"irking" poems
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
the power companies
can pass the savings on
now that the carbon tax is gone
electricity bills of late
have been too high
peaking at 18 percent
which has left little in the purse
to pay our rent
Clive and his senate colleagues
have done a jolly good thing
getting rid of that carbon tax thing
which has engendered
in the public
much irking
the carbon tax is gone
the carbon tax is gone
hey aint that good news
the carbon tax is gone
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
T'was little fun
T'was a little town,
No virulent delirious runs
No irking sounds
As t'was a little dangling town
All t'was a feasible brew
No meanders to sought
No conundrums of anew
just wired timely things to rot
When all t'was a portent upcoming
For t'was clad and veneered
In a amicable sun-daze groaning
T'was a peaceful loop of mono-gradient seasons
and all to do was ponder
For t'was guzzled with reasons
T'was yesterdays jigsaw puzzle
T'was a nightmare in sun-light
But for now, let's retch our unknown dazzle
As t'was,
A flippant fuss
For what shan't be
A beguiling me
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
This tongue broadcasts
hushed tones of satanic nature
And strange snickers
resounded throughout the canyons
Chanting nocturnes as irking
as a rhino horn against a chalkboard
yet the prophecy remained clear
I had to find this beast
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
I didn't push you
You decided to walk away
Couldn't bear the taste of
Defeating over a heart that
Was once in your hand
I'm not even surprised
I would throw up, too
'Coz my heart is dark and bubbly
Bitterly smelling and rotting slowly
In a chest of a girl
Who's perfectly alive
And now you're here again
Visiting my mind
But I won't let you stay
You've started a graveyard
In my head and in my heart
Maybe if things went different
There would be “lover” on your stone
And few days ago I saw here “friend”
Now I can't help but write “stranger” again
And there you are
Wandering in my mind asking for flowers
But I won't visit your grave
Not even once again
Because there's no point
Mourning over people
Who are dead, yet alive
Why would I cry again if I did it before?
The corpses are falling apart, slowly
Memories idealised, lying
Pretending how pretty it was
When we were together, trying to
Make me remember things I don't want
The look in your glassy eyes is irking
Not even trying to pretend the woe
Over somebody you've lost
Because you don't care enough to go to the funeral
Of someone you loved and trusted blindly
Calling me sweet and holding me tightly
And in my thoughts
It's like kissing a skull
Dead hand grabbing mine
Reaching from dirt and mud
We are the same
Living skeletons of one another
Living without a shame
We lost a lover
You started a graveyard
As a first man
I started a graveyard
By not loving them
And you started a row of lovers
But their love was never requited
So I pushed them down a cliff of disappointment
Or they choose to go the same path as you did
Not like there's a difference
Because whatever way you choose
I'll let you down, either fall or walk
And at the end you just see your name on a stone
And me, putting the heart I ripped out your chest
To put it in another and bury it six feet down
Where I can't reach it anymore
Unfortunately, where you can't reach it, too
So after all this time, I still have your heart
But I won't call you mine
You're just a memory on faded photograph
That I put by the stone
One last time I visited
And never came back again
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:27 AM UTC
“Have you seen a broken man? “
Ah, a broken man.
With a broken soul trying to gather all the shattered pieces
to put it all back together.
The eyes, which seem appealing, yet ironically are, devastated
Trying to find their release.
The shivering hands, wrinkled
which put all efforts to not reach the kitchen
and pick up the knife.
The stomach which can’t help but give collywobbles
as giving the butterflies or even the slight content from
the scanty amount of happiness
seems to require the world’s strength
To hide the pain and shove it inside the blanket
and never let it peep out.
The legs which have lost control
as laying in bed with the pillow that remains soggy
has become wonted over time
Time
which brings with it absolute nothingness
not a single blob of diversion or bliss.
The mind that tries to figure out ways
to escape from the crowd and vanish into solitude as
nothing else seems to give pleasure.
The eyes which have become unaware of any chore,
Other than holding back the heavy flow of the saline drops
descending down the cheeks
Unremitting.
As being sensitive is
probably the most irking and repellent trait one can possess.
The heart that longs to disappear into the abyss
never wanting to come back
pleading Him to take away his life
As the only release,
the only emancipation
he hit upon was eluding from the mayhem
and give up on holding his very last breath.
“Yes, I have seen a broken man and to tell you, it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
T- Take all his rules and directives on board
H-Heed them well or he'll put you to the sword
E-Edicts he announces mustn't be ignored
S-Stay within the definition of his pit
I-Indent it into your mind's memory fit
T-Test not his patience nor his fab wit
E-Enter good work that will be a great hit
M-Mad as hell he'll become when he sees a bad post
O-Ousted you'll be if he doesn't like what you boast
N-Niggling him will obtain a certain kind of verbal roast
I-Irking his upright position means you'll be put on toast
T-Travel within the hallowed guidelines he prefers the most
O-Opposing him means debarment at a far flung coast
R-Riling him over his rule's will disappear you as a ghost
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
i feel a certain sense of
exhaustion and tired and dead and dull and dread and
i wish i could explain
why its cutting and twisting and irking and twitching and
it's really not easy
to just write it off as
a thing
that we
all do
because
why not
our bodies like it
i'm not you and you don't feel me
you don't understand
this thing is a twisting writhing turning
and it is mine not yours never yours
so shush.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:37 AM UTC
We’re hungry
But we lacking
We can’t even dare ask
Cos for us all, eating food is really an heinous task
Their moving out in their cars
While we, in here we are, hiding in our infectious scars
I wanna go out of here to there
But what about these ones I’ve got as friends
It’s really irking
But can I be in such a hurry?
If I have the brain to leave!
How will my younger ones live?
If I have the power to go and beg!
What about those in here, living without legs?
But then, we’re hungry
And we’ve got no one sending us daily meals
Seems I just have to make a run for it
And beg a few things for human being to eat
We all don’t have a choice but to live our time this way
For we are children of those who didn’t make good use of their young days.
©Emmiasky Ojex
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
he told me once how he had this urge to **** himself, this feeling irking in his bones leaving him breathless and striving for something to hit him in the head and end it.
i asked him if he wanted to go out to eat
but he said no
i asked him why
he said because he was too good for me
and then i realized i was talking to myself
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
You never felt mutual,
but I don't really care.
I don't know if that's true,
so my judgement is unfair...
When I wanted to see you,
you cut me off. Why?
Is it because you see
that I'm soft,
and gentle,
but more of a man,
than you've ever seen?
Or maybe you can't
comprehend what's
in between?
When I read my poem
about my mom, I looked around
at everybody in the classroom,
and your head was down.
That showed me
you're weak to emotion
and have been sheltered.
My goal was clear:
I knew I wanted
to help her.
Expose you to this world,
and show you love,
I suppose you're
like a dove
Peaceful, and pure
with style,
But innocent too so
this could take a while...
Me being impatient,
won't get to you quicker
But the longer it takes,
only makes me sicker.
Then came this
irking feeling
when I thought
of something:
What if me
meeting you
ended as "we"
being nothing.
I hope that's not true,
so I'll just end with this.
It's a pleasure to know you,
and also to write this.
Love, Jimmy
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
I can see now
this overachieving descent.
I'll never know how
to regain my composure.
Life has torn down
my self-assured structure.
Please, remain still.
Trust my eyes; if not that,
my predetermined will.
Condensed 'till an overflow
in my mind is my walk.
Each step I take drags me further, though
never far enough to talk.
This can't be love—
this heavy feeling in my chest.
Not hell beneath, nor the clouds above
would put me to this test.
A flightless bird
is what I've become.
To be encased by words
is pain I wish upon no one.
Seems there's nothing more to do
but lie, sleep, and wake.
I'm tired of these nightmares
irking my sanity to break.
I wish someone would wake me,
but I'm alone at heart.
Please, look into my eyes and see
my smile is a talentless art.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
They'll stop dead in traffic
to let someone out in front
without true understanding
or comprehension
of what they're really doing
and what everything
is about
The endorphins and the good feeling
believing a good deed was done
senses elated and reeling
hurting the many
for one
Remember all those behind you
having paid their rations, their due
slowed as an irritant
irking their patience
brought to a crawl now
by you
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
the knee joints
are giving me curry
of late they've not
allowed me to hurry
it's a good thing
that I'm not in a scurry
for if I was my knees
wouldn't flurry
this very day
my arthritic knees
have almost set
into a deep freeze
little movement
from them can I tease
they are stuck
like roots of trees
not being able
to ambulate
is irking me
no old end
how pleasant
it would be
to have knees
that can easily bend
I'm certainly not
going anywhere to-day
as my knee joints
wont let me get away
for me they'll be
no walking to the shop
as my knees have put me
at a bit of a stop
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Driving down the streets of Berkeley
Everything is irking me
And I've got hypnosis today
What is going to become of me?
I'm coming here to deal with grief
and maybe a little anxiety
but when I sit in the office you see
I'm calm and my eyes are dry
And I get put into a relaxed state
Although it didn't feel like something rgreat
but it was fun and kind of interesting
But when I arrive back home
and open the mailbox
Suddenly I get caught
A letter from the vet
consoling me for the death
of my beloved pet
Shakour
Twelve years, two continents
and countless moves
he really was there and saw me through
and suddenly the tears just come pouring out
And I'm caught off guard in a storm of sadness and doubt
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
-
some'll talk of subtle Thirst --
per the words of burning Hunger..
..others talk of utter Yearn.
its
irking Curse'll burst a Bubble.
some'll talk with humble Class --
of
static Tones n phony Numbers..
..others talk of punctured Glass --
casting Stones n throwing Punches.
some'll talk of hunching Backs,
shattered Bones n broken Rudders..
..others talk of ones who Crash:
the
tattered Boats n smoking Rubble.
some'll talk of subtle Worth --
per the words of hurting Others..
..others talk of under Earth --
in
third deGree -- beneath the World.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
some'll talk of subtle Thirst --
per the words of burning Hunger..
..others talk of Wonderland --
magic Herbs n purple Colors.
.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Each step
In common sense
Makes you more
Like the rest
Moment’s uncommon
Can become commerce
If you’re immersed
In what it’s birthing
Unearthing
Un-earthlike belongings
On your person
Is illegal
Only in the laws of earthlings
Case in point
Anyone can chase and point
The obvious, obscure
Object erected
In what once was a pattern
But to shed a lantern’s light
On each instance
Is a dim-witted decision
The whole picture
Is much larger
Then man made flame’s
Can harbor
Alters
Are needed
When Altars
Are constructed
In place of
Church of thought
Irking’s small as these
Have potential to be
Crusades on uncommonalities
The worst casualty in war
Isn’t death
It’s birth
Death ends
Birth has potential
To grow into something worse
History dictates
The future’s fate
****** masquerades
As bright ideas
While ideal massacres
Take place
In front of our face
Who chooses
To be the flaw
In this perfect picture
Of hell
And shed true light
Like halo’s over
The well
I warn you
Or whomever
Should play womb
For dissent
Society’s mob
Makes martyr’s of those
That fight the current
Headless
Portrays an ironic display
Of the punished
Mindless crowd’s “Hurray!”
In the kingdom
Of dumb kings
And followers led astray
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Clanging friction on a steel ocean...
tale telling graffiti rooftopping.
Moment face-offs, superimposition
on a mind-screen.
Lampposts and steel beams cutting
sunlight, as it swims through surly
silver subway cars.
Drum roll shadows blowing blue
smoke brick.
Wearing and tearing all knowingness'
superstring hair...willing what wills.
Too many times here, rapacity lives
its death...you can see toes bust
through sheikh shoes, and curl.
Too many times here...too many ways
here, the next stop forgets itself.
As straphangers rock in the Eternal
Now...and those seated uncomfortably
on juxtaposed rows, play eyeless tag.
Playing down a pitless ground,
coring out their reserved space.
As panhandlers jingle change, irking
noise sensitive, sensitivities.
X-ed out by perfect attention to the isle
floor, staring at the colored bits and
pieces--damn...to ride on anonymity's
most crowning achievement, in the
most populous American city.
Force feeds one the fullness in emptiness...
as a street musician steps on, waiting to
strike a guitar string.
(Unstruck Sound)
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
I.
not daily
yet
tucked in safely, i'll think of
your thin hands tarnished by the gleam
of something that isn't mine
i know sometimes you wish it's scent were
my skin
of my thoughts
of my irking admiration
a badge; one you'll never wear
'cause you ****** it up, buddy
i hope her gawking mouth makes you feel adequate
that you're safe. deluded
her touch is the one that saves you
and makes you feel complete
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
Romeo hath ****** off
and gone to the pub
to partake of six pints of ale
with his mate Scrub
thy hopes he doesn't
get booked by the cops
as he drives home
with his portly belly full of hops
Romeo is vexing and irking
me no old end
he's been excessively visiting
pubs all weekend
doth his affections
for me no longer exist
hath beer swilling
taken priority on his list
thine shall be stowing
his wallet away
so Romeo can't go out
on the town to play
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
the place could do
with a dose of castor
oil
to purge it of the things
that so
spoil
first and foremost
there's the
trolls
who are always acting
like sinister
dolls
then there's perverts
approaching
teens
via unsuspecting
email
screens
lastly there's the ones
buying good
will
with a webmaster
allowing the
drill
a bowel needs not
to be in
distress
hence pukka's cleaning
out the irking
mess
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
The crimson curtain climbs.
Everyone stares.
Expectations shatter the silence.
Pressure mounts.
I know what I must do.
I have a script.
It must be followed.
It is what they want.
It is what I must do.
I crave tears,
But I must wear a smile.
It is written in the script.
Smile, it pleads –
Commands.
The brown skirt, the director dictates.
That’s what he wants.
I am expected to follow.
I like the yellow one better.
But I’ll pretend otherwise.
I hope they don’t notice my moment of
Weakness.
Escaping the role-
Impossible feat.
Risky –
Too risky.
Shunned –
The obvious outcome.
So here I’ll stand frozen:
My bones aching for growth,
Tentacles of self irking for change,
Blood boiling for new vision.
My fears show my consequences,
The consequences outweigh the rewards.
I am an actor on a stage
Wanting so much more for myself
But stuck on this dusty wood floor
Waiting for my curtain to go down.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:44 PM UTC
pressure pressure pressure
hollow paper skin
I'm not a paper airplane and
I can't pretend to fly
through stormy wednesday mornings
when the rain begins to drop;
here begins the tailspin
structure folding under
paper-coated hollow bones
the skeleton that shivers
here begins the pressure.
irking little seed
with roots deep cut,
knees cut down
to bleed you on the street
and stretched upon the ground
pressure curls you under
I've got here this paper skin with
tons of flesh to mark
reorganize to find inside
organs tucked in battered skin,
with paper thin
crumpled in your hand
you thought it ripped;
really only crinkled
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:27 AM UTC