"goopy" poems
Now, what the hell has just happened to me?!,
I went to sleep and felt quite human,
Alarm goes off, opened my eyes to see,
Two mounds where my little chest should be.
My ****** armpits have just sprouted some fuzz,
There's some hair where my lady garden was,
My beautiful blonde hair is all goopy and limp,
And my face has a likeness to a spotty chimp.
When i went to bed last night, i loved my dear mother,
Now, the thought of a cuddle makes me run and take cover,
Ant lanky Jimmy Owens used to repulse me, no end,
But now all i want is to be his girlfriend?!,
I suppose i will need to start wearing a bra,
And i'll have to smile through the taunts from grandma,
And my father will watch every move that i make,
And i'll have to conform, for my sanity's sake.
Well, tonight, when i lay down my spotty wee head,
I'll lie here and wait for the morning, with dread,
All these transformations, all yuk and all grease,
O lord, will i make it through in one piece?!.
c eileen mcgreevy 2009
Nov 20, 2009
Nov 20, 2009 at 5:50 AM UTC
It’s all a bit of a dream
Don’t you think?
Nothing’s ever certain
And once you know something
It’s all crystal clear
But just wait, soon
You’ll begin to question, wonder
Possibly forget
And be back at square one
So what should you build from there?
Well
I have a house
That’s a **** good place to start
Cement goes into the cauldron
Goopy soupy and delicious
It bubbles of beginnings, and permanence
As it boils and squeals in the background of the world that surrounds
Me, I drift off into space
Who knew a few random fumes could get you high!
I see a dancer
A girl in bright blue torn tights, with a boy next to her,
and a friend
She’s a good student
But
She gets terrible grades
And there’re flowers all over her bed
You could call her a bumblebee the way she wraps her self
In them and inhales
Softly
She never cries
Well not that often
And when she does she regrets it
Things aren’t too serious with her
Depression, adhd, death available,
Verbs and adjectives far too strong
She can taste manipulation
People throw things around in her world,
And she’s been programmed to throw back
It hurts
With each hit her opponent brings to the rink
She often wonders if it’s all that bad. Tough, in a lonely sort of way
But every now and then
A breeze rolls on by
With a window
Always open
Honey, black tea, paper
Blurrrr
And it’s back to the grey soup of the day
But the spoons getting harder and harder to stir
Time’s running out
What is there that could possibly change?
A few things unlock this path… but which one should I choose?
No sé
No sé no sé
No sé
I should be me…
But honestly
Who am I?
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 4:48 AM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
Now, what the hell has just happened to me?
i went to sleep, and felt semi human,
alarm goes off, open my eyes to see,
two mounds where my wee chest should be....
My ****** armpits stink, and have sprouted fuzz,
and there,s hair where my lady garden was,
my beautiful blonde hair is all goopy and limp,
and my face bares a likeness to a spotty young chimp....
When i went up to bed, i loved my dear mother,
now, the thought of a cuddle makes me run and take cover,
and that lanky Josh Owens used to repulse me, no end,
but today all i want is to be his girlfriend....
I suppose i will have to start wearing a bra,
and i,ll have to smile through all the taunts from grandma,
and my father will watch every move that i make,
and i,ll have to conform, for my sanity's sake....
Well, tonight when i lay down my spotty wee head,
i will lie here and wait for the morning, with dread,
with all these transformations,sweaty armpits, hair all grease,
oh dear universe, please help me make it through in one piece !!
(c)[email protected] (re-edited)
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
'and I realize everybody is just living their lives quietly but it's only me that's insane'
i walk the streets waiting for your call
six lowly lonely hours feet numbed
it never comes and tho i still love
you i hate you and big promises
spring fatuously little pretty lie
perpetual disappointment
in perpetuity i ******
hate you like
suspended
questions
falsities fabricated in your upward inflection falsetto all goopy
distasteful muck of all our
empty troubled souls
the sea of the corpus which in reality covers most of our primordial earth
so best pay attention
what are you high - maybe yes ok
probably can't remember honest
words never the less spill from
my mouth I love you yab yum
for i the raucous martyr-masochist
to yer neglect bull whip *******
fantasies (woe)
me up on yer cross
he died *****
as i do, you
cruel
terrible
butcher *****
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
I try to cut, through the skin, as if it's my last effort to free my own soul from it's own pain,
The skeletal bones and tissue intertwined, wanting to break free, from such limited physicality's
Rather to feel real pain, then this goopy stuff they call emotions,
I'm entangled in a war of not my choosing,
A world, I was not made for,
And I walk aware of this,
Every, single day i'm breathing hard and the cold air ***** all the warmth from my own blood,
And I feel nothing, but darkness, ******* out my soul,
The life I once wanted,
A fairytale forgotten while I'm living this horrid nightmare,
Full of language and knowledge I could care less about,
When all I wanna do is run in fields, and soak up the ocean with my heart,
And never return to a desk if it's the last thing I do,
Freedom from driving and technology,
A phone always beeping,
Just me, myself and I,
And a God that I could see with all the stuff out of the way
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
Yellow specimens in a jar,
like plump yolks bulging
in a jelly like substance
They are so weird,
Give the jar a little wobble,
and they jiggle against each other,
they are so weird
I want to touch them.
They are egg yolks,
I've got egg on my hands,
the mystery has gone,
I liked them better before,
now they're slippy sliding between my fingers
and oozing to the floor
who put's eggs in a jar like this?
That is just weird.
I wonder if they will notice,
the two I took out;
one slipped from my fingers and
one I tasted just be sure.
better ***** the lid back on the jar and
Oh no! It slippy slid out of my goopy hands
and landed on the floor,
didn't smash, that's impressive,
there's still ******* eggs all over the place though.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
I shake with every cell
Oxygen does not easily flow
Dancing in indiscretion
Inhaling every woe
Cancerous to nose
Infected by smokey lips
Adorned in selfish prose
Doctored with defying quips
Acted out in Fable
Characterized in yellow stone
A sure thing to bite
Pieces lost in clothes
Hiding in a wake
Eyes of goopy pus
A manmade offense
The anti-verb of us
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC
Every night I gaze deep into your chocolate eyes
Glistening in the moonlight teasing pesky fireflies
With my own, blue as a deep ocean's way
To show you plainly; all to simply say
I'll hold you forever and never let go
I'll run with you forever and never slow
I'll kiss you softly under this moonlight
I'll keep you warm, even on this frigid night
They all mock our love, "But why?" they say
To find true happiness in each other, day after day
Staying together, showing the world that we're happy
Side by side, hand in hand, a love all goopy and sappy
Every night I'll lock together our wanting lips
The taste and sensation a mighty feat
We'll close our eyes, press our noses at the tips
And squeeze together, warm with our roaring heat
Breaking it slowly but only for awhile
To say four words strung together in a smile
Shedding a tear for love, not vain
You'll respond with four more, under my rain
"I love you Travis.."
"I love you Ty.."
<3
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
I am in need of litmus paper;
A wriggling creature indeterminately featured follows,
It does not sit nor stand no feet nor hands just wriggling waving scribbling in goopy slop, no stops
The smell of burning band-aids trailing in its wake.
Savage monstrous floatation above a tile sea,
Its motions are elegantly sick, delightful barf,
And I think I am thinking I'd like to know what it thinks,
But then, I know I should never truly know.
I am in need of litmus paper.
Is it an acid, base, or an accidental space
Filled, yet out of place, a dogma to my face?
Recurrent in its situation, killed once, but a reactivation?
I am in need of litmus paper.
Somewhere, I find, I am in the trail it leaves behind.
In this sign, I am afraid.
As it situates, conscious or unconsious,
Wriggling along, regurgitating from behind itself over and over again,
Halving itself, then fusing whole again,
It stares ahead, using an invisible force, inward eyes inside a blank face, to its next traversed inch in the slimy tiles.
And I think,
I need litmus paper.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
If there were to be an awkward work party
In the future
Where you get a little tipsy and for some reason
Decide it would be safe
To kiss me
I'll be all like:
Hold on I thought you liked girls and you shouldn't mess around with me because I'm just gonna become one of those goopy people who gets attached too quickly even though you think I'm all casual and longhairy and whatever but I'm totally gonna cry like an orphan when you stop liking me
I'll be all like that but it'll also make my life in that moment
My whole giant life to come and all the immense seeming life I've had
Will be boiled down into a tiny little microscopic moment
And to myself
I'll be all like:
It'd be okay to die inside this moment because my whole life's in it anyway
But even if you think it's fun to flirt with me at work
You're probably not going to kiss me
Because you like girls
And I don't want to be another one of those guys who just doesn't get that
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
I spew ink.
My whole life I believed I
Was made of tar
People walking by would leave their shoes behind
I thought that my lovers were stuck there
Caught in the goopy blackness of my stirring soul
I had no beaters, no mixing spoon
And they would gasp for breath on the surface
I pushed them out
I could not stand to hurt them so
Letting them die would be such a low blow
And it surprised me
To watch them leave so quickly
Like they didn't even want to fix me
One boy tried to clean me out with his bare hands once
And the farther he reached, the dirtier we both became
He traced my name with his fingers on my grimy car windows
"Wash me" the message would say
And I would try to shampoo the tar out of my hair
But as I looked at the spattered stains underneath my fingernails
My poetry, black and white
I saw right through my self-told lies.
I spew ink.
Like an exploded pen in your white shirt pocket.
Look at the beautiful spots bleeding into the cotton.
Please don't leave.
I promise it's just ink.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Wavers it does,
sanity.
It's not so secure,
no.
The spaces between,
the going and the went.
Elongate
sometimes.
Trembles and expands,
the light
in all things.
Stretching my mind
to its limits,
where logic
withers.
Fear saluted at first
the go to
when things are new.
But actually,
this trickling mess
of unknowningness
allows me
to be.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
A disgusting group of goopy mess
A cluster of bandits in town to stay
A rain storm to cloud the sky,
The weathers never been nice, and the forcast looks bad.
Because the mind monsters are back
And they're here to stay.
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC
They don't tell you that it feels like fire--that it feels hot, like magma, like smoke and fire alarm and get me out of here. It feels like I Need To Get Out of This Room, but you're the room and you're also not the room. They don’t tell you that everything is melting--including you. There are holes burning in you, and it's not in a trendy way to make you look vintage; you need to be stomped the **** out. It's becoming more and more difficult to hold on to things, since your fingers flammable, ready to strike a match. Everything is so excruciatingly hot and it seems like folks will use your flames to make s'mores, or worse, to light their cigarettes. You can't step outside for air because even fire thrives with oxygen. You're a building, crumbling to the ground in your fiery demise, almost in slow motion, and it’s okay, because you weren't up to code anyway.
They don’t tell you how underwater it is, how slow moving and in space it is. They forget to mention how it feels like you're drowning all the **** time while everyone is above water. Your head submerged, everything is in slow motion, frozen. Everything needs to be stared at or it will float away and disintegrate. They don’t tell you that everything is blurry to you and only you--no one knows what you're talking about. You're not watercolor--you're a watery, diluted, goopy mess. You sit there, in a puddle of your own demise, sad and soaking wet of your tears. Don’t even try to mop yourself up because the bucket is already overflowing.
What they don't tell you about anxiety disorder is that it is a silent killer. No one wants to help you--they don't want to sit next to you. You make everything sticky with your insecurities and the unknown and you're a mess. You may as well write panic across your forehead because it is emanating from you regardless.
~~a.s.f.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
you started out big, i think. i think you started out with big lungs and a big heart and giant thoughts, i don’t think you were like everyone else
i wasn’t there for the rest of it. i was in
los angeles, i was
playing soccer with the cousins in white dresses in grassy backyards. the sky was plummy, my shoes were wet, i remember it like an uncut gem mined from my mossy mossy memory
but imagination only goes so far. it doesn’t cover things like lost keys or atlanta, you know.
i’m good at lies, but that’s inherent. we’re fluent in
self-hate, i think,
we’re liquidy like the wavy falling sky.
sometimes my mind’s blown, i feel like an eight-year-old watching aliens land again & i feel my hands start to shake
i suppose it was the same way for you. i guess u have the same little memories, the goopy mac and cheese from elementary school, the neighbor’s cats’ names, sore arms, bad bruises
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
Abide
by Michael R. Burch
after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"
It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.
And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).
Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, alcohol, fettle, mettle, Nirvana
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 8:44 PM UTC
I am two
That can merge
Into one.
I can be as loud
Or as quiet as
You please.
I can also become
A mess you get tired
Of dealing with.
One thing I cannot do
Is speak for myself.
If I could,
I'd scream in disgust
Because of the horrors
Of this goopy, sticky
Yellow stuff that
Attaches itself to me
Every time I'm used.
I'd sue if I could!
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC
My brains all goopy,
Like a thick soup.
Chunky, and wholesome,
And you wonder.
...
How it got that way,
Content+Consumer=revenue.
These are the trends,
I should be trying to sleep.
...
Waiting for the ads to end,
Another little video.
Just another smidge of content,
It won't hurt at this time.
Were I to ring a dealer at this time,
Some would say I was addicted.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC