"ingrown" poems
lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.
the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is
nowhere---
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires:
why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school---
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.
we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.
don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.
6.2k
vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
****** ****** robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
*** except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Should I allow myself
to be flushed down,
deep into the abyss of your misery?
I once went for a stroll in the
garden of faces, all smiling at me;
it was there that I picked you,
removed the ingrown thorns,
& in my hands you bloomed.
Is it fair that I expect such a blossom
to last that many years
with all its healthy petals?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
What do we learn
when the knowledge
is turned
to scraps and ashes?
When the past is
less than prologue
cause everyone
was encouraged
to forget all
but the bright
moment,
pleasures pursued,
seconds wasted
being used
as a consumer,
as another tumor
so ingrown
that it can’t be removed.
Rush, play,
point, click,
sleep, eat,
work your life away,
and if you are unhappy
or to tired to do your job
if you feel
slightly unwell,
well we got a pill
to push all that
anxiety
away from humanity.
Until, the still pond
no longer reflects
the wonder and awe
of the artists
we once were.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
Black/White
Life isn’t just…
Black or White, Up or down, Wrong or Right
But shades of gray, on a rainy day
When a family cries, *** another member died
While religion lies, and the churches are fake
And you’ll find better salvation by getting baked
All this aggression bursting at my seams
All from figuring out what it finally means
I look into a mirror and it makes me want to scream
But insides my head plays a silver screen
Life isn’t just black or white, but shades of gray
Just like a cloudy sky, on a rainy day
Fight or Flight, War or Peace, Life or Death
But shades of gray brought on by decay
Of bodies littering streets to close to home
Blood and guts and exposed bone
Ash soot and cinders on houses stone
Cities growing corrupt, bankrupt, ingrown
But these great graveyards still hold hope
People live, fighting through all the smoke
Hope for future still unknown evoked
Do or Die, Love or Hate, Day or night
But shades gray found only at twilight
That binds the two, combines the two
Just like commonalties that ties us to
Everyone on earth, both old and new
Does matter what race, creed, or view
We’re all stuck together in the same boat
So don’t try to sink it, make it float
All while singing out this very note
Life isn’t just black or white, but shades of gray
Just like a cloudy sky, on a rainy day
Left or Right, Better or Worse, boy or girl
Doesn’t matter how you came to this world
What matters isn’t what you take from it
But what you make of it, Create from it
What you awake in it, and remake in it
There are no shortcuts you can take in this
And resist the temptation to not coexist
Try to remember my rhyme deep in your mind
And remember the lines are never defined
Life isn’t just black or white, but shades of gray
Just like a cloudy sky, on a rainy day
Life isn’t just black or white…
Life isn’t just black or white…
Life isn’t just black or white…
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 10:54 PM UTC
Will someone lose weight if they ate this
Toddler has stopped eating hot food
I heard that if a white guy sleeps with an asian women there is no risk of pregnancy
since our DNA is completely different
How do i know she didnt cheat on the pregnancy test
oh qod
I have a strange growth on my right *******
but what about the children
seeing a dr. is best bro
what to do about red rash ring around my ******
I am a new xbox owner
and i’d like to know more about this red ring of death
I grabbed my first **** when I was 14
it’s similar
is this too much for a active 14 year old
I get massive ingrown hairs and infections when shaving my *****
infection map
panda security
take a scissor and trim it like a normal non ******
then shove something up your rear
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
And he's provocative, a provocateur, a beacon of free speech and foul speech and vague speech and pointed speech, pacing the Conference Room Alamo on the ground floor of the Hilton, testing his lapel mike, asking the crowd of eighty, ninety to move to the front rows, and he mouths something to the photographer, a dreadlock'd skin and bones white boy, and the photographer flanks the crowd, angling the shot to solidify the intended narrative: he is a provocateur, a popular provocateur, a staunch opponent of political correctness (which this bystander must note strangely equates to a champion of hate speech), a former poster child for the alt-right, but—and quoting here—he says, "I cannot be pigeonholed," and perhaps that's it, the secret to his former success, his viral, shapeless nature, a terrorist of language and persona, and perhaps that's it, the secret to his demise, his shape forming, his identity emerging from the podcast ghettos and GOP speaking gigs, and he's on the stage and he's in all white and this is intentional, this is the redemption tour, the other-side tour, and the crowd claps now as he pumps his arms (at this point in the presentation they used to shout, I should point out), and he calls Hillary Clinton "Satan's ingrown **** hair," and the men in the audience laugh and pant and cough, and he spends fifteen minutes on fake news and hit pieces and the nuance of video editing and how liberal snowflakes won't stop protesting his appearances (for clarity here, there were no protestors at this event), and he wraps everything rather quickly (especially for the $150 ticket price) and says he has a minute for questions, and a young man, twenty-five or so, asks for tips on becoming the God King of Internet Trolls, and he, the popular provocateur, says, "Ah. The next generation is coming up from behind."
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
Lover sitting on the shower floor
spits at the drain,
watches it circle away between his feet.
I tell him to close his eyes
as I point the spray at his hair,
pull out the caked-dirt tangles.
I scrub at his back until it's red and raw,
and a thin trickle of blood
from a pimple or an ingrown hair
dances down the steps of his spine.
I could bathe him
in all the world's finest oils,
until the cacophony of fragrances
made my head spin
and he would still tell me that
I missed a spot.
Wrapped in a towel,
he asks me why I
do the things I do.
I say nothing,
and wipe a speck of grime
from his wet, swollen cheek.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
l.
I will French kiss your ingrown hairs, your merigold bruises, and the acne you fight wars with every morning.
ll.
I will caress your cellulite like the waves on the backs of your thighs are the fountain of youth.
lll.
I will ****** the folds of your tummy, the stubble underneath your arms, and the stretch marks that you don’t realize make you a ******* tiger, darling.
lV.
I will fall in love with your flaws, and remind you of your perfections.
I will kiss you when the boy you love breaks your heart and you just need something on your lips.
I will hold your hand when you get your nose pierced and again when you regret it the next day.
I will bring you Mountain Dew and Advil when you can’t get out bed for two days and when your dad tells you to **** it up, I will shut the door in his face and turn up the radio.
V.
I will yell at boys who hurt you and at girls who think they know you. I will tell the “cool kids” to **** off. I will argue with your parents and curse at your exes. I will be known as a ***** as long as you know me as someone you can’t count on.
Vl.
I will love you when you hate me, when you hate life, when you hate everyone, and when you hate yourself. I will love you when it rains and when the sun beats down on us in June. I will love you when it’s 9:00 pm and we’re eating ice cream on my porch and I will love you when it is 2:30 am and you are gagging with salt in your mouth from crying for what seems like years.
Vll.
I will always love you.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Can you hear leftover nightlife leaving veins?
Can you feel stumbling heartbeat tripping on nicotine?
This is the horrible trance of your world's youth in distress
You doomed us with war paint, war games, war school
We respond with war song, war faces, war spirit
When will we outgrow Ender's game?
"Every seed dies before it grows"
Do you take any responsibility for the outcome of selfish politics?
Have you left us here to die?
We are your future
We are caring for the elderly
We advance your technology
We fill your classrooms
We eat your chemicals
We buy your products
We will cry to your great-grandchildren
We will cry at your graves
This is the sound of a billion hearts ingrown, spines breaking
You help us waste our youth, our vigor, our intelligence
Will you help us die?
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
~for Vinnie Brown~
even your kindergarten crushes?
what burdens you seek to retain,
the edgy border of delicious and pain
is a raggedy cut line,
as lost lovings, rhymes with duality
Once upon a time,
a middle aged man
left the woman he married,
the one who drained and cruel reigned
over the destruction of his-dreams,
for one accidentally stumbled into,
the love who blurred his edges as well,
between forgotten happiness and
pain so awesome bad when she grew tired
of his life's complications,
she left him,
weeping on the corner of Broadway and 83rd Street
was that 20, 30 years ago?
a memory
from no matters land
but
the physical ache that marred the hearth in the chest for
months and months,
sent him to the doc who smiled sweetly
but gave him, had no, no relief for
busted grownup hearts
with normal EKG's
that remains a treasured affirmation to this day of
life's capacity to love that comes with
an ingrown danger
of never forgetting
did you know the French outlawed the use of the term
Mademoiselle in '12 (Mlle.)?
I loved that salutation,
calling my one true lovers
with the soft feminism of that address
and still do
and you want to recall
kindergarten crushes?
Mister Vinnie
possesses a lovely contradiction,
holding onto
lost lover sickness
that lives on in good love poems
this my new found poet,
is how that he, this aching heart,
fast approaching his shore line for one last return
and final departure
repays a sweet compliment,
from one who complements
anothe man's lovely's insane desire to
never forget any of it
~~~
reading Vinne Brown's poetry
https://hellopoetry.com/vinnie-brown/
and listening to Joni M.
at 3:09AM;
never wise,
but full of hindsight
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 3:19 AM UTC
My feet are long
Long enough to be considered big
Both my big toenails are ingrown
and none of my shoes fit right
On my right leg I have 38 scars
Some of them are so faint
They are almost gone
38 and even though I put every single of them there
not a single one
is my fault
On my left leg I have no scars at all
None whatsoever
A blank slate
Marred only by a small
Dark
Splotchy
Crooked
Heart
it wasn’t meant to be a literary device
My belly is a minefield of pimples and hair and scars and scars and scars
the beautiful thing sticks out farther than my face
it’s large enough to be considered fat
and none of my shirts fit right
Sometimes I feel bad for my *******
Always squished under the same two bras
inside
outside
inside
outside
if i flip them around that means they’re not ***** anymore
My fingers are bony and thin
People recoil when they see them
They don’t bend the right way
And it hurts to hold a pencil
Maybe they’re ingrown too
My arms are
arms
only one scar worth mentioning
and only worth mentioning
because it was the first one i put on myself
My neck is sensitive
and always sore
it sends a shooting pain down my spine
and i cradle it and ask
what
My face is bright
even if my eyes are dull
big and dull and blue with long lashes
too ******* feminine
i try not to make a 39th
its not my fault
i am beautiful
but beauty belongs to women
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
my feet felt far away but they were where they’d always been. my hands were gone, that i knew. my hands were with your hands in the pockets of your creased black trousers somewhere in your mother’s house.
i walked right out, high tides rushing up my spine, until i found myself submerged in a sudden plan to never speak to you again.
i forgot all versions of you, the slow of your smile, your shape next to my shape. i forgot myself, intermittently, and bruised my way to a beginning, stretched so long, so thin that it disappeared entirely.
how tired. how tired you became at loving. you said, i need to trim this ingrown soul of mine, twenty times, and i shook wildly, remembering, but trying not to; you were the one who left, not me.
in a public toilet: i find remaining parts of you, of me, resting gently on my cheeks. i make a wish, blow them away.
and i think, *i knew someone once,
he could retell his dreams like well-thought-out novels,
his eyelashes reminded me of stars,
his silence was a heavy drone.*
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
In the afterglow of prodigal, there is found a sour taste,
One of worthless memories, and of time that was a waste.
A bitterness which became ingrown by neglectful disconnect,
Which thrives on learned indifference and a lack of self respect.
And as for needs, there are not many, shy of another breath.
But even that is questionable, still there is no desire for death.
A ticking clock with broken hands, there's no edge on the knife,
Thus only the heartbeat's contrary to, an empty pointless life.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
When sleeping poets do dream
Do they dream at certain times
the same dreams as us, you, or I
Long love dreams without an end
Spiders winding and toads weaving
Tiny cockle shells or huge daffodils
Cold hearts melted or fried ones too
Loves not gone the other way again
Falling off, falling in, falling down
Purpled eyed women and wiggly men
Nightmares arriving never in time
Time speeding up to stand still again
Summer nights in dripping red clouds
Rain falling up or tasting sour winds
Chased once around the world twice
Losing anyway the long way back in
Winning big green coins for jumping
slow trains to nowhere, now there anywhere,
and everywhere not here,
running on tilted electrified blue time
Inhaling the soft touch of perfect love
including all the ugly ingrown warts
Coughing up butterflies into the pool
with the squishy muddy zombie eyes
Echoes heard louder with both eyes
Coloring skies without knowing why
Flights to there with wings of flame
Swallowing rainbows to taste the gold
Colors amongst us walking, talking
Phantasmal fast riding beasts
sinuously moaning oh white *******
drifting with silver temptation winds
Tripping over sounds under tall feet
blowing them in retort not too,
but three, five and one dime more
Fantastical things, ordinary for all
Then perhaps, they maybe dream
Mostly all the same as us, you or I
Of course, that may mean, we,
Could someday be real poets, three
Yet we know the biggest difference
Between a real poet or not, must be
not so much in sleeping dreams
but in those precious awakening dreams
© 2017 Jim Davis
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Armpits hate aluminum
and vaginas loathe razors
body parts voice themselves
through physical sensations
lymph nodes form pea *****
crying to sweat
vaginas irritated screaming
ingrown hairs and sores
Why can’t we be accepted as we are?
Avoid deodorant
and guarantee that someone
will say,
YOU SMELL AWFUL
shave your ***** region
because every girl does it
without asking questions
groom for your man
do him a favor
wild and natural
under the assumption
that it must be tamed
so many women
never ******
but as long as the man
gets his fix
then the job is done
If a girl has ever stuffed her bra
with toilet paper
to make her chest fill out
some deep part of her
will understand what I’m writing about
Ladies... please as a collective,
wash your brain from brain wash
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
quarter tunes and squirt bottle bafoons
fooling loons out of cash money bank statements
complacent in textile original files
factual ***** in their feather capped heads
circumcising oatmeal kids. Picture this,
bits of fish in outer, not inner, space.
Dr. men manipulating through card tricks
leading to their pent house, fenced out from fresh air.
Nocturnal ****** pressured into dieting
shedding their skin and coughing up black sticky debris
recently I've found more comfort in scolding hot teas
then in eargasm speed dating or mango flavored cough drops
office cops crop pictures of rundown Puerto Rican shops
sloppy kissing gets me wishing for brass buttoned bell
bottoms
televised ****** questions. Sectioned off sidewalks
body shaped chalk talks for motherless kids to gawk at
steeples crease the clouds spreading rapid growth of ingrown
hairs
I pair myself against bears that tear me limb from limb
I'm figuring on pinning up accomplishments
on the egg white walls of my first apartment.
tarped floors and fluorescent glowing ceiling tiles
riled up mice relentlessly fussing with nests throughout
the night
typing taxidermists chat next door
I'm more ashamed of my basement floor
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Ziplock tie,
a piece of skin caught in a jean
fabric stained, sticky sweat
under a cool breeze. A little wind in
between; hanging cause
Shaving necessary for release from
pores
Bumps and scrapes
awkward looking, and ingrown hairs
blades of grass—pasture flesh land
Sprints of watered perfume, and
the only time man has a tender hand
Cleanliness; cleanse of appearance
to look and feel good in the end
_...do play ball in taking care of your *****
Nov 29, 2022
Nov 29, 2022 at 3:24 PM UTC
Like the mysterious ocean
A life without a price
The water a potion,
Like evil, entice
When stripped of emotion
To veins they splice
The mindless devotion
Hearts made of ice
Ingrown commotion
Stuck in their vice
Captain Nemo who thought,
The truth.
