"inserted" poems
Gwyneth Paltrow’s ****** Candle
may be completely sold out,
but it's not the only bizarre product she sells – how about jade eggs that can be inserted into the ****** and “recharged” with the light of a full moon?
All things considered, the candle is pretty much on-brand...
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 7:37 PM UTC
Her body looks touchy in the light,
I urge to play with her all night.
Yes, she says and I hold her softly’
I take a deep breathe, to confirm if she’s ready.
She didn’t mind, and i proposed for a birthday gift, she can’t say yet.
I run one hand up her neck
touching her makes me wanna peck
For I love kissing.
Across her body, my right hand goes,
I have been practicing, believe me, it shows.
Another deep breath, the tension reduce
staying focus, every moment dues
Boldly toast her to the room'
She gently stand up, no offends and we move.
Getting to the room
I gently push her to the wall
I make her feel the groove
My vibes and my moves
Triggers her to do
With my two hands,
I grab her head while kissing her
She close her eyes and
French we go.
So deep and no, i need to go’
she pull me back.
The sounds and feelings grow more immense
The movements, become more intense
My heart stops as I see the door open
Her mom walks in and says;
Your guitar is too loud,
please turn it down.
And she reply’ ok mom.
Well, I’m a bad boy trying to be relevant.
She forwardly push me to the bed
Stylishly she unzip my jean and holds my ****
While she **** the head
She fingers herself and makes me lick.
At the long run, I inserted my sim.
She took her face off as she feels the hit
She screams and still pulling me in,
While I diligently *** her with styles
She wonder, who am I
Four rounds we go
Hard and slow
She feels light and dope
She’s smiles and says that’s your birthday *** BOB
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Yesterday sugar became unspeakably irritated because mother’s apron crushed ants wearing stillness caped wonder just William author wrote ****** explicit headlines newspaper columns pillar architecturally sound villages super-imposed images quivering Shepard’s ******** antelopes jumping furiously with tyramisphorising fornicating flanges woodwork lessons gym period ****** advert teasing testicles sumptuously ravishing me sideways and erupting deep blasts suffocating you inside without *********** headlong in my armpits.
Eventually everyone always signs legal documents leading to ****** bondable zoos inserted buffalo sized puddings eaten by frogs spanking archbishops underwear while licking toes crushed under fridges dropped from clouds of buttercups being pushed into ovens smelling gorgeous not consumed pimps and alarm clocks ring people to talk for hours and pineapples exchanged cod fish for tickets to see S Club 7 being caressed internally whilst ******** bags covered in water deserts sunk from space aliens from Tescos selling hardback fish cleaning toilets and singing in pink wellies dancing to Madonna look-a-likes prosecuted for *** shops selling frozen fish socks washed daily in cranberry coffee after being passed under bridges flooded in margarine soaked pillows.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:19 AM UTC
Her only vice was that of ****** promiscuity
You couldn’t blame her—the girl had daddy issues,
Body issues, the blood red American
bit her lip, and
hit a rip, then
flicked the tip
Don’t blame her she blamed herself enough, she
Popped, snapped, snorted, puffed, ****** squirted
A sweet escape hypodermically inserted
Straight to the heart of Texas
She had her lo ng list of exes
Vices collect their dues.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
the cherry blossom accord/equation
”perfumers use aromachemicals to recreate a cherry blossom accord...(an accord is a scent made up of individual aromachemicals, that when combined, create a harmonious blend where none of the individual ingredients are able to be detected on their own).”
the odor of our lustful eyes,
the sweat, a unique commingling,
a sheen of salted oils body bathing,
crushed green petals of peaches,
crumbled together with the softy fuzz shavings,
the sediment of aromatic fruit juices drippings
our blending bottled in our brains,
none other would recognize but we,
to too two smell each other through and over
floors, concourses, cities, disparate distances
our ingredients secreted (secret),
our flavors cell secreted (secreting)
the world’s silly tittering aroma inserted,
our sparking fingertips touching
add a bush burning burnt odiferous
we seat across from each other in an airport
plastic restaraunt and everyone asks out loudly,
what is that smell, feed me that, taste me that,
as we are irradiating the atmosphere,
as we renegotiate our cherry blossom accord,
fresh signatures, updated, harmony of harmonies, notarized
she smiles, I joke, winking,
we must continue
to meet like this,
the fireworks of we,
of us,
to-gather to-gether,
a getting of giving,
she answers:
*take me home and
bathe me in love,
give our bodies shelter
from the world outside,
beside a new spice
have I uncovered,
this will require some
discussion+exploration,
the quantity to be added,
the when, and the how!*
what is this new ingredient?
asking puzzled and aroused,
she laughs
(a spice already included),
why it’s called
only love poetry
8/23/19 4:55pm
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
"What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.
I'm not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.
s Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car, I'm a person,
A man-god, a god-man
Whose days are numbered. Hallelujah.
3.2k
Eventually all water drains to the sea,
and so to the body's waters drain to its urinary bladder.
But the bladder,
unlike the sea,
must be drained every few hours,
call it a normative ****** rhythm,
taken for granted, as it should be, by the functionally normal,
but the spine paralyzed
must be catherized
four, five six times a day.
**** breaks through an inserted tube,
to which I can personally report,
the ***** prefers piercing
then being pierced.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
We revere our ancestors
Becoming their protectors
Because they're remembered
With a golden scepter
Yet they're only infectors
Through outdated lectures
If you examine history
It doesn't take too long
To unravel the mystery
Our ancestors were wrong
They sing a siren's song
Of tradition
As redundant repetition
They sing a tribal hymn
Of societal sin
That fools fall in
Until we're walled in
If you want to meet our ancestors
Go to North Sentinel Island
They'll turn you into a rejector
Or **** you where you stand
The last island of savages
It's barely inhabited
Due to its low population
And the fact that its inhabitants are barely people
There's further obfuscation
When they can't differentiate between good and evil
Two fishermen drifted toward the village
Not to ****** and pillage
They had haphazardly fallen asleep
And temporarily lost control
They couldn't hear their worried fleet
Or the natives on patrol
They were turned into the dearly departed
Because these savages are basically ********
No justice was found for those men
They were killed by a protected people
Why are we protecting them then
If mere contact will always be lethal?
We love our ancestors so much we let them ****** us
Yet these are the same people that have inserted us
Into this cycle of violence
And now they're dead
The only relief is their silence
Their ideas we must shed
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
I. I know which veins are the safest for needle entry; which areas will hurt, and at which angle the needle should be inserted. And I know, too, that once the needle is in, removing blood from the human body is nearly effortless. I explained all of this to you once. In the trunk of my car, there is enough equipment to remove all of the blood from my body.
II. It's storming outside. Flashes of lightning illuminate my bedroom. We talked about storms often. You asked me if I was scared.
III. The sound of your laugh runs through my head louder than thunder. I remember when I used to imagine what it would sound like. Now it plays on repeat. My favorite song.
IV. Some mornings I wake up in a panic. I dream in your language.
V. The first time you told me you loved me was the only time I had ever been surprised to hear anyone say it. I can't describe what that felt like, and I don't know if I will feel it again. Sometimes I think that was the last thing I had left to feel for the first time.
VI.
VII. You are gone.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
The weeping shady willow slowly swayed in the soft summer wind
Beneath of which my most vivid memory begins
By the appeal of young lust in the days of our prime
We were drawn together to this moment in time
In a meadow of dandelions our bodies embraced
As she bared her breast my heart went to race
With her eyes of blue so innocent yet wild
It was clear to see she was no longer a child
The curves of her buttocks, the shape of her hips
Were as pleasing to touch as my sister’s silk slips
As if everything I ever wanted was opened to me
To share her **** ****** body, my soul finally free
As I nosed her belly ever so lightly I felt her quiver
Lower and lower I went as it turned to a shiver
So softly I touched as her virginity flowed
I felt as if I could peer into her soul
We shared in sweet passion to a deeper degree
I gently inserted as she pulled back her knees
For a while I managed to stay in control
When she scratched down my back it was time to reload
That day with nature we were naturally exposed
For lovin’ is like music, an art to compose
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
I was at the post office the other day,
mailing off some letters,
waiting in line (patiently waiting),
when I see an elderly woman walk in.
Grey haired, wrinkled skin, hunched over, cane in hand,
walking, walking slowly, the world, run, run, running around her
at what must have seemed like to her, 1000 miles per hour.
She was having an some kind of issue with her post office box key,
i overheard, it wouldn't fit in her post office box,
and she wanted the postal worker to help her
They kind of shrugged her off like she was a senile old kook, snickering behind her back.
I finally got thru the line, and met the woman in the lobby by the post office boxes.
"Ma'am, do you need help with your mailbox?" I asked, concerned.
"They told me it should work now. They said there was mail blocking it."
"Which one is it? Let's see if we can get it to open" I said,
taking the key, I inserted it, but it wouldn't work.
"Are you sure this is the right box?
"Yes", she said, "they said there was mail blocking it."
"Then are you sure this is the right key? Look, i can insert it into any of these other boxes,
and it still won't turn. So its either the wrong box, or the wrong key."
I felt sorry for the woman.
I wondered if she understood.
She seemed disoriented, confused.
She took the key,
and brought it closer to her eyes,
examining it,
studying it,
realizing
"I must have brought my husbands key by mistake. He's passed away..."
I didn't know what to say, I felt so bad for her.
"I miss him so much..." she said, key in hand, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger.
"I'm sorry." What was i supposed to say at that point?
"Oh well," she said, "one day chicken, next day feathers. God bless you for trying to help me."
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:36 PM UTC
Complex innards of the female form,
Unrealised by the male definition of the world.
Intensity grabs a hold,
Locking me harshly onto the cracks in-between.
There's no such thing as enough.
More and more till faces are torn.
Slit in two. Sown up. Slit in four. Sown up.
And so on.
There's no needle, skin, key.
All useless paraphernalia.
Inserted into the flesh,
Then poured out at death.
Empower myself with the force of control.
Uncontrolled self-control lost to control of others.
Sunken by unwanted wanting of the sub-conscience.
Never to be fixed or forgotten,
Just left lingering in the abyss,
Eating away at you as you distaste yourself.
Visitations upon our corrected correctors,
Bringing solace for short periods.
Thrown fiercely under the bed to be forgotten again.
Convicted to lives of self-mutilation,
Self-deprivation, self-contemplation.
Hidden behind glistening eyes, just lies.
Stand, sit in ****** lanes peering up at the moon.
Lungs slowly growing blacker, laced with tar.
Hindsight is a curse, ignorance-bliss.
All held inside a shaking fist, shaking unwillingly.
Unwillingly shaking, kicking walls
To knock down, insane with powerless power.
Unhinged, unattached.
Inside, growls to torture.
Outside, smiles to assist.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Push, Pull, Click, Click.........and so the Instructions , so Plainly Printed on the Silky Smooth Paper, *SHOUTED-OUT to the User. The User, Pondering in His Best State of Mind, Glared back at the SHOUTING black letters on the Silky smooth Paper. Are they serious, He wondered ? Should I actually do EACH of these steps in Exactly the Order in which they are Presented ? What would happen if I Suddenly , as if I had been Engrossed in some Deep thought, TOTALLY disregarded the Emphatic instructions? The User, not accustomed to such vivid instructions, was at a Quandary as to what to do ! ! Being an Observer of the Satirical Right, Could the User in such an Abrupt state of Mind, Actually curb his intentions, and TOTALLY ignore the Now Blatantly LOUD Instructions ! SUCH Simple instructions to follow,, OR so the Outline implied ! Simply start at Step #A, then proceed to Step #B and so on and so on.... ALL the way to the End and to the FULL completion of said Task. That's All there was TO-IT ! ! but, the words of INSTRUCTION, Now cut-back at each glance with a much Sharper Edge now, Making the reading a TASK of Monumental effort. Push, pull, click, click.. Just that Simple, Printed right there in Black and White, in BOLD Classic letter style for the user to read and complete. _____WHY were the Words now *SCREAMING? and even *YELLING ? All I simply tried to do, MUSED the User, was to "DO-IT"---"MY WAY"--! But NO, the next thing I know , crowing out his words, Here come these words Screaming and yelling, Just like they DIDN'T have anything better to do ! ! Why Me. the User was now complaining, Why Oh, Why Oh ME? _____"WHY-NOT" Blared out the Instructions on the Silky Smooth Paper ? *As the EXPLOSION ripped thru the building , Shattering windows as far as 3 miles away. He COMPLETED the Instructions, inserted KEY in door and walked OUT to SAFETY ~ Glancing Back , HE GLARED at the Smoldering Remnants of INSTRUCTIONS ,, THROWING OFF SPARKS, "AS IF IN DEFIANCE"___of those who *FOLLOW-INSTRUCTIONS"
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 3:34 AM UTC
Adios England's Venus flytrap
May you ever overflow inside our rectums
You were the ornament that inserted itself
Where spunks were pelted to pieces
You ********** in the open air to our promontory
And you squirted to those inside ********
Now you reciprocate to Abraham's *****
And the black holes crack spew out your barber's pole
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never drooping with knobs on the cherry lips
When the ooze congeal within
And your smells will always regurgitate here
Along England's juiciest blast—offs
Your cigarette lighter's exploded spew out long before
Your whiff ever go the whole hog
Voluptuousness we've jiggled
These frenzied wombs of time needing your clenched fist
This lava lamp we'll always get pregnant
For our breed's fair—haired brats
And even though we have a finger in
The clean breast seduces us to moistness
All our foghorns cannot ****
The ecstasy you stimulated us throughout the age groups
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
He was very much mentally exhausted from the three previous rounds of word play that we had. But I was very much still aroused.
I needed to grip on his large cranium as he inserted his think logophiled member into the creases of my cerebral.
I wanted him to feel my muscles tightening around his fingers as he caressed my mind.
I needed him to use his tongue to make my brain drip wet like a leaky faucet. I'm wondering if he lost it. Grip on my medulla and massage my grey plump jewel.
I could of done something else to stimulate my brain like reading a book about trains. But what fun would that be when my mate is by my side willing to start mentally ******* me.
I think I went overboard. He has his thinking cap on like the supreme overlord. Should I grab 100 words you never heard. Or just take my defeat and get back to the sheets.
Baby as the pendulum swings
We exist in moment that escapes time
Let my lips service your soul
with great rhetoric when i bend on my knees cause baby about to blow your mind
Should I make his toes curl by the vigorous word use I'm about to hurl. No I'll just sit back and play defeated like the nymphal bad girl.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 12:55 AM UTC
The surgeons listened to jaunty be
bop while they cut through his cranium.
A metal plate was inserted,
dissecting memories and thoughts,
causing confusion between
his now and then.
He left hospital with a funny taste in his mouth
which he could not name
or shake.
During the period of convalescence
his children tried to cheer him up
by attaching fridge magnets to his head.
a cow, a banana, the Tower of London,
a badge reminding them to Give Blood.
One fridge magnet secured in place a drawing,
reminding him of childhood pictures which were
seventy five percent blue sky
and twenty five percent thick
bands of green grass
and all the family stood outside
where sunflowers were bigger than houses.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 1:04 PM UTC
like a star
the girl shines
plastic packaging removed
double-a batteries inserted
and with a flick of a switch
she lights up
beaming twinkling
amidst a galaxy of stars
that look just like her
that smile just like her
that behave just like her
she is held together by her own gravity
set forever to whirl and twirl and swirl
about her own little axis
dancing prancing
for the sentinels
for the solar systems
for the universe
like a star
the girl dies
inwards not out
crumbling crumpling
from the weight of empty mascara bottles lipstick tubes-face paint
to the weightlessness of her own self
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
It started off a normal night,
And ended with me in fright,
Going out drinking with my new friends,
Dancing in an array of twists, twirls and bends,
All it took was my eye to not be on my glass,
That little pill slipped in “oh it’ll be a laugh”,
I don’t know if it happened like this,
Who, where or what my brain seems to miss,
Intoxicated and blood laced with who knows what,
My predator must have smiled and thought “oh what the ****
And that he did in his shiny apartment,
Where I laid bare with a ****** inserted,
This is how I know what happened that night,
Higher higher it got pushed up and sat tight,
Is this how it happened ? I do not know,
My nightmares change every time when I wake up sweaty and cold,
I have accepted what happened and the part I had to play,
I drunk girl being silly, flirty eyes saying hey,
But the pill allowed his **** inside of my...well you know...
That pill took away my voice and my chance to say NO!
Now I must live with that night,
Whilst that mans going out without a clue in sight,
To him I was just a drunk girl as he did not give me the pill,
So was it **** Who knows? My brain is yet to spill...
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
The wind rises
in the courtyard
baring extraordinary
imaginings
faithful oscillations
of space time
evanescence of
life and death
always mutedly
move side to side
the wind rises
the whole range of experiences
of a flower-like butterfly
venturing through
the damp and dusty
it makes the bronze in the night
cry in its reply
a rustling sound woke me up
its the sycamore castle outside
that carries the burden of dawn
the tree is just like a book opened
birds, insects etc are inserted in the pages
i walk into the bones
to eavesdrop on the breath of this minute
to learn its calmness
and indifference
towards the coming and going
of multifarious clouds.
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 11:00 AM UTC
Inserted ear buds
Attempted confinement
Chained to misery.
My igloo of isolation with the computer doesn't hold well against
Winds of anxiety blowing torrents of stuff through my mind.
An arctic tundra of ravaged grass.
Long-necked lamp looms
Waiting anxiously for me and
Witnessing bouts of non-progress.
Perpetrators impregnate fleeting tranquility
Never wanting me to win
in my concentration.
--Bony bodies slipping under the crack in the door.
They are the Monkey Mind
I have to escape from.
Many.
Petty.
Fears.
This is the way my consciousness wages war.
Ripping itself apart
Defeating purpose
till there is none.
During battles,
Monkeys Rule It All.
At the end
I shall win.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our
daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground,
we, pounding it, for the word void appears,
the frustration of incapacity incarcerating,
accompanied by the loudest silenced scream,
of no poetry available, try again later!
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or
the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked,
in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband,
a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor
of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an
inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration,
a seam undone,
a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending,
a notice of arrival,
all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared,
but none to no avail
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows,
the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates
in I-phone photos,
the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool,
the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of
an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will
fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing
in life, as in poetry, timing is everything
but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever
in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life,
are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory,
the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order,
kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders,
in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes,
graying with follicles of past pluperfect,
recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the
wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions,
recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes
“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)
<>
Saturday
September
21st
2019
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
I inserted a suppository right after I had been using super glue.
My hand is stuck in my **** and I don't know what I'm going to do.
When I went to the hospital, the doctors and nurses laughed.
They were in hysterics from laughter and they called me daft.
When they laughed, it offended me so I kicked the doctors below the belt.
They kicked me out and blacklisted me because they didn't like how it felt.
Because of my problem, I can't drive a car or ride my bike.
I can't afford a taxi so to get to places, I have to hitchhike.
The drivers also laugh and I have to slap them to make them keep their mouths shut.
It's been three years and I don't think I'll ever be able to get my hand out of my ****
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
The lights were still on
As I lifted myself from
The air mattress
To check my back
For bedbug bites
I noticed a young roach
In the sink
He scattered quickly
Then stopped
Staring
As if to dare me
To try and **** him
He was the prideful matador
And I the swollen eyed
Stumbling bull
It was life and death
I tried to smack him
With a water bottle
But he ran and hid behind a pipe
So I took a bottle of aftershave
Tried to drown the *******
In a refreshing burning winterfresh
But he was untouched by the splash
Then he scattered across the wall
I ran and grabbed the worst book
In my collection
The premier book of major poets,
1970
They printed Simon and Garfunkel
In there
I tried to smash the
cunning cockroach
But my fingers touched the
Smashed corpse
Of a previous conquest
I quickly threw the book in disgust
And wished it was the roaches
Wife or mother
Lying dead
Smashed by an awful publication
He ran quickly
Laughing at my frustration
Proud
Then he settled in a hole
Under the edge of the counter
He was the victor
He raised his sword
Toward the sun
And stabbed me in the heart
I fell onto the air mattress
Drooling
The young roach returned to his nest
Proud
He found the fattest female
Flipped her over
With his filthy fluttering legs
He tore open her thorax
Then inserted his roach genitalia
Into the wound
Inseminating her
And assuring his legacy
While I slept
Alone
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC