"grumbles" poems
#
Each body part
sizzled in pure pleasure
in the blissed wake
of your oral efforts
brought forth the waves
of rapturous delight...
Spurs poetic inspiration
in equal liberation
of desires to please.
Bodies transpose
in fluid motion
as brazen eyes meet.
Savor the voluptuous image before you.
Indulge your eyes in my carnal halo
before they roll to the back of your head.
On all fours
knees between your thighs
tips of swollen breast
caress your chest
tasting fresh honey
upon lips in a kiss.
Ripples of ardor
hover
by wet trails
of sensual kisses
suckling towards
the apex.
Breathe in
the slow motion pace
that pulsates eagerness
to the fore tumescing bulge
leaking with anticipation
of viscous lava.
Tickles of silken hair
against flesh edges closer.
Emerging subtle grumbles
in deep resonance
betray your impatience .
Hands tightly twine
in tangled hair
to maneuver
the treasure hunt.
Licked lips pause
at the sight of fire
burning in
glazed gazes
before engulfing
the throbbing member.
Plump ruby lips
greet velvety texture
in a slow deep dive.
Tongue curls around
the flavor
in a dulcet embrace.
Moans release
as grip tightens
in my hair
settles the
rhythmic pace
to taste in an
oscillating dance.
The masculine aroma of heady musk
lingering there, arouses my appetite.
With my enthusiasm
attuned to
your preferred rhythm
suckling, slurping
surface and dive
in measured unison.
Break of breath
allows tongue
freedom to roam below,
licking, soft kissing
the tender hammock
of testicles.
Tongue and lips escalate higher
to mount another assaulting dive
deeper in the depths
of the cusp in cavity.
Wetted fingers
probe even lower
circling superficially
as gasp escapes
your heavy breath;
flaming eyes lock.
Finger dips in
with expert finesse
gorging hardened growth
within a wrapped hand.
Thighs tighten
with rocking grip.
Head thrusts onward,
drilling forward
in each dive.
Salvia slips
fingers grip
lips dip
Engorged swell, flesh tightens in an intensity
of volcanic eruption ...
HALTS
assault
Pace retracts.
Loosened lips kiss tip.
*“Soon sweetheart, your time will ***
inside me as we surrender to synergy."*
#
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you
Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep
as
synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool
ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there
because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't
News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
There was something wrong with the sky today
in the melancholy cold September sun.
Frost sculpted clouds hung in the empty blue,
bereft, uncelebrated
The swallows are gone.
No more exalting
in our wet summer
unfettered by earthbound grumbles:
now they scythe the skies
to Africa
leaving us completely behind.
A white-spattered woodshed -
over-bold insects -
and perhaps
the promise of return.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
*if happiness was
a cake,
i wouldn't get
a slice.
i would circle around it,
smelling,
wanting & drooling
over it.
but never daring to
take a slice.
waiting for everyone to take
their share.
& when everyone has taken
one or two,
i see the empty cake plate
& sigh.
my stomach grumbles at me
again.
i am hungry, starved of food
again.
but i refuse to take a slice
of cake.
& like a sick girl, if i was offered
a bite
of someone else's slice & i ate it,
i'd *****
purging myself of the things i'm not
allowed to have.
because i'm not a girl who deserves
this cake.
& i cry myself to sleep asking myself
"why"?
why can't i just eat the cake
& be happy?
but i still refuse to take a slice
of cake.
because it seems so much easier
when i'm empty.*
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
i crave love.
i could live forever without cherry pie but i may not make it through the night without someone by my side
i don't need strawberry donuts but without your lips i would starve
my stomach grumbles for your kisses,
my waist itches for your arms,
i'm craving something,
something to keep me warm
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:03 AM UTC
the air is clammy, and my hair is on end.
the shades have drawn but my curtains are open.
the looming creature crawls across the sky, lurking nearer.
such swift summer heat disappearing instantly.
the leaves crunch, crawl, and scrape.
out there, i would fear the booms and grumbles.
out there, the blundering weather has bounded into the yard.
the gloomy, depressing clouds are larger than ever and weigh down the air.
however.
i’m at peace.
a new discussion arises between myself and a friend, or maybe no friend at all, but a discussion all the same.
i find comfort here.
i seek refuge when otherwise not needed.
