"goop" poems
Cake, the meat of culinary delights;
Icing, the sauce.
Cake, the main entree, the special of the night;
Icing, the decorative garnish.
Without Cake, Icing has no purpose
A clump, a blob, of meaningless goop.
1 spoonful of Icing alone and you're done.
Spread out amongst the firm surface of Cake though,
Icing becomes much more interesting, and much more fun.
I am the Cake.
You are the Icing.
Without me, the base, the entree, the meat
You, the sauce, the garnish and blob, don't matter
You can be the Icing to your own Cake or to another
But without me, you'll do nothing but rot teeth and smother
So, to enjoy you, Icing, to the absolute fullest
I must, first, combine the ingredients, stir and bake
Because it is vital, if one is to appreciate your sweet taste,
To properly prepare my foundation, the meat, your Cake.
- BPW
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
I used to stand in awe and watch Grandma making biscuits.
She’d take her wooden bowl, then dip the floor and sift it.
As snowy flour would drift to form a mound of just so much;
She’d form a crater lake of buttermilk and shortening with her loving touch.
She would smile and watch our faces as she squeezed the flour to goop
And transform the mess she made into dough that she would scoop.
A pinch she’d take and make a ball to flatten in her palm.
Then with her thumb she’d press it down, so gently and so calm.
With care she next would take the dough and place it on a pan;
A thumb print etched in dough as she continued with her plan,
To place the pats side by side until the pan was filled
By perfect rows all laid out with hands so quick and skilled.
That cozy pan she placed into an oven warmed just right
And closed the door to seal them in and cook them out of sight.
In timely care she’d pull them free, delicious golden browns
Setting fresh hot biscuits on the table, to banish morning frowns.
Now I stand in awe and think of all the biscuits she has made,
Of all the time her thumb has pressed, as her heart has prayed.
Life finds us now, her children, in life’s wooden bowls
And we feel her loving touch as she leaves her thumbprint on our souls.
For Grandma Mary Grace Kindley Davis
On the occasion of her 105th birthday, February 9, 2007
Presented to her at her Birthday Party the next day.
©2007 Michael S. Davis
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
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
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
"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 Gumby ****** 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.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
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
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
i am the melting sun beams dripping from the children's running sneaker...creeping slow into the ocean of nose hairs sparkling with iodine and rosemary...father farther to the cosmic goop of motherhood and magic mounds of twirling gases...rancid beef so evergreen as if the princess is licking loudly on the frogs back...green of colour my third eye melts her fantasy into rainbows of toxic firearms...leaking valuable oil all over her wedding dress...come into the third eye and hammer away the truths of 1000 years...to fowrad this message is to embrace all that is the third eye...magic and numbers spiral towards the center edge of my reason...pure and criticized like goblins with tiny feet...reach up into your third eye and pull yourself into it with all your power and all your might....stay with it for just one night and reach for the spare tires in the third eyes trunk...don't forget to fill it with melting bubbles of fantastic hot sweet golden ratios where infinity smell like dust bunnies and dust bunnies smell like crystal salts and volcanic ash...spew forth third eye and share the vision of ecstasy and freedom...never cover the third eye with hate and regret only wash it with happiness and fullness...let the third eye rule your heart and towers will melt into concrete and paper will fill the sky...only the can the third eye truly be the way to see your path....spiral softly third eye and forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and forever see with the third eye....
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 8:01 AM UTC
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
Aug 29, 2023
Aug 29, 2023 at 12:32 PM UTC
Standing solid and still
just like the red oak it once was.
I trust it will hold me.
It’s sturdy and reliable.
Like the man who once sat in it.
The man who once held me.
It’s a coffee and cream color with
highlights of gold
and low lights of auburn
and each crack and stain tells
a story
The Maleficent purple stain
on the back right leg.
a toddler that would grow to be me
running with a PB&J in hand
unaware of my brother's Hot Wheels Derby
taking place beside the table.
All it took was one untied shoelace
and all I remember is a symphony of tiny cars
clinging and clanging
and four year old me
falling face first into the tile
As the PB&J propelled forward
smearing brownish, purple goop.
The crack where your left shoulder
might touch if you leaned back.
I honestly don't even know what it's from.
Maybe an argument that got too heated?
Or simple ware and tear over the years?
I never asked.
I’ll never know.
This chair brings me both
comfort and pain.
Comfort when I sit after a long day on my feet.
Pain when I walk by and stub my toe unexpectedly.
Comfort when I remember all the times he held me in it.
And pain when I remember he will never hold me again.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
Atom and Eve
a basic unit of matter
it's more than magic up your sleeve
and out of all this gobbledy-goop
you wind up with the beautiful Eve
a dense centralized nucleus
surrounded by clouds of negative charge
shake them in a brown paper bag
and you come up with more than Curious George
stirred up protons and neutrons
except for the rascal hydrogen-1
chemical elements and Isotopes
but the beauty of you is what makes it fun
yes Eve was the Queen of all mothers
at least according to what we know
but was it the atoms of Adam's rib
or much more to this magnificent show
it seems the more that we understand
the more confused we become I believe
our world of constant amazement
much deeper than atom and Eve
Gomer LePoet...
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
From your neck
Crawling its way up to your head,
Like a river cutting across soft land
The pain follows upto your brow .
You squint your eyes
And shake your head,
The pain taps your mind.
This is the pain from hopelessness
There is no escape, feel it,
Embrace it.
Pray that it busts your head open
And your brain splashes across your bed.
Pray that you evaporate
That you disappear,
Leave back a stain
For that is what your life has been.
You lay on your back
Silence broken by the blood
Running around in your otherwise limp body,
And you hear a screech, a whisper
A mocking?
You turn your empty
But strangely heavy head,
You see the creature
whose children you killed that evening.
You had hunched over the broken egg,
Its insides now spilled outside,
And the other one still lay across.
You had nothing to do,
You wiped the goop that could be life
With a torn bit of paper ,
Haphazardly poured water
And wiped again.
Who would say
The floor had seen death today.
The other egg you rolled to the side,
You knew the creature would cry tonight.
You went about with your life.
The creature is swelled up again,
You noticed
Life would get a chance again,
That is how it works you wonder,
But she must be furious
You see her staring at you.
You are sorry you say.
That's all you had to say
Until today.
Today you are thinking of striking a deal with her
Today you will ask her
To spill your head open
The way you had spilled her egg.
You will ask her to give you peace,
To give you your awaited escape
And in return she can have her justice.
Tell her you can be killed,
All she has to do is drop you
From a height
The way you had dropped her egg
From her home, your rolled mattress.
The only difference you had no intention
Of taking away someone else's life
But your own.
So today ask her to correct your mistake.
My blood will be wiped
My stain will be removed
Someone else will take my place.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC
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.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
I would like to pick up the pieces
I'd create a mosaic work of art
because
trying to fit them back together won't work.
It would show
every flaw
every line / every crack
It would show
just how broken
what should be one and whole
The glue
would goop up
& each piece they'd
slowly
fall
apart again
Only this time it would
be
impossible
to
create a mosaic.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
She wakes up each morning
Looks in the mirror
…
She puts an oversized hoodie over
Straightens her hair
Like every other girl in her school
Oh no
She burns her finger
Covers her imperfections
With powders
That suffocate her skin
Coats her eyelashes
With sticky black goop
That crusts when it dries
Her mother calls her down for breakfast
“I’m not hungry”
She says
She hasn’t been hungry for two weeks
You know what they say
Beauty is pain
She goes to school
Why is everyone else so skinny?
And beautiful?
And perfect?
She wishes she were them
But what she doesn’t know
Is that
Those skinny, beautiful, perfect girls
Wishes they were her
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
"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.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
We all start with blank faces.
Ebony or
Ivory or
Olive or
Anything in between.
Skin so dark they don't sell the shade at Sephora.
Skin so light you've got to mix the color with white to make it match.
Whatever the color, it's all the same skin.
We all start with blank faces
Made of cells and covered in blemishes
Stretched thin across our cheekbones
Or hanging loose and wrinkled with age,
With lines on our foreheads like
Punishment
for laughing too much.
When did laughter become such a grievous crime?
We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become Van Gogh.
With expert brush strokes, we paint.
We coat ourselves with thick layers of pastey goop like Elmer's glue
Paint it on thick to cover our blemishes and red spots
We top it off with pigment like powdered sugar on sweets
Not knowing that the more opaque our makeup is, the more transparent.
We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become sculptors
Contouring and contorting to conform to unrealistic standards.
We highlight our best features and conceal the rest.
We conceal the redness of our cheeks just to paint it on again with blush.
We paint wings on our eyes although we'll never fly.
We all start with blank faces.
… and then we become victims of consumerism
Spending our money on different shades of the same **** thing
They raise the prices because they know they'll sell it to us anyway
They force it upon us, then shame us for becoming slaves to it
We are the victims and the perpetrators.
We all start with blank faces
… and then we become artists
… and then we become victims
… and then we become warriors
This is our war paint.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
Jesus was a liar and Ghandi was a fuccboi.
Prophets hate themselves the most.
Try to be pure light and you will never be.
You are not a single drop of ***** in an ocean of ****
You are an ocean of **** in a single drop. Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
You came from sacks of fat floating around in primordial goop.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
You are 99% vacuous void but that 1% still makes you visible to me.
Tell me that's ******* disgusting.
I used to think I was all love and light and that was it.
Everything else was shame.
Everything else was to blame.
Everything else was also me.
I am mostly nothing and mostly darkness.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.
That despite being a walking maelstrom of empty space and spasmodic dance,
I am a ******* universe expanding in all directions simultaneously.
The only reason you can see the stars in the sky is because of all the emptiness.
The only reason you can look into my eyes is because of the little bit of life that shines through my pupils.
The only reason you can hold me in your arms is because the trillions and trillions of quanta that hold me together hate themselves and love each other because they all know that they hate themselves.
It's because they're entangled in a hot mess of spaghetti, sauce, and melted cheese.
Like a functioning dysfunctional family, we are trying our best and we all hate ourselves but we are trying love each other anyway.
Because we feel it.
Vacuous void. Chaotic dance.
Mostly nothing and a little bit of everything.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
Dropped into perestroika events
and I don’t really know myself.
I talk differently than my driving desires
I’m a less apt projection of who I want to be.
I can honestly say sometimes I might be the original
but that’s a last resort in boring places.
Someone once had a quote
about how it’s foolish to know yourself.
But I get so **** scared.
Nothing to hold.
Not even a floor for my shoes.
Not even sure what shoes best suit me.
I’m free to make this soul go anywhere,
Yes, Mr. Voltaire, ****** too free.
Mr. Holy Roller says Jesus already came with his plow truck
and paved a way for me.
But which ways did he pave,
God, where will it all lead?
God, which way is best for me?
Still I might not be supposed to know myself,
But The Self
that we all share.
You and me babe.
and that dog and that deer
and that grass and that car
and that lamp post.
All the same.
All the universe’s
and all the other universes’ weight on my head
that keeps being ****** into a vortex
in between where everything’s all the same goop.
All the same stuff. What am I doing living with it?
******
“Whoever observes himself arrests his own development. A caterpillar who wanted to know itself would never become a butterfly.” -Andre Gide
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
checking your bowels, for things that you, might have forgot
I mean a, colonoscopy
not really where ya wanna be
drinking goop that cleans ya out
and makes ya wanna gag
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
not a packing of the fudge, or a deviant excuse
I mean a, colonoscopy
a cinematic intrusion probability
the kind that ya can't show the kids
or hang upon your wall
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
it's a must for determining, if I'm cancer free
I mean a, colonoscopy
so I can exercise my liberty
I will not be persecuted anally
for at least three to four more years
It's a, colonoscopy, a super duper biopsy
popping polyps, before they can, ever pop me
I say a, colonoscopy
an endoscopic discovery
living worry free and wild
three to four more years
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
When I schueezed my-too-paste onto the-bruss
I held my bruss hori-shontally-so
The whole dang-chunk-a-goop fell into the-sink.
I can jus-magine you, your
Eyes woo-glow and you woo-laaaa
And kiss m-forehead and make me fee-as-if
I’m not-ta-idiot
Don’t tell anyone, but I scooped it back up with my finger and put it back on the brush.
Woo-you still kis-me wi sink-tooth-paste-teeth?
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 2:48 AM UTC
I fear that it isnt long enough.
and i cant describe
it sinks
Like a carrot in gravy
Straight emptiness.
Existence begins and we float
characters in a bowl
thick goop holds it together
with no end.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 2:31 AM UTC
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention,
That knives are in fact the superior invention,
They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread,
While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said,
They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup,
They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop,
They can't even manage to show a proper reflection,
Try gazing at one, it upends your direction,
Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools,
Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools,
Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches,
And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches,
It's clear that knives are the superior race,
They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place,
At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks,
Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks,
You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery,
That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
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
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 9:13 PM UTC
Welcome to college!
Here’s a crash course of campus;
Im majoring in procrastination,
And minoring in cramming.
My teacher’s name is Boring,
It’s a wonder I’m still standing.
This class is mumbo jumbo,
While this just makes no sense.
All the kids drink coffee,
And the teachers are all so tense.
I fall asleep at night
With the lump in the next bed snoring.
I put my clothes on right before bed,
I don’t have time in the morning!
The first building here...
Is exactly where?
The next building over...
You need a map I swear!
The café gives you goop.
For breakfast today its gunk.
I skip the middle meal of the day,
For dinner its beer and junk.
People say college is awfully hard;
With teachers, tests and money.
They say studding gives you a cramp.
To me it sounds like camp.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
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.
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
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.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC