stare
call him flapjack
just once then be done with it
not worth your precious time
neglect and tragedys the sum of him
To a flip-flopper,
Gobstopper.
Act so
as your colors bleed through.
I see you
and you, and you
analyzing him like a haiku.
Well off..
but yet on the street one thinks
a ***
Of this man who takes the alcohol and drugs to make him numb.
But on the inside, through
The Corduroy and winter fabric
there stands not a man,
A boy
Who thinks himself a maverick
Sometimes.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 3:09 AM UTC