But the boisterous bazaar begins to recede, barely able to hear, the crowd keeps crawling across the sky.
as quickly as it started, i find myself longing for another reason to feel comfort-another reason to seek refuge…
For here, i feel comfort.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 11:39 AM UTC
I've been trying to poet off and on
now for awhile - but it's hard for a guy
like me, born and raised in small towns.
I've never really learned to swear,
not like a poet anyway. Not like Bukowski.
I mean, what kind of poet would
the world expect me to be? Except that
I'll admit I can drink with the best.
A Huffstickler I'm not, or a Bukowski,
or Etter, or Kerouac - guys who knew the
big towns, the ***** the dives, the rehabs,
the back alleys, park benches, soup kitchens,
flop houses, drug pushers — Humm, come to
think of it, we got all those here. But not
the all-important big town poet attitude.
I'm just this hick, delusional perhaps,
trying to fill a blossoming hole inside
of me that grumbles and claws for more,
and there's gotta be more to life than this crap.
In poeting I used to try and rhyme, like as
in "poor" and ***** but there's
no rhyme to life, just grab it and clench.
Just life, death, burial and maybe a little
something for the dog afterwards.
The preacher says there's more,
the devil tells me to forget it,
(I'll listen to him occasionally).
So, for me, I'll probe a little deeper and
scrutinize a little harder, perhaps drink a
little heavier, and maybe find a plug
out there that'll fill the hole inside me.
Maybe even put it in words.
Become a poet.
--
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 4:53 AM UTC
His rasping grumbles define hunger, louder than my stomach
complains about the seven hours since breakfast,
Grunts replace the pry of a commanding tongue, eager to devour, or a feathery graze past the
hook in my collarbone, a tender nip at the crescent of flesh that
peeks below my white plastic earring.
Gutturals guide our transition from a stained mattress to a rickety desk where
Frenetic eyes validate the arch of my back.
Wild thrusts push us perpendicular.
Undoubtedly, my howls alert the neighbors.
If not, then the neglected crashes of my plummeting clutter or the unfaltering thud of my head
pounding the half closed window can attest:
We mean business.
The tired floor creaks ‘nd cranks as erratic lunges hasten.
(grasping his shoulders tighter than a lone, wrinkled hand grips the pepper spray in her bag)
I brace that swelling itch, my hips shudder as it consumes, throbs, and then
Electrifies to axons from dendrites.
And he doesn’t miss a beat— more jabs **** my liver.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.
A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.
--------------------------------------
***********
Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,
trumpet player, takes pleasure in
performing *********** with clean
attractive women. Age, race, marital
status no object. All replies answered.
Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.
What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.
--------------------------------------
What do you do with a drunken sailor early
in the morning?
You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy
moorings.
Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.
Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Grim grey day
starts in the dark,
grumbles, glowers
shoulders hunched
Everyone in bitter agreement -
"Miserable!"
Rain driven against windows,
streaming pavements,
shoe-squelched curses
cast at baleful sky.
Travelling home at last,
raincoat defeated
tricklebacked discomfort,
Windscreen wipers ten to the dozen
under sopping sorrowful trees,
headlights strobing relentless rain
And -
Those aren't leaves.
What are they?
Tumbling across the road,
crisscrossing parabolas
of peculiar joy
Frogs!
I stop:
I have to.
The night is alive
with manic delight
as secret creatures fling caution to the wind
and bound into sight,
into frantic celebration,
unphased by cars, by foolish bipeds
who thought this planet was theirs -
Open mouthed and uninvited
I gaze, displaced and foolish
for not knowing
It is,
it is the most beautiful night
that could possibly be imagined.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
I need to learn to
Stand up
Never back down
Even at the sound
Of a bomb hitting the ground
Creating a
Bang
All around
Flashing lights
Chilling sights
Long faces breaking
Falling apart
Electric sparks
Creating dark
Engulfing children
Demolishing schools
Screeching breaks
Of car pools
The green sky hails
A terrible storm
Out of the norm
Radiation scars
The lives it mars
Covering stars
Like a silhouette
Of a giant jet
It grumbles
Mumbles
Roars
And soars
Bellowing smoke
Like brewing a ****
The coughing stops
Bodies flop
To the ground
No sound
And just to think
I could have linked
This all to me
If I just stood up
For once in my days
Then I could have earned
An enormous price
Within this haze
The price of life
For a million people
And for myself
Id feel like an equal
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 10:27 AM UTC
You pace in circles.
I speak in smoke rings,
an occasional finger-snapped heart,
a masted boat if I could.
Away away to ocean
in long-legged strides.
Waves crash against the sides,
left, front, and right,
in ripe blueberries and whitewash.
Come to the cabin,
a tail of breadcrumbs,
keep your socks striped,
pinks and purples.
A David Austin rose, or three.
I'm not cohesive either.
Flaunt the ship's wheel,
solid oak, dark, mesmerizing,
nearly your eyes now.
Let gray skies form clouds,
don't pray for better weather.
The rain grumbles hunger,
veiled moonlight stretches its arms
down to slatted deck,
spraying it in gangtag graffiti.
Stay here, circles more on the floor.
Your hips, footprints up your toes
from a whiskered mouse with dusted nose.
He's escaped and curled up
the nook of your ankle.
Eighteen knots tangle your hair.
Call the winds to come in storms,
they'll surely lead the way.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
I've ran my hands across the bones of teachers
Buried between the bricks of The Great Wall
I heard them whisper grumbles of their true worth
Beneath the crack of the overseer's whip
I've felt the shivers of their shame
As they ground the bones of their colleagues into a paste
And lathered the human mortar among the sections of rock
I spit on the ground before me
When I tasted the words of imperial edicts blasted from uniformed men
I stood upon a guard tower at The Great Wall of China
And saw in all directions the nothing for miles
Felt the hollow loneliness of the soldiers, teachers, slaves
Men thousands of miles from their homes
Bitterly building defenses for a collection of villages
One man called his nation
I ran my hand along the edge of The Wall and got a splinter
Studied the protrusion
Wondered if it was stone, dirt, stick, or bone
A tourist took a picture
A jogger ran by
Father told me they could see this monument from space
I saw a drop of blood on my little finger
Wondered if it was mine or the walls
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”
I give her a questioning look.
“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”
“I don’t think,” I start saying…
Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.
“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.
“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” a tear rolls down her cheek, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.
There’s a moment of still silence.
“And WHEN,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward ****** “Were you going to MENTION IT?!”
“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.
My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”
”I can FIX it!” I insist in a rush.
“Keep OUT of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.
“I WILL’” I promise to her back.
A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.
“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 10:04 AM UTC
This girl, old so and so
Has an affair with what's his face
Every one in town knows about
Except for what's her name
This guy from somewhere or another
Shows up after years lost at sea
Everyone is so surprised
Except for...you know who I mean
In the middle as my stomach grumbles
I go to the store for a snack
Three days later I turn back on the tube
They're at the very same spot they were when I left
This little blind boy with his seeing eye dog
Is in a hospital bed with issues
I loudly exclaim these **** allergies
And run back to the store for more tissue's
This mystery man goes down in flames
In a fiery plane crash
Wouldn't you know, as soap operas go
Two days later the guy is back
That's about all I've gotten out of the soaps
As this week draws to an end
But come Monday midday, what can I say
They'll start all over at the same place again
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
What rumble grumbles thundering
beneath another boiling sky,
Which warns me, scorns me,
distant thorns flee: flashing light from clouds, and I…
Am harkening – darkening towers,
ivory-cast and sunlit spires lie!
Still distant, though these
trees are bending, rending, raising arms up high.
Green fingers flailing, leaves travailing,
one warm-gust, and the blues go grey;
Then silence…
And the wind dies:
Calm
I can feel you coming.
I can taste your spray.
There’s nothing better
than a thunderstorm;
I love them, and especially
the way your tempest touches,
And the way your thunder talks to me.
©14Sep10 @DracoTalpus
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:25 PM UTC
We need to find a new space of revolution,
Beyond this place of pollution.
Democracy’s dying - the chambers of brick and bone can no longer hone the power effectively,
And besides, the mortars crumbling.
Grumbles echo between screens until the rumbles bubble then burst and tumble onto the streets,
but cries are few and weak.
The masses are meek.
‘To question the system is extreme’ media teams scream while they profit from the chaos and hide behind headlines.
The bourgeoisie sit comfortably as their bunkers are fortified,
Happy to capitalise on destruction and dramatise death.
Their crimes are discreet,
And steeped in deceit,
Yet they remain unburdened by the bodies that pile at their feet.
Why bother searching for answers when science is censored and senses are dulled?
They want us senseless,
Immune and desensitised to the countless lies and ecocide.
“Not our species, not our problem”
But it’s both and more.
Our streets,
Our future,
Our planet.
When will the lesson sink in?
When pollution is skin deep and soil bares only the spoils of war?
The climate crisis takes no prisoners, favours neither rich nor poor.
Your wealth can’t save you.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:25 PM UTC
I can see my friends' graves;
their names engraved
into unforgiving stone.
the flowers that Sherry's mother
will insist on bordering her date of death
are gaudy, and I can hear
the album Sherry puts on
when she hangs herself,
scratching out a death rattle.
I can see the bear
that mauls Matthew to death.
I can smell the sandwiches
he leaves outside his tent,
I can hear his sleeping breath
and my stomach grumbles
in time with the grizzly's.
Already, if I listen,
I can hear the lack of thought
pervading his comatose head.
at least the bear will finish him off
in a matter of minutes, and the pain
will be so intense that it is barely
pain at all; it's there, it hurts, but then
he's dead. I shake his hand,
I say, "nice to meet you."
he has
a firm grip.
Mike, it isn't you,
it's your heart disease.
And it's not that I'm not attracted to you, Skye,
but watching your entrails pour from a stab wound mid-coitus
kinda kills the mood.
I want to burn both my eyes out, Jenny,
so that I can't sea you drowning anymore.
Karen, I don't really care about you,
or your looming and eventually lethal diagnosis of type 2 diabetes,
so you can go ahead
and put your hands on me.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 3:32 AM UTC
Sigh. Sigh.
It’s tiring
sitting here.
Listening to nonsense.
I just can’t connect
to what lies before my eyes.
Sigh. Sigh.
It’s boring.
I hear whispers.
I hear grumbles.
I hear my own thoughts.
I’m not listening anymore.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 11:59 AM UTC
1
“My grandma, she takes
me too literally,”
says Little Literary Tommy
“At Daylight Saving
I tell her to put her clock forward
and she does so, and her clock falls off her table”
"‘Oh, Little Tommy,’ she says
‘See what you’ve made me do!’
and she lands a knock on my head”
2
“Months later
when Daylight Saving ’s over
I tell her to put her clock backward
and she does so, and she grumbles:
‘Silly boy – now I can’t see the time!’
and lands a knock on my head”
3
“She takes this literal thing too far
does my Literal Granny
that when I had a habit of sleeping late
and never getting up for school
she made me sleep out in her garden of herbs
so that I literally got up on Thyme
- and still I got a knock on my head
cos she’d forgotten why I was there in the first place”
4
But one good thing
(we must observe)
Literal Granny does for
poor Literary Tommy:
she knocks enough sense into his head
to prepare him for the hard knocks of the Literary Life
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC