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Left Foot Poet Apr 2024
~ For Mike~

an abundance of:

illogical reasons,
of hate,
of emboldened badness beyond inexplicable,
and nor is it
episodic, not periodic, but abundantly continuous,
so
no need for a fan, one of those upright six foot tall,
MF’er tornado sounding fans, for the hate free flies every where,
damning the consequences, full speed ahead, spreading
medieval plague style, and as we two talk of this world,
on this world,
electronically a thousand miles apart,
we, worn and wearied, being ******, and awaiting the
spill doors to unleash officially tidal waves of  
dammed up, still held back raging, hate
that is just edging over the top,
a nauseating goop (apologies to what’s her name),
I awake at 4:something

(to complete six hours later
whatever this is, this lamentation, of woe and sackcloth,
ashes on my tongue,
commenced the eve before,
but genetically ancient and familiar
in all
my cells),


to complete this heavy evensong,
commenced and begun seven hours earlier when one soul
states to another a simple,
“forgive me, my heart is heavyweight heavy tonight,
the world’s disheartened burdens beyond bearable,”

the quiet calm of a sleeping house pervades my soul,
and a lament is transmogrified into a
psalm of hope;

for having shared the pain,
when one asks the other for forgiveness,
for exposing the other to this sadness infectious,
then,
understanding and comprehension
overcome me,
realizing that hatred has failed
when two bleed into each other,
that
shared distress is
distress defeated,
by a large and grandeur
purer expression of connection
across state lines,
tween two souls
unlikely to meet,
ever,
and yet this cellular combination
is so powerful, so
a w e s o m e,
it is
indefatigable,
(incapable of being defeated)
and we are each others
Shepherd and lamb,
in a time of woe,
one more time,
but soon the dawn will come
to welcome us with
the embrace of a newborn,
uncontaminated,
and to finish this now psalm,
now, and forever
newly perfected.
a messenger exchange,
of a wail of despair,
creating words of repair
5:17AM April 1 2024
Your lies leave trails of blood
From soles of feet to top of head

Your Fingers such glorious ones
Pushed into my ***
Oh how crass you say?
Wiggling in that tight crevice

Oh Please your hurting me!

You sneer hearing my plea
Fingers dry now four are in that tight spot
Tears of pain paint my cheeks
Laughter is heard as hair is yanked

Opening me up more
Pushing the fifth inside
I am burning alive

You are hurting me I cry!

Fist now inside

No! Don't! Please!!!

The pain like a hot poker against the skin

As your fist shoves past the rim
Fingers digging their way through the flesh
Your snickers vibrate within my chest

I can't defend such brutality
Your elbow deep inside
Screams pierce the air
All You do is stare

Your **** grows hard and harder still
As Your fingers pull further up the track
Plowing through barriers
Like Your talk and don't forget Your lies


I can feel the blood as it slides down my thighs
buried to the shoulder inside of me
Eyes bulge as the pressure grows

You torterous traitor escapes my mouth

Met only with a harder push up the ***

Face down on the ground
Unable to move
You have me so bound
Red liquid pours from my lips
As Your **** presses my hip

I trusted you
I loved you as well
I gave it all to you willingly
Including my free will

Now what is this
I hear Your chants
I didn't want all that you grunt
*****
*****
*****
All you needed to cure your itch

Backside covered in scars
Never seen by any
Everyone thinks you are a superstar
Hey! wait a minute you scream
Shut up ***** I treat you like a Queen

Your shoulder covered in ****
Teeth bite the side of my breast
As you laugh surely girl you jest
I will take what I want you cry
If you do not like it

******* lay there an die

Your fingers to hand to arm all the way
You plowed up my ***
With a definite skill
Plowing through flesh
Your worm shows your thrill

Stop I plead

My life draining
as You **** spewing your seed

The world goes back
As Your hand reaches its path
Gripping my heart
Pulling out as I am dying fast

You just couldn't let me be happy
You pompous ******* *****
If only I had once bitten your ****
No I was a fool
I gave You it all

Now heres my death waiting at your door
You laugh as your arm  pulls free
Covered in goop and debris
Fist yanked free of the now split hole

My heart within its grips
Dripping my life out
All over the floor
It really doesn't matter
I was only your *****

One more prize for your display
One more heart
Ripped from the ***
Which is your specialty after all
Gets you off all that blood and gore

Pain be ******
Even with a pretty little *****
He stands over the body
Smiling with pride

Your lips, mouth and face
Arms, legs, and trunk
******* and *****
Hair and such a tight ***

Your screams, whimpers
whines and moans
Tears, blood, juices and crap
boldAll MINE didn't YOU SEE

Defy Me?

Leave me?

Dare me to try
I took everything you have
Everything you are

Even your heart
oh yes your soul

I came when you cried

Now shut the **** up

**DIE!
Jennifer Humphrey all rights reserved 2009
Drew Blanton Oct 2016
You are
the enemy
of reading.
I thought you
were a cataract.
Get out of my eyes,
and please let me see!
Rae Jun 2015
NOTHING WORKS, I CANT CRY, I CANT SCREAM ALL PASSION IS LOST
A CRY FOR HELP THROUGH A PICTURE OR MAYBE A SUBTEL HINT IN A POEM LONG FORGOTTEN
I GASP BUT NO AIR FILLS THESE DRIDED HUSKS NOT ONE MOMENT OF RELIEF NOTHING TO END THIS SUFFOCATION CONSTANTLY ON THE EDGE OF DEATH YET TO MY BITTER BELIEF MY HEART CONTINUES TO MOVE, HOW?!! HOW CAN YOU STILL BE BEATING THE KNIVES PROTRUDING THROUGH YOU AND OUT MY BACK STILL OZE A REDISH GOOP THE WALKING TRACK ACROSS YOU MORE BEATEN THAN A TENDERISED STEAK, THE BLACK HATRED SEEPING FROM YOUR CORE CORRODING EVERY SURFACE IT TOUCHES
EVERY HAPPY FEELING YOU ENCOUNTER LIKE SOME HELLISH ACID EATING AWAY AT ANY INCH OF HUMANITY REMAINING .... AND YET YOU STILL BEAT.
Mr Ree Sep 2016
just finishing off monday
sarah woke up not groggy
this took practice
time for a coffee
banana granola greek style yogurt
quietly on her phone alone at home
perched on the sofa
a thought strays back to heartbreaks
heaven slips on it’s loafers

on time she quits lipsticks and ties coat
fluffs the hair
smiles
clicks down the stairs
she sounds attractive
tight and a skirt
smart tasteful coat
button’s no broach
appropriate

down the stairs and out the door
outside brain makes it up
all the same mornings
tunnel vision
work

down the street there’s magic
rays of it spot through sodden clouds
searching people
one to one to one, looking for Sarah
both violent and divine

Sarah weaves the street
walking not the fastest
used to like the rasmus
doesn’t think of coffee
maybe what’s for lunch
then the sky oppressed her
vibrating darker than death

shock from eyes of lightning  
for a moment buildings glitch
they lag fade and stutter
people stop and blink
they fear, look up for another
sarah feels a cold
heartbroken and lifeless
the world gets lower
slower
time’s flipped in a crisis
screaming colours from their fleeting faces
seep into her jelly legs
then her skin it turned to water
body a puddle
a gloopy goop of eyes and blubber
some hair on some putty
sun on her frogged eyes
one falls down the gutter
everyone chokes on a splutter

it most seldom expected
the day Sarah randomly melted
Lucky Queue May 2013
Bacon
Grease
Unpleasant slickness
Oil
Flith
A ***** feeling that you're overwhelmed by so you just want to get into a shower and scrub your skin raw
The one time my sisters and I played in mud and were covered in gritty goop
Losing the handle to the outside faucet
Cold icy water
Jumping into a creek and getting soaked
Cold water and cramping up, drowning
The ocean's waves pulling me under
Fear of drowning and ocean water forced down my throat
Salty water and the taste of the sea
Salt
Bacon
Association poem
Cailey Weaver Mar 2014
It was my best friend's birthday
So I went to the store

I got a balloon
And a serving spoon
And some fruit cubes
And frosting tubes

I bought a cake with her name on it
I bought a cake tray with a crack in it
'Cause I dropped it on the floor...
When I was walking out the door

I tripped on a plastic plate
Dropped by some girl named Kate
She left it rolling around the place
And made me fall right on my face

My right hand fell into the cake
The fall made all the cookies break
My shoe went and popped the balloon
My elbow made a dent in the spoon

All the fruit cubes on the floor
The frosting tubes were full no more
There was frosting on her card...
Heck, nothing but frosting for at least a yard!

I think the manager got a little stressed
Before too long, he was only half dressed
Mopping frosting off the floor
Rushing, running through the store

Cantaloupe and melon soup
Rainbow chocolate frosting goop
Big ole hand print in the cake
My fancy party was at stake

I went to go and buy some more
But the manager kicked me out the store
I took my spoon and crushed balloon
My cookies and my mangled cake

I grabbed the fruit cubes off the floor
And ran them to my friend's front door
When she came and answered me
I held them out for her to see

And though I thought she'd cry and pout
She laughed till all her tears ran out
We ate the cake and fruit together
She said it was the "Best Birthday Ever!"
Gigi Tiji Oct 2015
Oh cute little thing
I like your contour

you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth

and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool

you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss

concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction

almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading

the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar

and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other

forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool
Ari Jan 2018
i'm really gonna miss the times
where we could just hang out

i'm really gonna miss the sighs
when you pleased my mind to goop, inside out

oh but things are changing
things won't be the same

i find my self anticipating, yet worried
wondering if you'll forget my name

i'm really gonna miss the jokes
laugh-laughin' all night long

i'm really gonna miss your voice
making my heart skip every time

oh but things are changing
things won't be the same

i find myself anticipating, yet worried
wondering if you'll forget my name

i'm really gonna miss the pain
that my mind trades for loving you

i'm really gonna miss the time
i willingly spent between us two

oh but things are changing
things won't be the same

i find my self anticipating, yet worried
wondering if you'll forget my name

yeah, i'm really gonna miss a lot of things
but out of all of them,

i'll miss you.
Daniello Mar 2012
I don’t recognize you, but you’ve returned, oh it
must be you. No one else comes here but you.

Do you remember this music?

Kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, perhaps too
delicately—a quiet, tinkling knell, fishtailing through the
glimmering rain—mauve—soft-soaping the soil to darker clumps
beneath—soppy—slowly sinking so pretty, yet
terrifying now you’ve stepped into and through each
silted deepness, holding time.

This music begs you still—it has not stopped begging since—
to step further inside the wet loam (You clutch time now.)
To press down on it, in it, and listen tender the key you touched in
life between moments. It’s the reason you’ve returned.

You won’t, it’s not music, this feels like a baby’s head you’re on, you
cringe. About to cry.

Again, I’m sorry, but you have to—you have to feel it
scarily give a little. Feel it sink, infolding inside-out through its
thin pleura overflowing, always overflowing with the visceral
sap of everything on it—(I mean really everything.)—this
glistening ick, this frog-soil—moist, sickly cloying, susceptible
almost to light. And breathing.

It’s about to give out under your feet.

And kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, can you hear it?

Yes, you could be stepping on all their naked lungs, but there’s
nothing to fear, it’s an eternal field of their lungs—pink and gasping—
and that’s all there is here.  

Feel with your foot, like me. Is it alive? Or is it life? Listen, it
bleats a note. Why so sweet if, by touching it, we’ve made it drip
first truth from its tongue, look!—the blood of its eyes’ red
rivulets. Of its heart. The slightest breach it was. Barely an
opening

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to force you. If I was only me, I’d
leave it be, so it could spare us the look at the inner red that yokes
flesh to spirit. But you arrived here, and—listen, now it’s been
done, do not close your eyes.

You didn’t want to see this, I know—the sticky gum or muck that
licks over the fibrous bridges. Keeps them glued down and
invisible in the other world. It is all much better when the mucilage
does not ooze out. When the form is skin-tight, because that’s how
it works best. Without you probing its pores.

But now do you see, probing its pores, what you may find?
Look. Now do you see why the music has begged you?

What rests underneath there—what you may find in that dark
indigo clay which the shamans dug and pressed over their
blackened eyes in the night-trances—glows transparent somehow.
In pulses. Like Aurelia, the silver moon jelly.

Now it is just within your reach.

Light would pour to the other side, and their mouths would stiffen
with several infinite unintelligible syllables remaining stuck there
under their tongues. As it poured, they felt their blood replaced
in a surge with veinless essence, which sustained in its flow
through them something of precarious beauty—ascending, swirling
itself in air, then back into again, again returning to the home of homes
within them.  

The silver-moon-jelly-clay is continuously poised on the tip
(of not being clay).
About to break into splendor, into finally birth-giving of real breath.
Of meaning to breath, and to breathing.

This is what feeds, unknowing to them in that world, their field of lungs.
But you will know instantly when you feel it, that by feeling
(in feeling)
you have really always known.

Did you reach for it? Did you feel it in that second? You did not, I see
(you were so close!)
for now we’ve passed the origin symmetry and are sinking up! Going
deeply back up through the sticky goop with red glue in our hair,
through the moist-frog-ick-soil, choking dirt again, squishing loam
with our heads, shooting upward like falling, hearing lungs, and now
out, atop the surface again, in this bare garden that grows only under.

The skies above, still mauve, and the rain lips quietly the same
melody which, kaleidoscopically gemmed, repeats. It was all as quick as
nothing.

And, as I look at you, I see you’ve already forgotten
everything.

And now you’re leaving me! Fading back through the spectral
break in the clouds, whoever you were. Whoever it is you became.

I did honestly believe this was to be that one moment when, together,
we’d finally get to touch it. Press it like real sun to our blackened
eyes. I cannot tell you, it has felt like the one each time.

But I know to wait. I can wait. In this world I keep fluttering hope
in my hand. And you, whoever you’ll be, will return here.
You always do.
Do you ever remember why?
It’s because, when you leave through the clouds to go back to
that world, you are still. Always.
Clutching time.
Charles Dennis Dec 2009
As the washer clinks and clunks its way toward clean clothes.
I sit and think while listening to the rhythms of the machine
as it cleanses all. If it could only cleanse my mind of random
thoughts of nothing, that seem always to get in the way.

To clear a path to thoughts of substance, paving the way to
literary greatness, or at least a word that wiggles itself into
some mediocre write which I know shouldn’t have made it to
someone else's eyes.

I need that garbled clump of goop that feeds my appetite for
writing, as it dislodges remnants of times gone by, things that
are shaken loose from deep within my soul, while it agitates
and spins me in new and different directions.

It is what life has given me to work with, an abundance of
good and bad, new and old, fresh and stale, with a vehicle for
me to climb aboard to explore the deep recesses of my mind
and soul. It seems that vehicle stalls at times and hesitates
before it is able to start again and continue on its way.

To take me out of this non productive place I’m in, to that
crisp clean white piece of paper so my pen will flow to places
it’s never been.


http://www.charlesdennispoetry.netne.net

© 2009 Charles Dennis
Christian Nov 2010
I see, I see it everyday. False smiles, different from the suburban trophy wife. These smiles tell their story. You've never seen these smiles, felt them? Then you haven't noticed yourself making them. "How are you?" To the cashier at the grocery store, followed by a smile. but really, you don't care how they are, your busy, I don't blame you, busy with nothing to do, I do it too. Simple hellos let others know your normal. What's normal? How many times has that argument been fought? 'what's normal'  I can tell you, but like anything, its all relative. Normal is being content having a good job holding some sort of stature being above those not normal keeping the social stigmas living them, naturally. I just realized I can't tell you what normal is without writing too much. Look at the magazines and those big T.V's
they can tell you better than me. But from what I told you... Being content. None of us are. You got yourself a good job, good job, you now have status among the living, good job, your not that alcoholic *** living on the streets, your not begging for change, you give it, not because you want to but to show that you have that to spare, good job, you are an outstanding citizen contributing the only way we realize how, by spending, good job, but, oh there's always a but,why, oh why the but, tell me my cups half empty, but I assure you sir, I've only drank a quarter of my coffee, my americano to be sure, in a 16oz cup to be surer, but to the but's, that is what we can call life, or reality. But what?! You hate your job and your bigger house only made you smile when you bought it and when you flush your demons down your ebony marbled **** catcher. I smile then too, the ladder that is and without the marble. but you still feel unfulfilled,
and still, yea, still, you don't know why, but your not content with not knowing, because then the boogie man is real and you look the fool, so we give our little smiles to tell the others "I'm normal" because we don't think we are. but, if they don't know,  then, its fine. But, thats not all. If you haven't noticed that 'habit' in you yet, then your smiling that same smile to yourself. Because if you don't know then your free. Free of the burden of fearing you don't know. Oh but brother, I don't blame you, no, I don't hate you, I do it too. I guess what makes me different is that I noticed. But, Does that really make me different? Does it really matter? I don't know. I don't know if I ever will. I'd like to say, "but thats okay" but my americano is almost gone, my cups about empty. If i was really content, then fear wouldn't be my 'companion'. Fear of money fear of love or lack of, really, fear of progressing, fear of failure, fear of moving back becoming less, not fear of death but of dying unnoticed. Fear of not being called of rejection of life. I've noticed, with myself, that when one fear grows strong, the other worries grow into fear, they rise to the surface, goop in my pores, suffocate me and I hear myself plea with death to take me so I won't have to take myself because everything would be easier done dead. But, I don't want to die, I want the easy button, but I don't want that,
but I do, then I get confused and lost in this push and pull which is my devil which is my angel tugging on my ears as i scream "Shut up! Shut the **** up!" Sometimes though, I remember to ask, to be honest with myself. Why am I  afraid? What am I afraid of? Is that really what I'm afraid of? Why am I afraid of that? Is it because of my past? Or because of urgency? I keep asking. Sometimes remembering hurts, but, thats how to clean your pores, I find it sometimes, sometimes i find what makes my devils grow. Most of the time I don't like it. Because I feel ashamed of it. Which is why I bury it deep. but, if you allow it to be, accept that it is true, to bare that shame. These fears are walls, friend. Pass through them. Are you still listening to me? Its okay if your not. Punch me in the ******* face because thats what you might think to do. Who am I to tell you your fears are just walls that rebuild if you break them down and close if you build doors, that these walls aren't solid, which is why you can pass right through them? Huh? Who am I?! I don't know. Just know though that I tell you to tell myself.
because I forget because I give better advice to others, because I should give that advice to myself, because I breathe, I think, I die.
We all die. But death is not different from life. Just like I am not different from you. But how do I know that when I don't even know who I am. Who am I but another but in life. I am that ant which carries the maggots, I am the creak in the door, I am why your car won't start, I am the sugar in your coffee, I am your god, I am god. But don't worship me. Worship yourself. you are the smell of the rotting trash.
you are the water we drink. You are god. Everything is. So what? So what's the point?To remember that we don't have to give each other false smiles anymore. The more of us that open ourselves, the more that will choose to open too. What does that mean? I don't really know. I have answers. But what are answers from another. An answer from yourself answers more. At least for me. Your worried if your right though. Right? Believe, Breathe, Be patient. Again, this I tell myself. Your still listening? Thanks. I end my rant to ****. Is that crude? rude?
But...
Coffee shop rant

(Creative input always welcome. Critique, please with honesty tell me what I could improve. I want to learn to become better. Thanks)
Mary-Eliz Apr 2018
There once was a man who liked to eat grunion
he ate them with ketchup and onion
he ate them for lunch
he ate a whole bunch
he ate so many they gave him a bunion

There was a lady who liked to eat cheese
but when she ate it she started to sneeze
she'd sneeze and she'd cough
till her hat would fall off
and she developed a terrible wheeze

There was a young girl who ate cantaloupe
while she rode on the back of an antelope
she rode along fine
and continued to dine
till her antelope tripping, slid down a *****

There was a boy who liked mango
when he ate it he did the fandango
he'd throw out the peels
then with a click of his heels
he would dance a beautiful tango

There was a lady who loved carrots
but so did her large group of ferrets
if her ferrets were there
she had to give them a scare
to keep them away from her carrots

There once was a man who liked to eat soup
but when he did it made his ears droop
it was hard to recoup
with ears covered with goop
but he just couldn't give up his soup

There was a young lad who liked waffles
Though they made him feel really awful
he ate them with butter
then he would sputter
and develop a terrible cough-ful

There was a man who loved to eat stew
but when he ate it his face would turn blue
it was truly a ghastly hue
he looked like he had the flu
as if he was sick through and through

There once was a lady who liked custard
she ate it with pickles and mustard
a strange combo, she'll grant
since she's not even pregnant
when she was asked she'd always get flustered
Total silliness! Feeling playful lately.
Cassie Stoddard Jul 2014
Tonight my already fragile soul took yet
another
hit. And I am lonely.
Its a disease. Spreading through my heart to my shaking fingers and my watering eyes.
I want to scream. To run. To curse. I want to rid myself of this disease. I want to chop myself up, melt myself until I am a puddle of goop on the floor.
I want to recreate myself so that I can be someone that you want. That anyone wants.
I am so tired of being torn down and told to rise. I want to run away.
I want to be loved.
A Thomas Hawkins Aug 2010
Life isn't happy endings
and the streets aren't paved with gold
and fortune favours the other guy
no matter if he's brave or bold

While we all dream of fairy tales
and once upon a times
its my sad duty to tell the truth
in this disappointing rhyme

Ladies if you kiss a frog
you'll just get frog goop on your lips
there'll be no dashing prince
broad of shoulder, thin of hips

And gentlemen I kid you not
there is no sleeping beauty
the only girls who sleep all day
are those who work night duty

(and trust me, you don't wanna be waking them up)

No magic lamp, or secret word
will help you change your lot
so **** it up my buttercups
what you have is all you've got.
Mandi Carozza Oct 2014
Wind and speed and dust and crumbs and ash and crash and
Blood
Heat and shriek and dark and damp and
Broken
Chunks and goop and hair and limbs
All splattered
Like feather pillows
Stain and pain and rash and rush and
Panic
Shook and shock and tears and fears
All realized
Red and black and blue and bruised and ruined and
Soft,
Still,
Nothing.
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.  The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Re-post
Kai Nov 2024
I'm your loyal dog
And you're my ruling God
I find it quite odd
It sends my brain into a bog
I can't stop following your orders
YOUR ORDERS
The curse, the spell you casted onto me to obey you
I'm your only servant
The loyal servant forced to be observant
I've been praying for you
Even if you treat me like trash
Even if you're the wind and I'm the ash

After a while, you grew tired of me
You abandoned me
You threw me away
Just so that way
You released that curse you placed on me
Just to be adopted by someone else
Just to get cursed by someone else
I barely got a break from all the abuse
From all the use
Yet, they thought I was so oblivious
Just like you thought I was so oblivious
They thought I was so cute - adorable, naïve, thoughts just like you
Why does everyone act like you?
My God?
It's so odd
I feel like I'm stuck in a time loop
Stuck in all the goop

I feel like I'm just a foot rest you can use
I feel like I'm just a puppet you can use
I feel like a young slave you can use
I'm over here working my *** off
Just so you can have work off
Just so you can have a vacation
While I live in caution
Scared of everything
Every single thing
A single curse that lasts forever. It's a curse that lasts for a long time. A tiresome curse I wish to end.
Gabi Mar 2013
Goop for the lashes
Paint for her pale countenance
Crayon for her lips
ve Nov 2013
His hands are smooth, clammy
Callusses from playing the guitar
He can also play with strings
He has scars on his hands that tell stories
His hair isn't thick, isn't filled with goop
He wears baseball hats, pretty cute
His favorite color's navy blue
He's tall
And nice
And sweet
And everything in between
I'm falling, I don't know what to do

We sat down in a cafe
Had a lemon cheese danish

He got bit- twice
By birds at the pet store

He loves Lego

I don't know what's going on inside my head
Do I like him?
I like what he has the potential to be.
... Anything

He believes in God
He doesn't laugh when I tell him about Him

We went all he way to Kipling station
Me on his shoulder, with his music blaring
I love his music, I like how he shares
I like how he opens up to me
I like how I feel safe

I like how he's quiet
I like his friends
I like him

He wanted to drop me home
But I refused
"Don't.. You have to use another bus ticket!"
"I'm not good with goodbyes on the bus!"
A handshake was our goodbye
We haven't even hugged
And that's good, it's slow, safe

I didn't know what was stopping me from talking to you..
But I grew a pair, so did you
And we just got along

He has a good heart
He's a great guy
But I'm scared I'm going to hurt him
Apparently I always do the hurting

But all I see in my head is the back of his body running for the train- running to get the last seat so we can look out the window
All I see is someone with potential

But for now these feelings are unrequited and will stay that way
Chloe Verdun Nov 2014
There once was a flower,
Things happened too soon
In less than a year,
She would be moved
A positive flower
watered with goop
roots were lifted
heart regifted
parents shifted
a problem...
The roots improperly planted
They grew side ways
They grew upside down
They even grew in the dark
They did not grow like all the others
But they did grow...
Confused
Why do I not smile when they do?
Why am drowning by the water when they grow?
During growth
She lost
And many other things
But most importantly her...
Confused
Did not really know what to do
But grow
She grew
But she could not forgot her roots
The ones that grew in the dark
The ones that tore her apart
There was no undo.
Iraira Cedillo Mar 2014
The meanest trick I ever knew
Was one I know you never do.
I saw a goop Once try o  it,
And there was nothing funny to it.
He pulled. Chair from under me
As I was sitting on; but he
Was sent to bed, and rightly, too.
It was a horrid thing to do!
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Banners over us,
reminders of the first signed sigil waved
to mean something
to watching eyes,
fleets follow the highest flown flag,
designated leader, the kings sigil says so, so
as pledged, we go where the flag leads, then

just yesterday, I learned
of this ritual,
and I recalled the honor
of learning
to fold this flag.
This symbol,
for which it is noble
to die,
some do even dare
to teach this ritual to a select few,
fatherless, fearless, fungible future
first team something common sensitive.
exchange aitia cause for excuse
-- this world is folded implicitly, syllable
after
thump whump sigh,
a cough, to clear a lacquer of phlegm,
syllable, forming peace in time,
sit back, truth or dare,
do you believe in folded world symbols?

Have you a sacred flag? Final symbol showing
fungible duty done, paid in full.
Honor where honor is earned as endurance, that's all.

Endure to the end, making peace with childish
yous you meet at life's sharp end.

There was a committee who invented this ritual,
proud were those who fit the entire myth
true rest, freedom of thought, word, and deed,
in return,
fair and square, peace and safety and more meat
and milk than men should ever eat, but
what the hell, we won, we stole all their cows,…

pledged, initiated, used to abuse the worth of wrong
ideas… core right, correct, recht at once, stalility

ifity, wobbledy goop… did you learn this on your own?

"The first fold of our Flag is a symbol of life.

The second fold is a symbol
of our belief in eternal life.
{so the first must mean mortal life eh}

The third fold is made
in honor and remembrance
of the veterans departing our ranks who gave a portion
of their lives for the defense
of our country
to attain peace throughout the world.
{sounds fishy, attain peace, hmmm,
by being ready to give your own pound of flesh,
get some skin in the game.
Make up a mind that matches the imitation. }

The fourth fold represents our weaker nature;
{ I am not making this up}
for as American citizens trusting, GOD-
it is to Him {whom? wombed or un} we turn in times
of peace as
well as in time
of war
for His divine guidance.
{marching as to war…skip step stutter, cross this bridge}

-- meaning 4:
: a structural unit of a definable syntactic, semantic, or phonological category that consists of one or more linguistic elements (such as words, morphemes, or features) and that can occur as a component of a larger construction

From <https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/constituent>

Enfold your flapping mind, in my world, school starts
in one week, and Grandma is in Idaho, with old friends.
The two tweens are radiating readiness, prepping
to not appear to be as weird as Grandpa,
but, still, knowing, least said,
soonest mended, wait to know what's next, fold
in silence… Our sample flag was earned on Iwo Jima,
where Don Wourms watched his basic buddy die.

"I did nothing right, I survived", me, too, echoing

The fifth fold is a tribute to our country,
for in the words of Stephen Decatur,
"Our Country, in dealing
with other countries
may she always be right;
but it is still our country, right or wrong."
{Yep, no lie, by sixth grade, 12th year on Earth,
there is the lie, regarding trust, duty, & honor.
Plato said Socrates said,
Guardians must be bred and nurtured, fed
the duty and honor, brother closer than friend,
teammate, rowers on the same bench,

boom}

The sixth fold is for where our hearts lie.
It is with our heart that we pledge allegiance
to the Flag of the United States of America,
and to the Republic
for which it stands, one Nation
under God, indivisible,
with liberty and justice
for all.
-- 13 fold, 48 ply

There are series of numbers that mean nothing,
and sums that can find a link, a mental
tic take a thoughtmmmm
thirteen habits has the seedmmmmmhmm
thirteen folds in the star spangled banner.
thirteen stripes folded within blue heavensmmmhmmm
- unlucky number thirteen
- contentintensity semantic tic BAT

The seventh fold is a tribute {something owed whom?}
to our Armed Forces,
{The entire complex economic entity}
for it is through the Armed Forces that we
protect our country and our
flag
against all her enemies,
whether they are found within or
without the boundaries of our Republic.

{ be me, that boy, the one with the paper route.
selected to be the flag folder for fridays, 1960-
leading the class into a weekend of fun
being good citizens, stopping, looking, listening
marching for dimes and publisher's clearing house}

The eighth fold is a tribute {that's the word, you owe}
to the one who entered
into the valley of the shadow of death,
that we might see the light of
day, and

to honor mother, for whom it flies
on Mother's Day.

{fact check all you wish, this is the ritual,
it ain't a sacred secret, it's spiritual as hallowe'en}

The ninth fold is a tribute
to womanhood;
for it has been
through their faith, their love, loyalty
and devotion
that the
character
of the men and women
who have made this country great
has been molded.

{Dis try t' trump thet, patriophathemphatical, know 't all}

The tenth fold is a tribute {eh, patriot, pay the price}
to the father, for he too,
has given his sons and daughters
for the defense
of our country since
they were first born. {The children were sold}

{{}
- HONEST, chile, we sold you for goodness sakes
- you had to survive the learning
- to hold the knots of knowns left idle,
- as any oath unaccounted for,
- I swear, we swear some curses unawares,
- and those echo back as strangersmmm
- white noise sssorting questions
spark
The program that made the mind tools we use,
voltron, chess, appletalk space wars, in 1986,

very strange, the reappearing highschool connection,
very American looking, gamer aimed plots

dot to dot
seeing secret patterns, imagining inside the folded
weltanshaung squirrelled world, put away,
to be unfurled one fine daymmmm

blue skies, my friend. Finish the folds - 1960}


The eleventh fold, in the eyes
of a Hebrew citizen represents the lower portion
of the seal
of King David and King Solomon,
and glorifies
in their eyes,
the God
of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

The twelfth fold,
in the eyes
of a Christian citizen, represents an emblem
of eternity and glorifies,
in their eyes,
God the Father, the Son and Holy Spirit.
{I do feel like this bit of truth is
too strange to have known, are there rewards for this?
Is it a preboneman rite of passage,
done to become the meaning knower,
holder of the knack the leader of the fold team holds,
the knowledge as to why,
we do things right, or not at all.}

The thirteenth fold:
When the Flag is completely folded,
the stars are uppermost
reminding us
of our Nation's motto,
"In God We Trust."  {since 1956}
After the Flag is completely folded and tucked in,
it takes on the appearance of a cocked hat,
ever {riiight}
reminding us of the soldiers
who served
under
General George Washington,
and the Sailors and Marines
who served
under
Captain John Paul Jones,
who were followed
by their comrades and shipmates
in the Armed Forces
of the United States, preserving
for us the rights, privileges, and freedoms
we enjoy today.
{freedom of the press does belong to the one
who uses the common media - so far,
soo so good… this era in my sovereign real estate}

-- admin reviewed this, there are mental peace niks
planting confusion bombs on free way emergency
exits…
bass beats whump whump, feel it in y'teeth…

the vision in context fades… a final seal set
the teacher tells the disciple to carry the message
inside… know know
why you dare die for the story that formed your
child's mind. Look at your own kid, what you did.

BTDT. BTW, fold it up and put it away.

"The next time you see a Flag ceremony
honoring someone that has served our country,
either in the Armed
Forces or
in our civilian services such as
the Police Force or Fire Department,
keep in mind all the important
reasons behind each and every movement.
They have paid the ultimate sacrifice
for all of us by honoring our
Flag and our Country.

--- so did I blaspheme? I swear I had only
a boy's philosophy…

ping to 2021, hear my grand daughter prepping
for school in Descanso, listening to an audio book,
with the hero character a teen, mortal Apollo,

and the evil representative…
I listen, that immortal voice, Caligula's last mind
left in songs, sung as true, no lie

No lie,
passes untold, when in time, the implicit unfolds

and the edge dwellers, see jesus represented
in the widow's mites exchanged for motes
clanged
and sparked to say,

I know, who you think I am, my ad.
Click bait, fair fungible, win by a little tiny bit,
GO.

That is the game, three moves for each atom
in all we imagine our augmented eyes have seen.

AI do use the common store of knowns,
growing exponent opponent potentially ever
after
this…

for a while, why imagine hell was ever real?
as adjustments occur
to your way of seeing time as a whole truth
u u u ambig u u u is us ambigu is ous oy vwey
hayah hayah
Concoxide Jul 2017
I'll rearrange negative words
into positive phrases
amazed at all the
sorrow filled mason jars
that taste horrid

on borrowed patience..
i sift through an old spittoon
wet to the brim with thick goop
i get sick from the fumes

i face them
the demons i kept in my basement
a case of repressed hatred
my best kept secret

this evening
i was finally able to let go
unloading all that weight off my chest
then my unrest froze

dead in it's tracks
the belt snapped
and that old faceplate broke
releasing loaded emotions
from both my ventricles

it all detached from me
i watched and saw it floating free
i worried someone weak would
catch it though, unknowingly

like a cold
so i slowly sowed a sleeve around
posted a note that reads keep out
and proceeded to research alchemy

"how to transmutate
lead emotion into gold"
though nothing would hold
so i prayed and presto it decomposed
la cazadora Apr 2013
A watched *** never boils
A star shoots when you least expect it
Keep stirring.
Soon, that milky, sloshy liquid
will seep in
into the thick, earthen goop
One can only hope...
And it did, this time.
those eggs
[not vegan, sorry.]
that molasses-soaked sugar
the pulverized & the beaten
all amalgamated
in a matter of minutes
and it even sopped up
the flour lining
How pleasant. No. How scrumptious.
The hardened cream, mixed
with a little bit of salt, I admit,
but you know I
was never one
to make a cake
without tears
shedding some.
But I always remember
to lick the spoon
every once in a while.
Heidi Franke Jan 15
I rendered a recipe
Of leftovers in my mind
That happen to be
Complete garbage
Of dysfunction.
Where do I begin

It began in my heart
Where I pulled out,
Longing for safety,
Dripping clotless
Rags that made up my frame
My apron stained red.

In the middle was observed
A town of hate
Lacerating the bowels
Of everything and anything
Leaving a mighty stink, mistaking it for butter.

Towards the end a drifting
Spice of malcontent
Sprinkled from the pores
Of harmless thinkers
To crisp the tenderloins
of affection.

The oven is preheated
Everyone a dark hot mess
Needed no thawing
As the goop of alienation
Makes everyone a witness
and a vulture
     for a meal.

No matter how
un-schooled you are
Your neighbor shouting, the stranger drooling,
The cop beating, all have the same home-spun recipe and one main ingredient,
         Human, baked at 325.

Resulting in
a deus ex machina.
Going through explaining in my mind why people are the way we are.
spysgrandson Feb 2016
a dad, two kids  
the latter running for the shade and shelter
of the picnic table--dad strolling behind,
with pizza and crazy bread  

one family of a dozen there
in 75 degree Texas sunshine  
mid winter, as russet leaves
and calendar attest        

now I recall my only picnic
a half century past, where I discovered
peanut butter could be made magical  
with marshmallow cream  

from this same walking
and waking dream, I see a star
hanging  between two oaks, and a sea  
of hip hippies dancing, rocking to
mystic chants of their own device  

for the music died
long ago, electric and eternal
though we thought it was  

today, in a sun drenched park,
it is calm breeze I hear, the sibilant sizzling songs
of my past are long lost in space, but the wickedly wonderful
white goop on that sandwich, I yet taste
with transcendent  joy
jess casner Sep 2014
My mind never felt so open.
Though, never so closed in my existence
of life.  So much things to write,
but no words that match with what I wanted to say.
Never quite blending the way I have it
in my head.  My thoughts thrashed against
these walls of a small apartment.
Everything making a sound as it hit the
four surrounding walls.  
The words collided as they try to find their spot in my sentences.
Crashing into each other causing mayhem but a certain beauty
at the the same time.
Discombobulated emotions try to make
its way from my heart to my mind. Causing the biggest clutter
that maybe I can't fix. Maybe, just maybe I can sort
it out.  As soon as I grabbed my filing folders to get started.
The walls began to rumble as it started breaking down around me.
Caving me in.
I closed my eyes tightly to welcome the dark,
to let it absorb everything in its vastness.
Swallowing me whole.
Eyes wide open, the room is back into one piece.
I wish I was lucky to say that my mind survived.
It's now a sloppy goop running out of my ears and
down to the floor where the rug is absorbing every last
bit of it.
Leaving my head hollow and as fragile as the china
that sits in your grandmothers cabinet.
Carl Velasco Sep 2017
I’ll never forget.
MiniStop, Intramuros.
2016?
I had long graduated, the mortarboard
now a naked head of hair. The gown
now dilapidated jeans, and an overfitting
shirt. The fancy shoes now knockoffs
caked with mud and grime.
The little store was hot. Small.
On walls: baby cockroaches took chances.
Trash bags dog-eared below snack concessions.
A brown goop spun, the tungsten overhead
made no noise. Was there music? Was there
some commentary about love or crudeness on the radio?

Always self-conscious, I retreat to
the inner racks. Magazines lay there vacuumed, unpurchased.
Outside the picture window, an afternoon beamed its sun kiss.
I think I didn’t end up buying anything, because before I could,
some college boys entered. At the instant, I turned to them
and felt curiously incensed. This odd duality of envy and sympathy.
I was you, I’m me now. I want you, I’m not you now.
To look that young yet mature, to have a schedule.
To saunter inside the store before, during, after class. The
choice to enter, to parade, to be so vital.

The college boys, their plackets, collars,
their image. These hot-blooded men finer than me, stronger
than me. All handsome, winsome, reckless and brimmed with
swagger. Me? I stood examining the force, the association.
We’re all merely similar men, and I’m at a similar age, and I can
be a similar form factor. Mimic their teflon skin; shed my stucco,
leatherbound flesh.

And as soon as I attempted to undermine their specificity,
I lost my own place. I found that there’s no connection at all.
Other than I know nothing about the boys,
and the boys know nothing of me.
Bob B Oct 2016
Most of us know the tale of Cinderella,
But do you know the original German story?
It’s different from the version that I grew up with.
It’s called “Aschenputtel,” and it’s gory.
 
Cinderella’s stepmom and two stepsisters
Are nasty, ornery, bossy, ******, and mean.
They’re very good at belittling Cinderella;
And the sisters vie for the role of future queen.
 
Cinderella wants to attend a ball,
But her stepmom gives her some difficult tasks, and so
When some birds help the girl complete them,
The woman STILL refuses to let her go.
 
Here no fairy godmother comes to help.
Cinderella goes to the grave of her mother
Where she'd planted a branch that grew to a tree,
Which miraculously gives her a gown like no other.
 
When Cinderella goes to the King’s fancy ball,
She makes a tremendous impression on the prince.
Of course, no one’s able to recognize her,
And the competition makes the stepsisters wince.
 
For two nights in a row the same thing happens.
Cinderella must be in excellent shape,
For each night the prince attempts to pursue her,
Yet each night she makes a clean escape.
 
On the THIRD night he has a bright idea:
“Aha!” he says. “Someone, bring me some tar.
If I spread goop all over the steps of the palace,
That gorgeous sneak won’t manage to get very far.”
 
(Here you have to suspend even more belief.)
As Cinderella hurries to flee from her beaux,
She leaves behind one slipper in the tar.
(WHY more slippers aren’t stuck there, I do not know.)
 
On finding the slipper, the prince yells, “Piece of cake!
Now I’ll find the owner of this dainty shoe.”
When he arrives at the home of the nasty stepsisters,
The poor guy bites off more than he can chew.
 
The first sister chops off her obtrusive big toe
So that her foot can fit inside the slipper.
You see, the slipper’s not made of the kind of material
That stretches, and, of course, it has no zipper.
 
The prince starts to leave with his bride-to-be
But notices that her slipper is filled with blood.
“I don’t think that this is my future wife,”
He says and nips that nightmare in the bud.
 
In order to make her foot fit in the slipper,
The second stepsister cuts off part of her heel.
Imagine how much blood gushes forth from that.
Shaking his head, the prince says, “This is unreal.”
 
Finally, Cinderella takes her turn.
And what do you know? The slipper’s a perfect fit!
The prince—eager to exit that crazy scene—
Takes Cinderella and leaves lickety split.
 
(I hope the prince kept his wits about him.
You’d think he would, for he’s a thoughtful fella.
Certainly, he washed out all the blood
Before giving the slipper to Cinderella!)
 
Early on I told you about some birds
That helped Cinderella when she was down and out
By completing her tasks and delivering her gown and slippers.
They knew what the stepsisters were all about.
 
Well, the stepsisters come on the day of the wedding,
To mooch off Cinderella—as you can surmise.
As they amble along with the wedding couple,
The birds fly down and peck out both of their eyes.
 
Such is the fate of the mean and bossy stepsisters,
Who were deceitful and cruel, as you recall.
Call it karma, their just deserts, or comeuppance,
But let it be a lesson for us all.

- by Bob B
Afieya Kipp Oct 2017
You are brown and eating frozen grapes in the grass: petting the hair of some tattered doll, singing a song I taught you. I try to conjure a face, but all I know is the back of your small head—an afro littered with dandelion residue. You are lucky to be nothing more than a thought...because I don’t know if I could have ever been as good to you as you will never be to me. The exchange between parents and children seems to go this way: you - a wonder; I - everything I hope you never become. A spongy piece of angel food cake, as elusive as love, I would wish you didn’t put your tiny pink tongue, lapping, at our French doors—the dry swipe of play goop on our marble countertops. Maybe we ate avocados and blood oranges together, drank rice milk together; maybe I told you all about your star sign, gave you a nickname like: Mia Amata.
Our talks are never without melody—a miracle, like a thick, forbidden plum in a desolate dream forest; silk in the hallow of a black tree.

I shouldn’t be so sad.
All of the money I’ve earned so far has been my own...
All that is mine remains just, so—every decision made out of lust, habit, or both.
The caterpillar marches
Munching from leaf to leaf to leaf
He doesn’t know where he’s going
He doesn’t know where he’s been
He only knows the munching
The hunger in his gut
The fire in his belly
Antennae pointing up
Vigilant for predators
Water and leaves
He doesn’t know where he’s going
It matters not where he’s been

The caterpillar weaves
Instinctively without knowing
Why he must, but weaves he does
A cocoon for the growing
The caterpillar digests himself
Dissolving into soup
Becoming a pod of pain and tears
And caterpillar goop
Alone for weeks he suffers
Reconfiguring
His whole body becoming
A new kind of being

No idea what he’s becoming
No idea what’s in store
Suddenly caterpillar emerges
More beautiful than before
Stronger and more delicate
Lighter than the air
Ready for love and lofty height
A sight beautiful and rare
The butterfly does not look back
To the caterpillar he was
The butterfly flies forward
Embracing whatever comes

— The End —