"grungy" poems
velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth
plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back
now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?
who needs a screwdriver
without a *****
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
awakened by the
offsprings cry,
baby powdered
morning dew
showers the room,
coffee stained smiles
shine about
cheerio blanketed
kitchens,
so worrisome
for office tardiness,
the carseat won't lock
into place,
tire marks on
fresh paved driveways,
to daycare tears dry not
she's on time,
fatigued she plants
her seed to the office seat
to grow even less
awaiting to see the smile
of her child and say
her prayers before
falling asleep
-
awaked by the
offsprings cry,
gun powered
morning dew
showeres the village,
rotted teeth smile
amongst the
body-blanketed township,
so worrisome of finding
a slain mother
sister
brother
just like father,
the gun won't lock
into place,
they never will,
tattered couches
paved with the
***** of
slaughtered buildings,
mother's dead
tears dry not,
fatigued,
hands of
grungy drainpipes
plant beside,
holding stagnant
a somber sibling,
tremors ripple
crimson tides,
planted to
grow even less
awaiting to see
the smile of
his mother
his father
his sister
and say his prayers
with brother
before laying down
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
It seems I was
born with a flawed mind
and an inferior anatomy.
I was raised to be a daisy
soft and dainty
abandoned in the polar air to be
protected
by the starving dirt that
pins us to the earth.
Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer
…every once and a while.
In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked
and my stem grows grungy.
I watch horrified.
Flowers being ripped from their roots
purely out of admiration for their beauty
sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales.
I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil
that will never be stable.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
I'm the irreverent boyscout you can't trust that's no help
Cowardice and gluttonous
But hell can I start a fire.
I don't listen, I'm not nice
purity I don't recognize.
I do my own thing,
I never courtesy.
Oh **** can I scream at wrongs.
I'm the grungy kind of disloyal,
You know the sin of the unclean.
My face is never cheerful
And I'm rude to everything.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
when i was
thirteen
i remember whenever i went over
to a friend's house
who had a sort of get-together
with a whole ton of other kids
about once a month
i'd sit on the rug in their basement
with twenty other teenagers
looking at
socks.
there are ten kids
in my family
and two ****** parents
and we had a whole bathtub full of socks
and if you could find two that actually fit
you were golden
never mind matching
or nice and white...
and sitting
looking at all the other kids' socks
i felt like ****
they had the nicest
whitest
socks you ever saw
and mine were grey
worn
dilapidated
specimens
that i'd dug out from the very
bottom.
and somehow i decided
that this was a failure
on my mother's part
that she didn't keep our floors
clean enough
or she didn't wash my socks
right
and so i spent my thirteenth year
feeling like ****
over
socks
and today
i was folding some socks
(do you fold socks? i dunno how it works. whatever)
and i was looking at them
colorful
silly
but
grungy still
and the white ones
still grey
and i thought
well
i don't have a mother anymore
and my socks still aren't
white and
nice
i guess that's one less ****** thing
in my life
i don't have to blame her for
anymore
another nice thing
is that i don't give a ****
about socks
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
”How To Not Be A People Pleaser”
below are listed 10 bullet points
on how to toughen up,
on how to avoid the blow of others
wiping their ***** feet across
your ‘welcome mat’ heart.
Surely I have the look down, right?
Skinny jeans fit for skinny girls (who I am not),
tucked into loosened combat boots that have never seen a good shoe shine. Black eyeshadow smeared in the form of war paint,
"Today is a good day to die"
But the fact that this is all a charade,
that ‘looking tough’ does not mean you automatically
become some brazened ******* who does not let anyone inside
of your crazy head or heart,
loosens the grip you try so desperately to hold on to.
If you look the part, surely you feel it in your bones.
You feel the anger and the need to not be so polite all of the time.
Yet you still hold doors open, say please and thank you, smile at strangers on the street,
your mouth cannot form the simple word ‘no’ in fear of hurting another person.
So how can you not be a people pleaser?
You can’t. No matter how grungy you look,
no matter how loud you listen to rock ‘n roll
no matter how dark and damaged you let your soul appear
maybe you can allow yourself to become something you are not,
but you can not bury something you are.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
I was a chaparone at the All Hallow's Eve dance.
Listening to the band play Halloween faves,
and watching the eyeballs floating in the punch.
The background decor, seems made for Doomsday.
Grungy, haunted house theme, hellish ghouls,
Gargoyles gone mad, witch's brew, and bats all aflutter.
Here and there between the goth and the empath,
a psychopath roams, silently stalking his prey,
amongst the frightening selection of costumed kids.
The mental resilience to survive such horrors,
depends on your grasp of reality. Realizing the lights,
the music, the garish dress, meerly decor for this night's festivities.
And yet, underlying this ghoulish fun, a sense,
a sense of doom, and ********** by something
otherly, stalking its prey, seeking that single moment.
To bring to light in the dim, ghostly haze,
a wickedness yet unknown to those attending.
That ever vile teacher, bent on making those around her suffer.
We have all seen her, stride the halls purposely,
Giant mole on her chin, Ruler in Hand.
Striking fear in the strongest of souls.
That authoritarian of witches, Ms. Nasher the Head Basher!
Run for your LIVESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
*It was dark. Dusty. Particles floated and danced in the air. I walked through a dark and infinite tunnel. The walls were a grey colour, grungy and worn. Then, I saw him.
He saw me.
We looked into each others eyes, as a dark blue light gleamed from his to mine. He walked towards me as I walked towards him. We both paused when we were about a foot apart. We stood there, face to face, without even a hint or glimmer of movement. I wanted to hold him. To finally touch him - the only thing my body yearned for and had been yearning for since our first encounter. My blood rushed. My legs ached. My beating heart echoed in the silence.
Suddenly, I realized that I was in a dream. A flood of emotion drowned my every thought, my every nerve. I felt that he knew he was dreaming, too. That our minds somehow crossed in this surreal, subconscious world.
We stepped closer to one another. Our lips touched. Every feeling, every fluid, every emotion wrapped inside my physical body, melted. He kissed my neck. I kissed his. His embrace was warm, his embrace was...real.*
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
Be my baby canopy,
cover me in emerald joy
in gales and gusts, sprays of rain,
Be the shield I shan't employ.
By the seaside running out
of staggered breath, though you know
how cherry my cheeks do get;
hurry, kiss them while they glow.
Be the leaves upon my arms
Flutter, whisper, rustle down
Till all I am is but a noun
held in your mouth, your throaty charm.
Brave the hurricanes with me,
I'll be the one who will not fly,
You'll be the baby's lullaby,
above the rain, so anchoring.
Watch the window, hear it creak
above the pitter patter plain,
bathe in the sorrow of the rain,
come up cleaner, with a squeak.
Be the breath upon the hearth
breathe deeply so your lungs are warm,
feel orange among the grungy storm;
grow a greenhouse in your heart.
Follow me out to the Mar,
walking down into the deep end
and down reproaches Heaven will send;
the solemn tear drops of a star.
Up we go, and all around,
Spin with me, collapse and cry,
Until the clouds do say 'Goodbye',
All we hear are hearts that pound.
In the aftermath, it shines,
Angelic pools, a chorus clear,
The silver light plays softly here
like no one once had shed a tear.
Now my heart chokes water, dear,
So hold your pluviophile near.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Hello old friend,
With your tall sweeping evergreens
Towering almost endlessly
Into a blue clear sky
The endless swell of traffic
Cars peeling down the street
The smell of roasted coffee beans
From some hole-in-the-wall cafe
The obvious transplant donning an umbrella in the Autumnal warm rain
The light sprinkling of water enough
To nurture the verdant green
Hello old friend,
Mt. Rainier, she greets me,
Looming ever majestically
Over expanses of tree and road
Her white peaks cresting over
Fields of blossoming flowers
The tulip fields scattered across the sloping
Skagit Valley, her vineyards spanning for miles and miles
Hello old friend,
Seattle's grungy nature
Masked by her streets of trendy
Cafes and farm-to-table restaurants
Her mom and pop cafes
Her canvas gray dress marred by graffiti
And street tags
The busker on the street corner panhandling for change
The homeless sheltering under a cardboard blanket outside of a Starbuck's
The transplant with the umbrella stopping down to drop change in their jar
The crumpled dollar
The locals who pointedly ignore him on their way to work, to school, back home, to somewhere...anywhere...
The constant dazed bustle
The stench and pungent odor of ****
Curling around every seedy corner and
Affluent street crossing
Hello old friend,
It's been a while
Let me nestle into your newness
A new coast greets me across the horizon
Replaced by homespun everything
Pastoral fields where the bovine and equine reside
Hello old friend,
I suppose you're home now
I suppose you're home...
Oct 30, 2021
Oct 30, 2021 at 10:46 PM UTC
Her bright blue eyes glisten in the sunlight
as she walks down the peer, sitting on the edge dipping
her pink painted toenails in the water
this is the moment when she thinks back to the days of happiness
when it never ended, running through fields as if she saw the world
through rose colored glasses, skipping the ****** up matters of our ****** up world
remembering how she used to visit her neighbor, and they'd kiss under the oak tree
not caring about the way she looked or what she wore; she was simple
after her generation took a steep turn for the worse so did she
she now saw everything through a darkened lens wondering
when she'd get her next cigarette or when she'd have to visit her unbearable
mother, as she sits upon this peer in her old clothes
seeking help but never screaming, her shiny eyes have now glazed over
and she thinks about sinking the ship that sailed in the eighth grade
the grungy no-good ship she called disaster
and the woman who needed everything exquisite she called a mom started throwing fits
and her father got sick of all the ****
both gave up, one abandoned her family and the other supports it
there are two sides to everything
when she told them about her problems it was a simple
"you're beautiful" or a crude "why is the bathroom door shut?"
arguments blazed and time went on and she got sick of it
and tried ending everything.
screaming into the mirror how she'll never be good enough
But she'll never know if she wants to sink or swim, she just keeps playing mind games with herself
and who she is within
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
What if I fell in love with a poet?
Would his poetry bare witness to our intimacy?
Would he bare his soul to me,
through his words and ink?
Would I become his poem,
his inspiration and aspirations?
Would his lips bare and sweet,
leave a poetic dream for me;
to caress and meet him there?
Would we become naked and wild,
like a warm spring air
that breathes our passions
into its bloom?
What if I fell in love with a poet ?
Would we become one,
or would he spoil our love with
his wicked word’s?
What if I fell in love with a poet?
Would he be like his poetry;
rare, smooth, and grungy?
There's only one lover for me,
that would be poetry.
© By Amanda Shelton
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
With lofty airs and
folding chairs
we formed our grungy rule,
we grew from weeds and
broken swings
into a pungent cool,
Our reign is ***** decadent
more indulgent than your dreams
for we lost our morals
and our hope among
the broken things.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Who’s to say how
He might come back for a second
inhumanely heaped-up helping,
if we grant that immensity
of our assumption He did come
kingly first into this inside-
out size from a do-you-miss-me-
yet’s mirthfully mythical realm
I have seen Him
lurking in a particle-board fine
finish on the thin outer membranes
of our estranged and better faces;
He’s Higgs-boson omnipresent,
but far too theoretical
for our broadly practical, turned-
away gazes to rediscover
There He is now
rising in the favela’s gap-
toothed grins with fabulously naughty
corners this glee-pawed grandpa twists
using cur jests his ***** charges
imagine as flightless quarrels
grey-hooded pigeons would gaggle
were they over-stuffed on golden grain
And there again
on a Calcutta mound’s cluttered
conic end, smog-like He slowly lifts
with the crust-gnawed, razor-wire crimps
of a soup-can’s unconsummated lid
as dainty fingers crawl in toward
a gelatinous glob still clinging
to the powerful pretense it’s meat
And there once more,
conceding oms, He restless flickers
at the margins of blocky beige
Beijing screens as crisply clicked clacks
circumnavigate the darkling
smooth patches and spit-spark a few
conscious drips to squiggle out from
the babble of noxious red seas
Emerged, this welp
won’t toddle off to dribble-stain
the dressy linens of a made-up
nanny’s well-mannered and ornate
evil; it will curl up instead,
a swaddled yawn with no yearn to
suckle under His real mother’s
gaping wide and grungy bloused best
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
The subway air feels like pudding. It's thick, and as clingy as water. When you take a shower at night - and you should always take a shower at night, unless you want to sleep with the city - you can feel the air instantly liquify and drain away.
The memories leave marks on your skin, if you let them. The bruises on your sides from bumping unique people; the cut on your head from hitting a pole; the ache in your heels from walking too far. You're experiences hang on your skin, and shine through your eyes.
New York is unique because of her variety. She's strong because of her diversity. She grows because of her adaptability. New York is a jungle of human-animals trying to survive.
The smell of opportunity is stronger than the potent *** of other smells: the ***** rodent-infested tracks, frequent homeless sleeping quarters, grungy, old costumes on Times Square.
She is life; she is alive.
If you're alone or together you are always a part - a piece that makes it what it is. Without you the city survives. She has, and will. But without you, she's not what she is with you. Even if she tried.
People flow trough her streets as uniquely as blood runs through your veins. The heart orchestrates the motion, while the blood does the dance. she lives and breaths through each person's lungs. Each one arrives for a particular reason - even if for no reason at all. Our arrival helps her breath.
The anticipation before arriving in New York - not the Big Apple, no one calls it that - is enough to deprive a voyager of sleep on incoming flights. Even at 11:45 p.m. The jungle of buildings, built in perfect chaos testifies someone saw the bigger picture. A person may only see a foot, or a year in front of their face. New York saw far ahead, and high above.
Everyone is welcome. Some never leave. Permanently or temporarily, New York will take you in as long as you stay. She may hold on a little too long.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
There's something inexplicable
about the way
they make you feel
nothing.
Happiness is fleeting
but
you are your own mistake
you keep repeating.
one of these nights
might turn out right
if you keep your mouth shut
like the door you're always
finding yourself behind
with your back against the wood,
muscles tensing
as you knew they would.
Nose bleeding-
when is the last time you ate?
It took you an hour to get ready but
no one can see all your hard work
in the shade.
"baby, you look great"
is all you wanted to grace you ears
but you've got too much on your plate
and there are only couples here.
They will pay you no mind
and you will begin to feel
you might have been left behind.
you pretend you aren't hungry
because it seems more grungy.
cigarettes will stain your teeth
and smoke will spin circles at your feet
as you sway alone;
always hanging in the wings
you're looking for another drink
another triple shot
and you sink deeper into
the half-assed hope
that this will be a night
you forgot.
Just more meaningless crumbs
of these evening hours
accumulating into an unusable mass
of dried out nights
exaggerate another fight
you had with your mind-
what will you do when they call you out
for being lower than the grout
in the bathroom
baby face like you just came out of the womb
your knife is duller than
your conversation topic
you're a fake-
From a mile away can you be spotted.
Drained of inspiration
plagued by perpetual consternation
what will you sample next
on your way to a falsified elation.
Spending weeks away dragon chasing-
How long will you be on mental vacation?
They're growing impatient.
C.e.M. 12.21.2014
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
you forgot about me
so quickly
i'm starting to think
i was never there
at all
i've got all these
grungy little
rubber marks
on my
chest
tire tracks
on my legs
you were never there
at
all
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
I want to stumble into you
Like the locked door at the end of the hallway
The one with the sign that doesn’t say
DO NOT ENTER
As much as it says
I ****** DARE YOU
And I dare
I dare to devour your deviance
Like a grungy punk rocker on a microphone
Head shake tongue wag cartoon coyote horn howl
What?
I have no discretion
Leave the lights on
I want us both to see why we taste so bad
I mean
Let’s pound like pistons
Until the oil dries up
And our engines seize
I have nowhere to go
I do not want to go home tonight
I want to sloppy seconds myself
Before passing out
With my head in the crook of your neck
Even drenched in sweat
You smell so sweet
I want to kiss you
I want to taste your body’s attempt
To cool what I do to you
I want to heat you up again
I bought the clapper and unplugged everything else
Just so you could tell me to **** you like a strobe light
Well
Gorgeous
Now I can
Come place your lips on my throat
And I will sing for you
You are so much more beautiful than I could ever be
Let me know what that feels like
By wanting me back
This gentle ache
Of dancing
And drying joints
I wonder if you’ll still be this **** when you’re old
I ask because I have lost any desire for grace
I have fallen from it
And want to stumble into you like a locked door
Fumble for the house keys
Might actually make it inside
If you took your hands off me
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:36 AM UTC
I always make friends with homeless people. Maybe it’s the *** stained teeth and friendly personalities that draws me too them. When I’m in town you can find me with laughing people, who hold nothing to their being by the end of the day. I love them. They’re so happy, grateful and remind me of everything I want to hold in my heart. They are the sun, surrounded by dark clouds but still radiating through the grey. The public of Surrey in their white designer tops and overpriced jeans will never realize this. Call me a sucker but I would give everything to these people. The friendlier they are the more they deserve it. They always seem to be the ones who have been in their situation for the longest and have tried every method of getting the necessities we indulge on. The saddest, and grittiest are usually new to their world. It’s such a cool world mind. All of them sing punk music, create such beautiful art and tell the most interesting woven stories. They are deep. Very deep. They have been to one end and back, up and down. Being surrounded by these people can be dangerous at times mind. One day I could be engulfed by a dark crowd. By dark I mean, what parents and young teens imagine when they think about going out to the grungy parts of town; the stereotypical stench of creepy men glowing with peoples fear of them. Rapists, *** traffickers, ******** drugs, drunk men breathing down your neck and pulling roughly on your arm. I’ve been kissed on the cheek by a drunken dark mess, but he soon got punched by another. They respect people consent, children and females of any age. I don’t care if it’s a sexist old age thing for men to feel protective over women. Women are the most scared when regarding this world. I was scared. It was only a kiss on the cheek but that could lead on to so much more if left to slide. That’s why he got punched. You don’t cross boundaries. It’s the same with any person; have or have not. At the end of the day, I find the characters with scruffy attire and a perfume of **** cigarettes and beer more comforting and safer than those who breed Topshop, Topman, Hollister Apple and Urban Outfitters. I am the kid all parents would fear to let out on their own. And they should. I’m going to get myself in trouble one day, talking to strangers and hanging around gritty areas alone. But it’s better than when I used to shoplift. And anyway…I feel a lot happier after I hang round these people.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
Oh my love,
You are the three day old milkshake to my fuzzy green polyp,
You are the scummy rotten pizza to my mold,
The intestine to my tape worminess,
Undoubtedly the toes to my carnivorous fungi,
The grungy wet towels to my mildew,
The unbrushed gums to my pus filled canker,
The ancient decaying wood to my deadly black sludge,
The inflamed skin to my oozing pustule,
The cone shape to my keratoacanthoma...
Without you; I would cease to exist.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
However, we chat.
High we were.
But talks were on every topic,
every article, detailed.
In endless fundas,
these luchas,
****** up concepts,
made up basics,
domestic things are tough for them,
ha! I see
being a girl has its natural instincts,
miss allen'ahoy!
listening to bolly-jazz,
beautiful sultry sounds,
laughter and peels of it,
spread all around,
mister. grungy shorts!
licking his whiskers,
meow! grr!
moew!grr!
Mr.dannish charmboy!
His orange T-shirt,
he is happy,
nice hair-cut,boy!
serves my fantasies well.
Tonight is going to be a night huh!
Kisses
<3
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Seeing isn’t the only way to know a book. It is not the only way to know where you’re going or where you’ve been. It is not the only way to know what you believe in. It is not the only way to know a person. It is not the only way to know a friend. It is not the only to know the truth. It is not the only way to know a lie.
It is not the only way.
So often, people only rely on this one sense, shielding themselves from truly seeing life. Seeing all of the bursting happiness within a grungy old man.
Seeing the drowning depression in the boy that smiles at everyone he passes by. To see the love radiating from the heart of the girl with downs syndrome, or the hate beating down into the quiet girl with a childhood she is too scarred by to ever speak.
Seeing the heat of sunshine on your skin, the silk of water, the energy of a storm, the renewing air after rain.
People that rely on this one sense, on viewing life with only eyes, are blind.
Eyes aren’t needed to see.
One must see with their soul.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC