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Jon Tobias Nov 2011
Probably

I shouldn't have drank so much

At that gay bar last night

Because the hicky on my neck

Is a little too big

A little too purple

And she was so ******* gorgeous

She was

I think

At least I have comfort knowing

We are all beauful on the inside
Bing.

I plant a kiss that rolls of her lips,

Bing.

I want to chug this drink of love, but she is only giving sips,

Bing.

Sad eyes meet each other,

Bing.

But a hicky staring at me is from another,

Bing.

I plant one more,

Bing.

Hoping to make her lips sore,

Bing.

A rip in the real,

Bing.

The dance on the dead,

Bing.

She says she needs to walk away

Bing.

Or at least thats what I thought she said,

Bing.

I can't change the past,

Bing.

Cant change anyway.

Bing.

There is nothing either of us can say,

Bing.

This is the end of my day.
Bing.

Bing.

Bing.
She did end up driving away,Wrote when 20 (now 23), didn't like it too much back then but now I like the simplicity of it and the Bing from car door still haunts me.
Ken Pepiton May 2020
To all dispairing of the future:
Fret not.
No lie, I lived the full average, mediocre mortal span;
and I have learned more than most,
in terms of starting from flat scratch.

This is a brief autobio to see if there is an autopoet
me, who may tame the beast,
before we are forced to take its *******
being gone, as a given,
ere we chase off on our own to catch the glimpse again,
pursuing haps of enlightening worth,
it must needs be an ox
for a true zenful experience... the option,
a full rut bull,
at first glimpse, who could know, is it
bull
or ox?
{see his mind wandered, a meander at the edge of any gulley,
looses little flecks of common truth we notice, you may
miss. Not intentional,
a man's treasure is where his heart/mind is balanced toward
goodness sakes alive,}
I never seen the like...

The bullriders in my past, all first rode sheep.
Beguiling creatures,
especially the little lambs from 4-H.

sappy provencal call me all the hicky names you know,
but I say true,
according to Ancestory.com, my line
was never civilised...

so call me stupid, as you wish... we
was never civilised... kind and helpful strangers, at best.

The kind of people who came to America to be true.
No other reason nor intention.

It was ten, tied to the mast, or one and run to the jungle,
so we run, son, so we run

run past the contender temptation,
run past the life of a rockstar on tv,
run past pickin' grapes as scabs on historic times...

Starting over and over and over again, in

interesting times, historic times, may you live on and know,
these are those.

And there remains, as long as you function in full double sapience,
time to start all over.

Imagine that. Speed of thought, weighing each ought for significant
power to frame evil into engines of provacative

encouragement.
Known magic spells loosed in silent songs, sung to the tune
of the assembly line,
or the helicopter encompassing my viable space,

at the time, a certainty appeared and dared me see, the worst
possible
place, imaginable and it took no time at all.

Actual worthlessness is as unthinkable as nothing, itself.
Sophists of no evil intent,
serve us well, life goes on, starting, after sudden stops,
if possible at all,
is possible to do with more sense of the blue marble being

only a tic of a historical cultural clock from any point
where ever began in the past,

a tic ago, we saw earth, from the moon, with trusted augmented eyes.
Who imagined these eyes we have,

we earthling intelligences, we thought experi-mentalists,
generally as intelligent as any mortal before us.

So, 2020 kicked ye in the buts, but but but button, button,
who has
got the button?

All life requires of you is that you honestly, honed and sharp,
slice it thin enough to see through,

one side, soul, one side, spirit. Clap that hand, bro

and agree the nobelest quest in life is happiness, as imagined

in times of chaotic order rebalancing at the next level of complexity

-- some young folks continue to study war
-- that is not as wise as once tradition claimed, great worth
-- is waisted in fitting glory on war,
-- as vain as fitting a proverb in the mouth of a fool.

So, as I was intending to do, I have done.
Is there more I can do?

I may remind you, I do not boast of knowing been-there-done-that,
as a believable state in which to play this game.
But I do know it.
-- I live in a beautiful world every time i check, the shadow
of a neighborhood raven just now cooled my toes.
Start. from any stop state,
think
I can not lie. I think. I can. Reapeat as needed for fifty years.
Lemonade, persuaded, tasted,
ah, not impossible to eat, very sweet,
would you wear a tie again for sugar?

learn the lie told true through
plastic teeth in my dotage, donchaknow, we learned some things
the hardway, but did them easily ever after.

Go find the essence of the society of the free and easy,
then join, the right
of passage is pouring peace into the pool,
trouble the water and listen,

I believe I once was worth dying for, in a story I told.
Each time, I am finding, scientifical magi-techknackical,
augmentalated me, the made up mind, integrated,
I am thinking
I am thinking.
This is good. This works.
- it goes around, and comes around
wait,
suf suf ficientcy of evil is just enough,
knowing is a connection to truth,
knowing evil is
not the push
against your shove, or the pull on your tug of war,

proud knowers rise and come to heads,
like pimples destined to defile a mirror in those years of
Anxious, 'twixt twelve and twenty-seven or so,
to be safe... when patience first ****** you off and rebel
autopoet mode kicks in a
rush to finish
urging understood shelters to form
paths through the meatmind's frontal corext
before she gets pregnant and he goes to war, in shame.

But, even after that, if I were you, I would be happy.
Far happier than any imagined hell,
formed from bigscreen
ludological plots lacking the mortality sense real war has.

War is not needed in times of peace and common sense.
These interesting times,
consider, the actual minds who intended to imagine
a benign means of publishing truth,

Turing and Feynman and Chomsky 'n'em,

those guys made their disciples believe, this "global-brain",

serves mankind, all varieties and flavors...
therefore,

they built it to survive thermo-nuclear war.

With a we-bit of faith, any sane-hope can begin to be
re
alized, and seemingly suddenly, after fifty years,
and 68 different pay-masters, reboot
seems common as any
starting from scratch after losing every thing,
as if this
is the price my kind pay to keep from fretting about
civilization defiling the earth, i.e,

to keep from fretting that it is my fault
and my response
ought to be FUD

or fuggitit. Nay

I sigh, and say breath is our common function,
breathing is my job.
Resting in peace before its too late.

Ready reader and dear writer converge to make

sense of a reason, over looked, until the observers toes touch
the brink,

I can't go on, look up, I can't fly. Look, raven thought thought

there, a ledge, a trail, imagine that... magic as if
life could call you on an adventure,
and you know
you can
survive 2020 and beyond.
So much will never be the same. Life is like that from one generation to the next, some timeses several times
Bill murray Jul 2015
Dig the ditch
Dig daddy bonegrave
Got grandpa to itchy itch,
Bonedaddy bonegrave.
niche of red hicky hiccup hitch
Bonedaddy bonecave
Grandpa with his hitchy hitch
Dig the big,
Bone daddy bone cave
Slight salty pinty pinch
Bonedaddy salt save,
Digging the diddy ditch
Bonebegger begbones.
Hicky has been there to bleed a knife where once it traced him
in the knees like a robot he fought his colors in a foe but his registered *** offender agreed where feelings hurt inside the belt
that flood was never analgesic again and let him gun down nights
he walked alas with cleated shoes as future most often did ****** with just his uniform search for sovereignty and dignified marksman with courageousness that ended his justiceship in Harris County.
Sheriff Hickman will survive  Houston
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
i concede, if you really think
that i have to vote to make democracy
work, fine...
            you can have my right
to veto...
                 but god forbid you come
between me and taking out
recycling "waste" every sunday,
   esp. onion attired
   (t-shirt, t-shirt + a long sleeve
                                      shirt)
and a blue fruit of the loom jumper...
freezing both my imaginary
  **** and testicles off...
       the testicles are the real bit
of this "hermaphrodite" though...
           because what is this critique of
modern painting?
                 sheeeeee't,
                             a re-discovery of geometry?
we only achieved having rediscovered
the cube with picasso...
        sure, an over-quoted example,
       does that mean modern musicians
will re-dicover the orchestral triangle?!
hey, pots and pans with
a drum kit in the universe of
          a butterfly caused a tornado...
but please don't take away my fetish for
taking out recyclable goods,
   i know i wasn't born german,
but living among displaced germans
on an island (i.e. saxons):
    you get a lick as some sort of
compelling impetus to repeat and act...
        it's really bad to cling to rhyming
these days,
            once upon a time that's all
the poets did,
                   i ate
      a piece of pita, bread...
                     esp. in february, which is
arguably the coldest month,
   you can see the moon during the day,
and during the night...
                   it actually makes sense
to recycle...
                      the whole: "re-invention"
of a wheel...
                       sure, hardly a revolutionary
act, but, for some reason
a highly satisfactory "loss of limbs" act...
   because didn't "mediocre"
fester with the most potential for horror?
   though i wonder:
you ever attended a polish catholic mass,
when they recite the creed?
    satanic murmuring to me...
  had to down 200ml of cherry *****
to sit through it...
            because those who attend
the mass at Częstochowa are
gesticulating kneeling, praying, pitying
before the schwarzmadonna
               (ha ha, "irony"...
an etymological curiosity:
           (he) często, chowa...
                           often hides...
               that's the literal translation
for a name of a town...
               the pronoun is in there,
because that's how english functions,
shrapnel... pronouns need to be used
very often, polish?
           sometimes you can talk for
two hours and never use pronouns)...
point being: who are these people
praying to?
              must be the ****** artist
at some point...
            the person who actually drew
the icon...
                  because i find it beyond
contempt to have to
    internalise the subject matter contained
in the painting,
         or what's that objectively?
never ask a lunatic to explain the point
of a church with no one else
shackled to the church in there with him...
        spooks!
              yet as any german might,
i just love taking out the recyclable
materials in orange bin bags...
                     and you really can attest
to a moral compass via this simple feat...
        actually, most times two polacks
talk, you never actually use pronouns...
      hicky over there
   is still paranoid about other people
dropping the A-word,
               but he could sign of Hiroshima
and now he's riding a lazy eyed
donkey with a twitch in one its eyes...
jockeys, camel-jockeys, you name it...
                 i know you can hide a letter,
well, j, but no he(h)sus... zus... ave zeus!
   in that tilde on yer N...
                                but how would to
unravel the R-trill?
                rrrrrrrr-olling?
       in english the R has been numbed...
******* cobra bit the toff's tongue
and he's trying: not to slurr...
                                              r̃obot?
ha­ ha, ******* wavy line...
                     o.k.,
                                          we can do that...
i would have never have known that
R = sysiphus mechanism
    and O.... well, just that dumb piece
of sculpted brick...
                         can't believe it
though...
            so much pleasure from recycling
packaging.
summary...
    crotalus atrox,
    grzechotnik,
                          alternatively known
   as a one "man" band of
                    playing maracas -
    unless you can beat this trill-R on the tongue
representation worth of tilde:
                                        go for it!
   re-inventing the wheel is going to be,
real easy from here-on-in.
Travis Green Dec 2022
I am caught up in your fervent
And spectacular suavity
Splendidly serene dream lover
Charmingly ****** and hypnotic showstopper
I am so sprung on your stunningly crunk hunkiness

The way you move with your smoothly
Rude and soothing cool
Deep dreamy supremity
You are so incomparable and magical to me
So rugged, rough, and thuggish

Tall, dangerous, and flaming fieriness
I love your marvelously glossy and chocolate body
Beardalicious, sweet prodigious lips
Thick delicious neck, shiny brown eyes
That keep me boundlessly drowning
In your flamboyantly enchanting
And scintillating engagingness

Thoughts of your top-quality massageable machoness
Creep through my mind
Make me crave for you to *** me
Lay me down on your bed
In your bedroom, pin me down

Take me down, engross my rainbow soul
***** my pleasingly filled-out and honey-soft cantaloupes
Squeeze them hard, kiss them ardently
Make them yours, bite my ripe rigid points
Lick my bare, satin, and vulnerable neck

Give me a hicky, rivet my femininity
While I call you **** tasty Daddy
Feel you rock me steady
Push your beefy belly buster deep into my guts
Give it to me, drive my gayness crazy

Make me cry out loud
Lose myself in your prominent chocolate sauciness
Feel my temperature skyrocket
The more you showcase the contagious greatness
Of your primitively handsome enchantment

Debonair dark-haired splash
You are such a thrillingly slick and wicked ****
That has me confined to your time
Willing to do whatever to be by your side
To feel you lay down the pipe

Make me so enticed by your wild shining invitingness
The way you approach me with your dopeness
So sweet-smelling and deliciously made
So creatively enamoring and gratifying
I hanker to feel your pain

To dive into your lifetime
Of unrestrained and spontaneous loving
Let you introduce me to your powerfully
Explosive and mind-blowing pulchritude
Rearrange my life and dreams

Choke me, smoke me, cajole me
Into the bold, potent motion
Of your sinful invincible masculinity
Make me embrace your glorious ******* storm
As you pour out your salaciously flavorful waves
Of blazing hot man gravy all over my titillating tail-feather
Empty Nov 2019
**** said the cunting apple treat trope
Slitting on a firm grip of a tree rope
Spinnin on a note book off the rocks
this head off mine bounces with a flock of bad *****
beatin it sittin for forty body bed binding but a balding butthitting *** hammer makes meowing a healthy heat hicky
slippin up the road in trans am acre
soap suds spottin fifty… quarter pounders
my only repo citation culls me off the hopeless handsome horseman
**** it like the tip was for free
mess up the ***** mop, and spit it like you split ***** **** tangoing to be a lit stick and fee
**** ******* **** buzzkill shill and analingus for me
For Komrade
I made this poem in roughly 3 minutes to make a point poetry needn't be good or "deep".

— The End —