"greasing" poems
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
******
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old ***** petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
11k
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Success ***** as they say,
hellishly. She's a rich little
seductress who's certainly sensational
at blowing a man's brains out.
I know. She had her teeth into me.
I can smile now, but for a while
I couldn't get enough. She was hot stuff,
that ***** goddess, success.
I was a real sucker for her charms
when she came greasing up.
I really got into the groove
when she pulled me off to the gravy train
where we gobbled down every drop.
I tell you, I couldn't stop.
What a succulent princess she is,
that ***** goddess, success.
But after it had all blown over
and she was hanging out with other guys,
I had a few days when my eyes weren't glazed.
Maybe she was a bit of a ***** actually,
always hustling for more.
Attractive to woo, but really, she *******
them, always pushing to score,
that ***** goddess, success.
I met her again the other day,
and she ran her tongue over her lips. Jeez.
I nearly went weak at the knees.
But we're only old friends now,
and I'm over her disease. So I wasn't desperate to please
her. She's such a terrible tease. She wriggled her assets
but I didn't ask her to come again,
that ***** goddess, success.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 12:56 AM UTC
Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?
Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?
When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?
Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?
Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.
Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?
When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?
Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.
Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.
Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?
Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?
Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?
Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****
Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."
In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.
So get up, and go do.
Go do it.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC
blood
blood patter and splash
leads us concrete toward
tracing back til the scene
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
the violence that must of cussed
between persons
in fear fray and inebriation
down the steps
my four year old child and I go
the greasing bleed in bronze putters
growing and leadening
on stone labours
glowing citrus the refrigeration
of the underpass
‘flips the bird' at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination
seasoned in deep beading now cold
the broke up weapon
candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
the neck its' hilt
and the main mud of the bleeding
the flies are the thing
that bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
just eager for the vibration
of train carriages gatling over our heads
i stopper any words i may have on the matter
he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms
procession of caged floodlights
and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping retching for the guttering
Dec 22, 2023
Dec 22, 2023 at 3:05 PM UTC
wednesday ..
is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front)
glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer
sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work.
the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields)
is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise
patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light
(there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain)
to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick,
somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his *******
tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap.
saturday // 1:15:44 pm
i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4
hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and
hauling pallets.
daylene from dispatch brought in donuts.
i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online.
—there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked.
sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead
and it's not so bad.
you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers &
they keep me company on long rides to and from leases,
asking about work. hoping that i am well.
(once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can
take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not
a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has.
would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?)
(temporality.)
15/10/2012
there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the
bathroom door which i will drink in the shower.
it was sort of a long day.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Is there a doctor in the house?
I think I'm having southern withdrawl symptoms
shakes and such
brain a blubbering mess
why give one so much feeling
if they can't get rid of it healthily?
Too much for one body to handle
maybe throw in another personality
nothing bad ever happend
just a technical problem during manufacturing
a wire connected wrong
or not connected at all
amygdala super sensitive
looking for comfort in wrong places
stupid faces
blazing aces
therapists are kind but really need a map
words only convey so much
can't help if they can't understand
whose fault is that?
Probably the broken robot
me
doesn't speak in proper vernacular
accustomed to being freakish and safe
greasing joints with *****
circuit boards of tofu scramble
electric feed back every once in a while
when I cough
perhaps new meds will calm overactive internal reactions
or maybe being all vulnerable to candy hearted young men
spilling secrets and insecurities to friends
but they'll all leave
right?
Europeans had no problem taking over lands
staying with natives
eating their foods
but if the natives had shared their deepest secrets and feelings
pilgrims would have gladly returned home for persecution
than to put up with an emotional Squanto.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
With time there's nothing visual. . .
Only things. . . due after some fact. . .
What we consider is most purest of things. . .
to some, it's just white hurricane crack. . .
I consider myself. . .
With time all illusions. . . set to the side. . .
Life is pure. . . without a blanket of time. .
We consider,. . . we all make it in rhyme. . .
Someway . . .or another. . .
The world is got so much more then to bother. . .each One another. . .
Then to share with joyful expression,. . . that time but allows us. . .
To the fullest extent,. . . time as illusion. . .
Can only make more then one self,. . . then the other one melt. . .
Getting spanked all around. . . All the crazies do us by belt. . .
What **** is the matter,. . . has time cut into your butter. . .
Greasing up all the streets,. . . boiling off all intelligence. .
Even speaker who shares with the world with poetic intelligence,. . .
thats love to the life. . . . with the time with his neighbors. . .
Such life is a streamer,. . . streaming through time, . . .
time of one's life surrounded by steam of another. . .
When we cram on one another, time is illusion. .
running over. . . creating a fusion. . .
one from another creating confusion. . .time is illusion. . .
To look at a counter, less fulfilment then want her. .
Because time as illusion. . . invades escape from this cooky confusion. . .
When eyes set bound to imposter, your dream in reality. . .
always forming when time is without a solution, . . .
just letting it go. . . unfurls deep worlds we've only just known. . .
beyond in time is the scape. . .where numbers be running. . .
a world out of shape. . . If time was a matter. . .
To please all our moods. . . this world would be great. . . but The world is so great. . .
all musicians we are, i promiss you know it. . .we flow around with each other. . .
But time has concealed her, to even distinct, the sound of the peaceful. .
Where sound is a stink. . .to even consider, where **** did we all go. . .
looking for clocks, on rocks and a mirror. . .
Time grieve, be a mirror. . For only as far as it goes, you'll never see her. . .
If time is illusion, our minds won't confuse her. . only to melt with the extra minute on clock. . .
To consider every moment,. . . . time is illusion. . .that every moment is just a matter of memory. .
In each other, and in some. . . Some parts are for bad, to refuse on the good,
and some parts are for good to refuse on the bad. . .
Positive time is our best, with time. . You forget its illusion when roaming galant and free. . .
Far from illusion hidden behind, there is a consorted of sorts. . . . misery. . Time is illusion
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 8:42 AM UTC
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake
Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs
Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake
Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs
Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.
Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.
The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.
The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.
This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.
The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.
Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Sky: a repository of adjectives
―land's fast mirror
―stripped of uniform
―thought to body.
Greece: a repository of alternatives
―Civilisation’s fast mirror
―never fully constituted
―thought to Europe’s body.
And all this water between us
―greasing the dialogue
―speeding up the dissolution
―co-operating.
Isn’t it always cooperative?
After all, the trickster
is nothing without prey;
the entrepreneur nothing
without an audience.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Very unlike
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three crowns
bond in the act
of siphoning
exploiting
and palm-greasing
the National cake
Scratching
each others back
Leaving the detritus
to the detriment
of the mass plebs
Yet like
the Father
the Son
and the Holy spirit
Three in one
Demi-gods
of our democracy.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
You Use To
drop the turkey
twice on special holidays
glaze the ham
with stubborn certainty
that lime chutney was
just the ticket
Sterno steaks
brought your short lived
grilling career to a
screeching halt
not to be outdone
by the half- cooked goose
with New Year’s champagne
what I wouldn't give
to see you
greasing
the kitchen floor
with poultry again.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
you take the the money i sweat blood for
pry the coins from my starved fingers
shake my pleas from your pant-leg
as you walk away flipping the papers.
i talk endlessly to paralysed specialists
i type to infinity about the injustice of it
i threaten and shout
i worry and budget even tighter
i am the nothingness
greasing the cogs of your profit
with the blood of my suffering
my bones the pillars of your success.
**** you
MTN
I will chain my body
to the doors of your evil abode
and not move untill i am appeased!!
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 2:06 AM UTC
One of these summer-drenched days
I'm gonna think up a new world,
Pack up my thoughts,
And take up residence in a dream.
I'll choose a place where
Words are like water,
Women are like daggers,
And men cling tighter than spanish moss.
There I'll settle, beneath cobblestones,
Forever tinkering away in my mind:
Greasing the gears to make the dream
Smooth, like a river stone.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
.
I love to see her naked ***
As she lies there on the bed
Now
I am not Gay
But the sight of that *** ..... (!)
)(
She slowly turns around
Spreading her legs
Revealing her perfect *****
Under perfect *******
And a beautiful face with such compassionate eyes !
I quickly approach
As she closes her legs
And rolls over
Her beautiful *** !
Smiling up at me !
•
I grab her *** and start greasing up
Her ******* in preparation for entry !
..
She slowly starts giggling
Then laughing
Turning over again
Opening and closing her legs !!!
)(
***
*****
***
*****
( laughter )
::
Her eyes sparkling with love !
//
But the laughter !
The laughter !
She is laughing at me !!
Mocking my love !!
//
I lose my mind !
I start hitting her
Harder and harder
Screaming
SHUT UP ***** SHUT UP !
I collapse in a heap
when I come to my senses she is gone
FOREVER !!!
)(
( my love is gone )
The perfect lover !
my life (?) ... !!
I wander the years in a daze
Looking for her (?)
//
All I see are the Pretty Boys
And their cute tight ***** !
I walk on
••
••
I relive the beating over and over in my mind
***
*****
***
*****
LAUGHTER !
I know
I should of just rested there
In her totality
In her ******* and face and compassionate eyes
//
I should have FELT and not only SEEN
But she is gone
And I am
Whatever I am
Whatever I
Have become
Finally
.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
poetry has been eluding me
I'm hunting the words down with blood
stained palms; can't you hear me?
am I bleeding too quietly
my heart holds no names any longer
these are crevices I want to
paint all over again
I want it ***** under my fingernails I want
it greasing my hair I want art crawling up my
arms I want it in the dark in the quiet I want to
be consumed in colors I'm afraid to inhale
devour me, poetry
I am only the lungs
you are the air
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:03 AM UTC
What can I do?
I don’t have another thing to think
about these things that I see
You don’t let yourself love me,
I have a garlic heart
Fragrant and strong
But only after it’s crushed
then what can I do?
it will regrow and the odor flows
through this red sauce inside me
This funny fluid that flickers from inside
Whenever you’re on my mind,
Then what can I do
I don’t have another me to be
Only this lover that you see
And you can’t ever love me
I have a Velcro heart,
Don’t get your soft side too close,
Or I’ll get stuck on you
my hooks in your loops
I don’t know what I can do
I don’t have another me to be
Only this lover that you see
And you shouldn’t ever love me
My heart is the cart before the horse
And I get carried away
greasing the squeaky wheels of course
My head is the horse before the cart
And I get carried away
on the squeaky wheels of my heart
What can I do?
I don’t have another thing to do
Only these things that you see
You don’t let yourself love me…
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Listen for prophetic screams
Weighing down the end of yr nose
Greasing up the hydraulics of the eyeballs
Emerging wholesale from a dream
Residue of unseen seas
Still caked in tangled hair
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 10:22 AM UTC
Dazed , slumber mode
Late hour aggravation
Defective diode , electrical -
brain imbalance , television overload
Book weary , legal philosophy -
theory , fly swatter Republican
county prosecutors
Night cars bound for work
Greasing the soul eating machines -
of our Corporate government
Press conference Lead Monster wannabe
students of Plato
Cookie cutter American PlayDoh
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
Glittery mentions along a
lonely red-carpet through
the theatre of mind I hold
so close and dear, greasing
with WD40 to keep my quick
wit intact so I can fight fire
with flame-- an Afro-headed
white-boy with molten lava
for scalp and still frame flame
for hair walks past in all black
leather; fire-proof to avoid his
inner spark so it stays in the fire
-pit of his head where he has set
up camp for the rest of his mortal
life. There is something about the
distinctly mid-point glare of a
human on his way to an odyssey
that gives away the fact he is
between-scenes in the film
-shoot of life, and you can
expect to see his final cut
screen as a Facebook
exclusive starting tonight
at 9 and repeating every
25 minutes for the next
60 years.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
Woke up today felt a limb missing
Found out I was just slipping
My mind off things that be
There can never be more than three
Got screws unscrewed
I went dipping,
Didn’t realise that I may be tipping
Off the course ever so slightly
My matches lit up ever so brightly
But no fire lasted within me for that long
Done once, twice and now it’s a shabby form
Needed me a pick me up, got a coffee
Didn’t think it’ll help the cough up or a drop key
I wanted an out but stayed in,
Didn’t find work that played easy
Did all the courses but then I was greasing
My elbows for a fit form
Didn’t know better just hit random
Trying something to work in my day
Change the phase and blow me away
But nothing stood still when my screws went missing,
I was zooming then I was tripping,
Needed a steady shoulder to cry on
My shoulders stayed broken and corned off
Didn’t have anyone to half it up.
I laid waiting for the endless to be ending
The clock strikes half past seven
And I still stayed there laying for the clouds changing.
Aug 20, 2022
Aug 20, 2022 at 10:17 AM UTC
inverse my talent
to let go and
be what i'm not.
transverse my axle
and you'll find
a kind of heaven
greasing the pole.
what speaks without words
always, a riddle
unto itself.
the tree of life
is laughing exaltations
in polarizing resplendence.
bright bones are
jubilantly marching
ever deeper into the
triumphant unknown.
we are woven with
mystery, riding waves
of inherited momentum
on a sea of uncertainty.
ex mysterium, ad mysterium
and don't forget about
the punchline -
flatline...
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 10:51 AM UTC