"interjects" poems
Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”
Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”
Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:
“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”
Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”
Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”
At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles
It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
mind stands solemnly in the middle,
with logic and emotion on either side
like devoted sentinels guarding a queen.
"don't think about it,"
emotion says, batting her long lashes.
"just do what feels right
and follow your heart."
"but sometimes,"
logic interjects with his sharp eyebrow cocked,
"what feels right will
hurt us in the long run."
"do you want to try, and know, and fail?"
emotion asks with suprisingly honest conviction.
"or do you want to spend the rest of your
life wondering what could have been?"
"would you rather open your heart,"
logic counters thoughtfully and quickly,
"and have a part of it stolen?
or would you rather protect it all?"
as mind wavers in the middle,
she feels herself rip in two.
half of herself stands upright,
stiffly held under logic's watchful eye.
the other half melts into emotion's warm embrace.
her heart aches and she feels sick.
the idea of following logic's advice
would mean to ignore emotion's advice--
and to follow emotion's advice would
mean ignoring the advice of logic.
she looks back and forth pleadingly.
logic's cadaverous stare seems to tell
mind that only logic will solve this problem.
but emotion smiles softly, and her eyes say
that this way, though it may cause pain,
will be the most rewarding.
"neither choice is the right one,"
mind says finally,
with a little bit of logic and
a little bit of emotion.
"but i must choose now, for soon i will
not be able to make a choice at all.
"then whose advice will you follow?"
emotion questions carefully.
"will you open your heart to love?"
"or will you listen to me and protect
yourself from unnecessary pain?"
logic asks, eyebrow cocked again.
"perhaps you are correct, logic,
and i would do well to seal off my
heart and never let anybody in."
at these words, logic smirks knowingly,
but mind continues anyway.
"as for me, i think i would rather
feel true, burning love and have to
live with the scars than to be
lonely, bitter, angry, and old
and die without ever knowing
how to love myself and somebody else."
emotion does not gloat;
she simply nods softly,
encouraging mind to continue.
"after all, is life not a journey of risks?
how could we ever find peace and
contentment without enduring a
few bad decisions and learning from them?"
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
1)
at dinner
the kid asks Dad:
*“Dad, do caterpillars
taste good to eat?”*
“Be quiet,” says Dad
*“I’ve told you many times
never talk crude”*
“Yeah, Jason,” interjects
Dad’s darling little girl
“Never talk crude”
*“Yeah, but I only asked cos
I just saw Dad eat
his salad
and the wriggling caterpillar;
and Dad even licked his lips
straight after”*
Dad orders the kid
straight up to bed –
and not to come down
till morning
2)
Seconds later
Jason hollers
from upstairs:
*“Dad, can you bring me
a glass of water?”*
Dad screams:
“Shut up and sleep!”
A minute later
Jason hollers again:
*“Dad, can you bring me
a glass of water?”*
“One more word from you,”
screams Dad
*“and I’ll come up there
and spank you!”*
And swift comes Jason’s reply:
*“Dad, when you come up to spank me
can you bring me a glass of water?”*
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
My heart screams
I love you
My head interjects
F**k him
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 10:18 PM UTC
an utterance of folly
her natural unvarnished thoughts
spill slowly from her adorned lip
and crawl forth to battle his opposing view
her words crowd his ear
a thousand angry little versions of her
with sword in hand coming to slay the misbehaving dragon
of his free will
his own thoughts flee as one
from the opposite side ear
with furtive glances back
hoping to escape unscathed
his own folly
childlike in form
plays marbles
looking for that elusive Aggie
called inner peace
together they amble down
country road
both shouting the random formulas
for completing and mailing
the required forms for
a visa to paradise
its roads are paved with candy
she insists
its hills are carved from
pure chocolate he interjects
neither realize its paradise because
it lacks the likes of them
he kisses her adorned lip
and tastes the metal of her
resolve to endure
she french's her tongue into
the small spaces of his mind
and savors the spices of his
need to flee
whats needed here they devise
compromise is a plate of cold fish
seal it in a bottle and cast it overboard
perhaps their lives shall find a sandy shore
to rest their every weary
makeout machine
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
the English tutor
sits with Tommy at the table
and Sam the cat sits opposite
today they are practicing their vowels
every time the teacher
says: *“Tommy, give me a word
with a vowel or two”*
Sam the cat interjects:
“Meow…meow…meow!”
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Somebody sleeps in my bed alone.
I watch his lungs rise and fall as he rests.
I can hear his heartbeat tighten as he dreams terrible dreams.
I can see his hands clasp tightly when he thinks of his situation.
His legs move constantly, restless, because his thoughts are the same.
He wakes up every morning and hates.
He opens his eyes to terrible noises, and stares.
Why can't I sleep forever, thinking out loud. I can hear him.
Why can't I awake to her eyes and smile and hips like we dreamed?
He gets up. He touches his clock. It dies. He was statically charged. Again.
The water doesn't help. Or the soap.
His pity attempt to clean his long, tangled hair.
His half-awake thoughts while staring at the white walls.
He's thinking of women. And sleeping. And sleeping with them.
Or rather, he's thinking of her. Sometimes it's his "lover," sometimes it's his regret.
More sleep. Clothes.
A suit today, he wanted compliments.
A briefcase. **** I look snazzy.* He smiles in the mirror.
Your perfect smile is fading. He interjects as if only to sting before leaving.
I watch him trudge out the door only to start freezing. But he's already frozen.
Thoughtlessly driving. No seat-belt.
At least I'll die in my funeral outfit if I do.
He arrives, throwing on a fake smile for the eyes around him.
Music. Mind numbing practice with his golden instrument's sound.
I watch him sit there, stretching his legs, listening with awakened ears.
"Why are you dressed up."
"Because." "Because why?" "Because I am."
Most people would quit there, but there must be a reason.
They keep pressing him. He gets annoyed, but not yet frustrated.
He smiles and answers their questions dishonestly. He always does.
A fake smile for everyone.
*It would be so much easier to live this life,
If I could stop thinking of her. But I can't. And won't.
We spoke. We made new words, but no new promises.
Promises always hurt. Even when they're followed through.*
He opens his phone.
Browsing for that photo of her.
New, in a sense, though it is still old her.
So young. So bold. So sad. So beautiful. Wanted.
Why won't she talk to me. She said we wouldn't do this!
"The oak and the cypress,
Do not grow in each-others' shade."
I know, old man, but when my tree thrives in darkness,
Why can it not find a properly emitting source, especially from her.
She was so close. She was my waking spark. And now she won't even...
The oak and the cypress.
Staring into different corners of the forest.
Still only feet apart.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
It's September 2013.
A Coronal Mass Ejection scorched the Earth,
collapsing the Global infrastructure.
Those that weren't fried up in the killshot
traverse a world nearly foreign to them,
devoid of any form of luxury.
They make their ways to the FEMA camps,
setup all over the United States,
because that's what their TVs told them to do,
just days before the blast.
But they knew since the Remote Viewing program began in the Cold War.
A teenage boy,
now forced to be a man,
leads his Mother through the terrain,
avoiding building fires and roving gangs.
Finally they arrive,
the camp like a shimmering oasis
in the burned out barrens.
They stand in line at the gates,
poor and huddled masses.
When it is their turn,
they present the IDs they were informed to bring.
"Sorry son, your name's on the list,
you can't get in."
"What do you mean? What list."
"The list of people who didn't know how to keep their mouths shut on facebook.
So, you're out, but your Mom can come in."
Another guard approaches and squires her in at gunpoint.
"No, I won't go, not without my Son!"
To which the guard interjects
"Shut the **** up..
take your clothes off..
we're going to pour powdered sugar on you."
"Noooo! Mahhhhhhhm."
"We're gonna **** your Mom kid." the gatekeeper laughs.
Insert Whale sound
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
You told me you fell
And that you hit your head
You said to leave you alone
And that you just wanted to lay in bed
But I can't help myself
I care about you
It's just in my nature
So there's nothing I can do
I sit here
And worry
And worry
And think
And worry
And wonder
And my heart starts to sink
Does she have a concussion?
A herniated disk?
A fractured skull?
Could she have broken her spine?
Then logic interjects,
"She's probably fine"
But my imagination
That beautiful beast
Drowns out my logic
And the worry won't cease
Oh God.
What if she's deceased!?
What if she's dead!?
No
What am I saying?
I know she's alive
She has to be.
She just has to.
Oh God
I hope she's ok.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
You are just a prop in this play of life. You will decay.
Your mind will rot as your thoughts turn to smoke and ash so grey.
Your teeth will grind your words to dust and forever trap them in a cave.
Your couplets and rhymes will all bleed from time, forever lost in but one somber day.
That which you wish to project yet only protect will come from another and seem but a jest.
And though hope smiles and interjects, you'll always feel that others write it best.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
love blooms each morn...
[how am i supposed to write the quintessential love poem when the short, dumpy, plain girl at
the next table
desperately, too loudly interjects her
placating ‘wows!’, ‘awesomes!’ and ‘that’s amazings!’
into every stunted breath-pause in the stun gun voiced,
spine stabbing soliloquy
spewing
from the hirsute parody she followed in.
as if volume and volume somehow trump tepid, vapid content
tho it might have been interesting that
“this one time, ginsberg ****** in your mouth” if you had had the ***** to swallow it
but you spit it out you coward
and so, bored and ******
i remembered
ginsberg wasn't into hairy
or three year olds
or hairy three year olds] where was i
... like a glory
awakens to the sunlight in your smile
and the gentle breeze
of your sleeping eyes
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 8:39 AM UTC
At helm while directing
in a muddle I seem lost
Caught in sort of vortex
my own demons I accost
A belief in old prowess
subsistence still directs
Belying any of the doubt
enroute which interjects
Almost at a tethers end
with upshot not in sight
The day brings new hope
each night begets a fright
Every jab at my foresight
pierces my real zest anew
To trudge upon unknown
and walked by far and few
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
it's a faint scent that always
carries me back.
i see only a glowing blue,
a blue spark given to me by you
subtly catching tired eyes,
gently whispered lullabies,
singing, twisting, encrypting
everything i say.
nevermind, that my dear
it's really hard to stay clear.
i'm floating in and out of memories.
dreams stolen by lonely company.
it's okay though,
perhaps they need them more than i do.
it's fall again.
eyes in full swing business
orange, fiery chaos.
breathe deep. cool and fresh,
October air.
how can i tell you,
when my chest is a dusty,
ill ridden fissure.
hollow, empty
echos.
echos.
walls painted with unbelievable
smiles
depression compression within these dark places.
is it too late to call your name?
im back now.
tattered and worn
open book, tired of language
Sleepy eyes, close themselves.
Should I compromise?
Maybe just let it happen..
meek, but never weak.
goodnight, good night.
music interjects.
a perfect time to start over
cool and fresh.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
She doesn’t care
If I think about her
But I do
As the sky runs from
Blue to red
And the sunset bleeds out its final hues
Power lines and traffic
Distracting with electric hum
The bustle and blur of modern life
That interjects and controls
But I do
And will
In between the weaving lines of traffic
Crossing dotted lines
That mar my sunset
And sometimes dull my mind
I always will
I can’t help it
She’s my Texas girl
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
A lonely woman stands in the distance
As the apple of her eye is perusing the apples
That sit on display outside the market
She watches her apple grab a basket
This woman waits in the cold February breezes
To catch her forbidden fruit emerge
When said apple steps outside
Her heart pulls her like a toddler to follow
As her eyes focus on her beloved subject
Her feet begin to pace in slow motion
The subject so far away now like in a tunnel
Her mind interjects with words that hurt
Leave that apple hanging on the tree
Along with its happy family
Pick not what isn't yours and never was
Return to your own empty branches
Where you shall hang alone
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
Breakfast time
a school day
Lizbeth sits
poking at
her breakfast
scrambled egg
and sausage
tomato
her parents
sit there too
her mother
looks at her
what is up
with you now?
the mother
asks Lizbeth
nothing's up
Lizbeth says
poking egg
with a fork
I know you
my young girl
you're moody
and poking
at your food
Lizbeth stares
at the lips
moving of
her mother
more moaning
she muses
it's a boy
I expect
her father
interjects
what's a boy?
Mother asks
her bad moods
Father says-
unless he
muses it's
genetics
and she's got
her mother's
moody genes-
what boy's this
Lizbeth dear?
Mother asks
-Lizbeth thinks
of the boy
Benedict
and how she's
attempted
to have hot
*** with him
umpteenth times
without one
successful
episode-
not a boy
Lizbeth says
forking in
scrambled egg
just Monday
and the blues
and I'm on
on what Liz?
Father asks
looking out
over his
newspaper-
on the rag
Auntie's come
periods
bleeding lots
she muses-
Lizbeth stares
at Father
in that way
that she has
and he says
o I see
and looks back
at the big
newspaper
something more
Mother says
more than that
you've not got
pregnant
with a boy
have you Liz?
No I've not
Lizbeth storms
spitting egg
throwing down
her steel fork
on the plate
I've just said
that I'm on
and would I
just have ***
just like that
without you
knowing all
before me?
what about
that Benny
you talk of
he's a boy?
Mother says
Lizbeth sighs
I am still
a ******
innocent
of all crimes
she utters
just moody
Father says
like most girls
Lizbeth picks
up her fork
and eats more
scrambled egg
and thinks of
Benedict
and how she
tried to get
him to have
*** with her
on her bed
some weeks back
but he said
not like this
not just now
we're too young
but Mother
knows there's more
than just moods
and studies
the young girl
as she eats
wondering
if Liz has
with that boy
signs are there
she muses
but deep down
the mother
refuses
to accept
such could be
and sips tea
Lizbeth stares
at her plate
thinks of ***
with Benny
when it comes
if it comes
and what place
it might be
lifts her cup
and sips tea.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
nothing is any good
you know
unless you
share it
so Tom has brought back the bar:
the Elvis impersonator
who almost
played las vegas,
the hair dresser
come future race
car driver,
a sufi
and a seer.
the seer
tells me she hit a cat
the cat was still alive
so she ran it over
again and again,
"and that's when god
talked to me."
"was that before or after
you ran over the cat
the second time?"
i asked.
"She talks to me every day,"
the angry divorced seer
tells me.
is god talking, now?
now, elvis
joins in,
"what if camus and nietche
met. what would they think
about the cat?"
"nah, who cares,"
the race car driver-
hair dresser,
says, snorts another line,
"what if they
started
a rock
and roll
band."
the Sufi wonders,
"who would play
what?"
"nietche on drums!" tom interjects
with a smile.
"yes,
and camus,
a gibson semi hollow."
"vocals???"
"god!" exclaims the seer.
"right on," i say, everyone smiles
and the seer is looking better and better
after every beer.
sometimes the dead
travel the road
to nowhere
with a smile
and i've got to get
up at 7a.m.
i'm a college
educated
toy store clerk
it's closing time at the circus
Apr 17, 2023
Apr 17, 2023 at 3:56 PM UTC
In her heart just beneath her skin lays a tin pitcher.
The spout along with it's sides covered with frost from the coldest of water.
Parched lips long for a drink.
But without cup or glass.
I implore that I have swallowed fear of the utmost; Diving in head first.
A slow sip that eases the insecurity of rejection.
Another sip that interjects that you could be everything that I need.
One more to ensure that I would gladly drown to be loved by you
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 4:16 AM UTC
Plastic flip-flops, curly hair
Shorter dresses, mother's dare
Inky artwork, shoulders bare
Thumb rings, nose rings, dragon slayer
Kookie, bookish, head is down
Fantasy intensity, tiny frown
Tannoy interjects ding-dong sound
Battle pauses, station bound
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
I dreamed that you could understand the code that I'd devised
devoid of ambiguity as plain as broad daylight
and anyone who heard or read could look out through my eyes
a sweet, seductive fantasy that helped me sleep at night
I rushed to put it down in ink the moment I awoke
but trains of baggage came along with every word I chose
the clarity was the mirage, and all I clutched was smoke
that through my fingers oozed away and to the stars arose
Retreat!Retrench! at least in math, we share communion pure
that isn't just conventional, transparent to us all
but Gödel interjects to say I must not be so sure
an edifice on such a base in time may also fall
self-organized dream-words conform to heptametric verse
so somewhere, entropy must grow within my universe
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC
I imbibe on this treacherous night
Amongst fanged smiles
And murderous eyes.
They all know how to ****
But themselves- are afraid to die.
Take another one down-
Their laughter like a car crash rapes my ears. They sin but know no tears. I fail but know no fears. I can't relate to my peers. What am I doing here?
Got flanked by one asking, "So, in your eyes, what's the biggest difference between the rich and the poor?"
"One has nothing but act like it's everything. The other has everything and acts like it is nothing. Both think the other a fool."
Another one interjects, "But surely poverty can't be that noble."
As if Jesus was handing out cheese trays and champagne to dinner guests wearing Italian suits with silk vests.
"Poverty is self inflicted. Anyone who works hard enough can achieve whatever they want."
I smirk and say, "That's why your grandfather's business pays for all of your families' needs, so you can reap the benefits and call it work?"
The subject is changed.
Some nonsense about politics now.
And all they do is talk.
No mind changed or knowledge gained.
The atmosphere is dry; tame has become their death glance.
Maybe I should change the music and show them how to dance.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
I dreamed that you could understand the code that I'd devised
devoid of ambiguity as plain as broad daylight
and anyone who heard or read could look out through my eyes
a sweet, seductive fantasy that helped me sleep at night
I rushed to put it down in ink the moment I awoke
but trains of baggage came along with every word I chose
the clarity was the mirage, and all I clutched was smoke
that through my fingers oozed away and to the stars arose
Retreat!Retrench! at least in math, we share communion pure
that isn't just conventional, transparent to us all
but Gödel interjects to say I must not be so sure
an edifice on such a base in time may also fall
I hammer language 'til it fits in heptametric verse
then launch it on its Viking pyre into the universe
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 5:09 PM UTC