"grossest" poems
You are the rock stuck inside of my sock.
You are drying off naturally after the longest shower in history, because you forgot the towel.
Like the string that is hanging off of my sweater. I keep tugging it and
pretty soon it is short enough for July weather.
The person using the car horn instead of ringing a door bell.
The low battery symbol on my cell.
Pungent perfume from a co-worker, the grossest smell.
The **** that asks for the red piece from your package of sweets.
The friend who cancels five minutes before every time you meet.
The rap artist that thanks God when he wins an award, even though his
songs are just about killing.
Medical technicians milling about when your arm really is broken.
The chapstick left in the pocket when the clothes are in a dryer.
Dress pants for work that are so tight, you feel you must be riding a wire.
The friend's children that you think are rude,
Unexpected company when you and your lover were getting in the mood.
But I guess it is just easier to say, I just don't have a good attitude.
Apr 19, 2010
Apr 19, 2010 at 10:21 PM UTC
******
A symbol of denial, congeniality, and assurance of love;
the fate of maternity, motherhood, that is witnessed
and cherished from afar.
From a sacred little haven;
from a struggle of motherly defense.
O ******
Temptations are to you never a bother,
in the tempests of lush dreams,
the draining of purity,
and veritable sensations.
Steadiness is your notion;
it barely leaves your mind
you may be deeply hurt
but never hurt,
you may be a stranger
but your grace is your power.
Truth that is unpardonable,
veraciousness at my simplest words,
clarity that is gleaming in your eye,
a token of pleasure but indestructible affection;
adorable as you are,
serenity is beyond question;
dreams are but inseparable from your docile life.
O ****** the sweetness and gentleness of thy eyes
are my irreplaceable silence,
my appraised soul,
and my most resolute
and irrepressible invocation.
O ****** one that is so rare a rose
Many as in the May-day dance are tainted;
marks of annoyance, omens of indulgence.
With hunger for nothing but moans;
unsober groans, and quickening breaths in paces of outward satisfaction;
intoxicated desires but unloving movements;
on the grounds for endless dancing;
there is the thirst for grips, the grossest of stateliness!
Voluptuous romance, perfidious touches, and
false-hearted toys!
In the wakeful dreams of which
I long for you, a handful of thy chastest kisses!
I pray for your hands, so delicate
as mine, how they shall fit into each other!
I long for your lips, your spotless, uncorrupted cheeks,
My demand is for your hands;
for sanity, and sincerest cordiality
Despite of my guilt and former unconsciousness
I shall amend my grief for you,
for you only,
for oureth perfect, unconquerable happiness,
and the union of our souls
in a day of holy matrimony.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:35 AM UTC
One for saying that stupid thing.
One for feeling so ****** for no reason.
Two for being the grossest thing alive.
So many for the sake of feeling something.
300 little cuts.
In places no one will see.
Covering me.
Scarring me.
Reminding me that this is not a dream.
I am alive.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
[we live]
these
days
eyes, raw ringed: mauve.
dustcurtains. lung-still
and dry
cover gasping-
fingers sanded down, dusted away
to later be inlaid
with something
else.
grappling clever-
broken bird feet.
the gaping is wide enough down here
even
for you
wanting to be a victim of something good-
lapping up *** of(f) belly hair
entangled.
and
as every human speck
fights for selfpreservation- without clairvoyance or beauty.
as the mud pumps.
as carmen plays.
as we die again in less than convenient specificities.
we will be replaced.
like furniture.
and those who seek to optimize everything
right down the efficiency of shampoo in the shower-
will leave with nothing
more than a clean head of hair
to fall from these, slowly
or quicker than that- depending on the mood of it. and things like
cancer.
and when the chemicals
find you
laying there alone. and sleepy
they will know to carry you outside into the yard. where the grass is
waiting
and the road is waiting
and the rain.
and the sound of cars.
and of trees.
big-fucking-trees.
roots gnarled meanly into the dark.rotty droppings of their boughs.
cold. mighty- dragging their bruisey knuckles against the
dirt
trees with ghosts
bigger than your thumbnails.
older than the grossest things in your
waste-basket.
tree-er than
tree.
and when the car swerves
and hits
i will be there.
sinking with you
into the the reservoir
doors closed.
belted.
and good
.but
i will be
and we
fall apart
don't speak
for days.
learn of the other too late.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
On tabletops and in bathroom stalls, his audience he does
astound
A dazzling show for one and all, his talents know no
bound.
They call him Pierrot
He himself he does not know.
Toss him your rotted fruit; he graciously will
eat
Sickness but paltry price; to grovel at your
feet.
They call him Pierrot
He himself wish it were not so.
For your gold and silver, earnestly not he
plead
To bathe solely in your veneration, gladly he’d
bleed.
They call him Pierrot
He himself pulled undertow.
A shield of alabaster betrays a scarlet
face
A gleaming retort to innermost dis-
grace.
They call him Pierrot
He himself no arrow nor bow.
His grossest corruption, that which he does
imbibe
For one more day, to lucifer, he offers a
bribe.
They call him Pierrot
He himself fodder for the crow.
In the Abby his copper chalice he does
fill
Desperate panhandler imploring of you good
will.
They call him Pierrot
He himself unrisen dough.
Oh to drink and guzzle your sympathy, such
chance
For taste of your tepid affection, evermore he’ll
dance.
They call him Pierrot
He himself a blemish in snow.
But when the poison seeps from his
head
And those of conscience sleep soundly in
bed
He will look upon the mirror with bated
breath
And to the man he recognises not wish for
death
The call him Pierrot
He himself pleads you: ‘Don’t go’.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 8:54 PM UTC
Alas Dear Madam
Alas, dear Madam, have I thee wronged
by gesture, savage word, or deed,
thus giving thee cause for sorrow,
importuning your heart to bleed?
Have I, dear Madam, given thee
injury so rank and so low
as to merit your cool design
to suffer me the status quo?
Dear Madam, have I deceived thee
and showered thee with silken lies,
or primed thee with honeyed words
that cloak dark purpose in disguise?
Nay, dear Madam, no wrong to thee
did I meanly perpetrate.
no grievous sin did I commit,
nor cold insult dedicate.
My grossest error, dear Madam,
was to unknowingly explore
the pride sleeping in your *****
and its delicacy ignore.
So, dear Madam, please forgive me
for the numb bruises I thee gave
to that one part of a woman
which no man should ever brave.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
Wrote my lover a sonnet
Read one line and she was covered in *****
She hates my poetry
She complains it doesn’t pay for groceries
Won’t let me glaze her ovaries when I say the grossest things
She makes me pray the rosary
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 1:20 PM UTC