And Fontaneda who sought,
The fountain of youth
Like moths to a flame
Envisioned
The same
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
i hate that our parents taught us to muffle our emotions
and i hate the need for a cigarette that i feel in your car
i hate that when i was younger i told myself to stop writing songs
i hate the need for loving that i feel when i'm alone
but it is going to be alright sometime
it is going to be alright sometime
i feel this soft
you don't know what to do when you're cold and lonely
your sit on my bed and watch tv
the seasons are changing
your hands are frigid and you are messaging your girlfriend
telling her existential things,
bringing her into your crisis
now you're remembering when you were thirteen
and in love with ingrown ivy
and your best friend...
who told you she could never love you and said so in the cryptic bubbles
she drew in your poetry book.
you're feeling kind of restless and you know you can't contest that
there's no way
to get out of this highhandedly-
so you turn away
and you make up words to fill the pages of
your soft leather book
and you think of sweet summer, somewhere special and you crawl
into your bed
where you can be warm
and blend in -
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
God teases my ingrown heart,
with an angel,
with michigan great lake eyes,
the color,
of an allusion,
to the bible's,
holiest thought,
an old version of Leaves of Grass,
lays coughing at my side,
"I will read you when the time comes"
i whisper into the empty room,
of mirrors,
and cheap bottles of city wine,
a beetle,
and I,
contemplate eachother,
it,
scurries into an old pair of shoes,
that a ****** Indian ******
traded me,
for words,
of beauty,
of dried mud.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Hard working father looks in the kitchen
And sees his son who he wants the best for
He wants his boy to become a man
To take everything life can give and even more
But the son has other things on his mind
Unintentionally slashes his father's dreams
To the father he's straying from the footprint path
But not everything is always as it seems
If it ain't broke how could you fix it?
Don't worry about all of your worries
One for all and all for one
Live fast die young, just have some patience
Mother loves her daughter so much
Tries to protect her from all that she can
The closer she pulls her the harder she'll push her
Both feel the other will never understand
But they know when they look deep in themselves the see each other
And after all the yelling and cursing they'll say "I love you" to one another
Somethings are easier said than done
And actions speak louder than words
When living with constant change
Get to know yourself, just take some time
We resort to name calling
When downloading and installing
Upload then uninstall
The preambles to the pitfalls
The hostile hospitality
The aromatic pheromones
But memories who've reprise their roles
And take *** shots and low blows
Overlook the unturned stones
Overgrown baby's scared
Student loans and ingrown hairs
They have an eye-witness
So they come for a search and seizure
Drastic times call for drastic measures
I mean it when I say you're really a treasure
Made of cubic zirconium and pewter
I can't confirm or deny
If it's all according to plan
And I'm inclined to decline
I just may just to your dismay
Or I plum forgot
Because I've lived my whole life with my head in a sling
I discourage the disparagement of releasing disclose information
But speak of the devil
I almost missed it
This is my own theme song so you all better get ready to sing
The piper's come to collect
Do you wish to go farther or further?
"I will take time to restore chaos and order"
Everything will be fine in the morning, so do yourself a favor and relax
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Sitting in the seat
Tapping my feet
Cuz I got the beat
To take to the street
I'm Hungary as can be
Think I need something to eat
All this waiting
Has made me so starving
The other patients
can hear my stomach grumbling
Oh waiting in the Doctor surgery
Air filled with sickness germs
Just gotta hope you don't
get what they got
Cuz it's not much fun
Lying in bed
With a sore head
His gonna dissect my toe
But it won't stop my flow
I can see that they know
I've got so much to show
But waiting really blows
Wish this nail wasn't ingrown
It ***** so much
I cause such a fuss
Ew is that ****
Nah I kid it is blood Ah
Oh waiting in the Doctor surgery
Air filled with sickness germs
Just gotta hope you don't
get what they got
Cuz it's not much fun
Lying in bed
With a sore head
I'm gonna scream like a *****
When he cuts into my skin
Cuz I don't like sharp things
They hurt oh ****
I'm going to die
Don't stick that in my eye
The lights to bright
Here my heart goes bump bump
To the sound of a drum
Wait where did that come from
Ahh stick out my tongue
Does my breath smell fresh?
Oh waiting in the Doctor surgery
Air filled with sickness germs
Just gotta hope you don't
get what they got
Cuz it's not much fun
Lying in bed
With a sore head
©2017 Written By Benji James
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC