"jabbered" poems
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
Whether by design or luck
Or maybe just because
Summertime in Tennessee
So scorching hot and dry
The family thought a swim could be
Relief so we would try
While swimming came so easy
For most of us that day
But Mom was water queasy
So on the bank she lay
My friend and I, we swam like fish
In the deep Duck River
A day that would make you wish
This fun could last forever
My baby sister was so small
She could barely walk
She toddled and then down would fall
And jabbered with her talk
So Dad had moved into the deep
That’s when I saw it well
My sister ran without a peep
Into the Duck she fell
Momma screamed and I just froze
And out of sight she went
The muddy Duck would now propose
Another life be spent
My Dad had sprung to action
On hearing of the scream
He dived as a reaction
Into the muddy stream
.
.
.
And many years would pass us by
She studied hard and long
Nothing was too tough to try
She never got it wrong
A Ph.D and drug design
She makes the pills you need
If you were really in a bind
And needed meds indeed
She plays piano and reads the books
And knows so much inside
She sews and cleans and then she cooks
With logic as her guide
Accomplishments on every level
Complete and tried and true
But humble, never would she revel
In all that she could do
.
.
.
He came back up and looked around
His eyes began to beg
He dived again and there he found
And grabbed her by the leg
Upside down he pulled her up
And water did pour out
And soon we heard her cry startup
Relief without a doubt
.
.
.
Remembering that day and so
A blessing to repay
That was sixty years ago
But feels like yesterday
I sometimes think of all the luck
That happened just because
“She toddled in the mighty Duck
And almost never was”
Nov 1, 2022
Nov 1, 2022 at 5:18 PM UTC
** Giant! This is I!
I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!
La,—but it’s lovely, up so high!
This is how I came,—I put
Here my knee, there my foot,
Up and up, from shoot to shoot—
And the blessed bean-stalk thinning
Like the mischief all the time,
Till it took me rocking, spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little ***** city
In the light so sheer and sunny
Shone as dazzling bright and pretty
As the money that you find
In a dream of finding money—
What a wind! What a morning!—
Till the tiny, shiny city,
When I shot a glance below,
Shaken with a giddy laughter,
Sick and blissfully afraid,
Was a dew-drop on a blade,
And a pair of moments after
Was the whirling guess I made,—
And the wind was like a whip
Cracking past my icy ears,
And my hair stood out behind,
And my eyes were full of tears,
Wide-open and cold,
More tears than they could hold,
The wind was blowing so,
And my teeth were in a row,
Dry and grinning,
And I felt my foot slip,
And I scratched the wind and whined,
And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,
With my eyes shut blind,—
What a wind! What a wind!
Your broad sky, Giant,
Is the shelf of a cupboard;
I make bean-stalks, I’m
A builder, like yourself,
But bean-stalks is my trade,
I couldn’t make a shelf,
Don’t know how they’re made,
Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—
La, what a climb!
3k
I accidentally stepped into the women's restroom
Turned around to quickly leave
Noticed there was no one there
Then turned back around for a manly peak
What the ladies do in here
Has always been a mystery
So I lurked about and scouted out
To let all the other men know what I've seen
First thing right off the bat I noticed
What appeared to be a sofa against the wall
Thinking it a pretty fancy toilet
Not to be hidden in a stall
As curiosity was killing this cat
I went over to lift the lid
The guys will never believe this
A couch is really what it is
No wonder the women take so long
When they say they'll be right back
They all head together to the restroom
To take themselves a little nap
Then over on the counter
I see bottle after bottle after bottle of perfume
I know that girls like to smell nice
But you have to wonder exactly how good
Just then I decided to crawl under the counter
A little more in depth into the mystery
That's when I heard the voices
Coming down the hallway at me
I can't tell you how many hours
I was stuck in that bathroom stall
But I can tell you it felt like forever
As the women jabbered and talked...
...and this being a holiday weekend
They shut the lights and locked the door
Which I guess is okay since I needed a break
And no one's here to hear me on the couch as I snore
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Continent bound – water
encircled, I ache
for audible
effortless
mediocrity
Jabbered exchanges
fluid vowels
spill unrecognized and
still lap at
my yawning consciousness
Words now sink
never surface
Drown
unknown
Oral habitudes,
usually uncomprehended
Watered
speech
bubbles up, from
unfathomed
depths I am submerged
constantly
Subsumed
by misunderstandings
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
I pondered
if there is more to pain?
the installs jabbered to me
the counselor of pain trounced my love
I reasoned
if there is more to pain?
would the pain ever end?
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
Whenever a plane flies over my house it sounds like it's going to crash. Like the wings are too broken and can no longer carry the weight of the clouds that weren't supposed to be heavy. And whenever a plane flies over my house it sounds like your shouts that night. Like your heart was too broken and could no longer carry the weight of loving the quiet girl who didn't look depressed. And whenever I hear those stupid planes I feel the unwelcome pang of guilt that I ever told you of the thoughts that went on in my head, I can remember the stormy day that I told you, I remember because no planes flew over my house and it was because my plane of truth was crashing that day. The imaginary wings my mind created were too broken and could no longer carry the weight of being the pretty girl who kept everything to herself because she was so ****** up that nobody could bear to hear without crashing and I'm so sorry that I made you crash because you crashed on the island and died instead of in the ocean that I crashed in yet couldn't drown in. And your plane crash is a wave that crashes over me, yet doesn't **** me, every time a stupid plane flies over my house.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
In my father’s cosmology, God rose late come Sunday morning,
Having wreaked His vengeance by proxy the night before,
And it was a given that we greeted the Sabbath
With whispers and sock-soft tiptoe,
Knowing that his belt (black, wide, thick with implicit warnings)
Hung within easy reach of the bed,
Though sometimes, with no more explanation than
Man alive, what a beautiful world it is today!
Cold cornflake brunches would be postponed
(Our wonder mixed with consternation and rumbling stomachs)
As we would be whisked into the car
In order to sing His praises, our father all but jumping from the car,
Heading toward the preacher at a trot,
Invariably greeting him with *Devil’s on holiday, Father,
So here I am* (the church was Lutheran,
Though it could have been a mosque for all he cared.)
He’d sit through the sermon, rapt and at attention,
Alternately scowling and smiling, knitting his brow and nodding,
And then he would corner the incumbent occupant of the pulpit
(He’d have scarcely noticed, if at all, that the leadership of the flock
Often changed hands between our cicada-esque appearances)
Backing him into a wall or against a railing
While he jabbered away, pointing or grabbing a sleeve in punctuation,
Gesturing like some latter-day Prospero, arms ****** Heavenward
To embrace the air, the sky, the whole of the cosmos, amen,
While the pastor’s gaze varied from bemusement to outright horror.
Such occasions were outliers, of course,
Father being much more inclined
To spend his Saturday evenings in un-Christian pursuits
Then stagger home singing a litany of done-me-wrong songs,
And his search for a joyful hundred-proof clarity
Ended before he glimpsed fifty, that being time enough
(So the pathologist noted in his final judgment)
For his liver to become elephantine, his kidneys mere pebbles
(Those effects, be they deleterious or otherwise,
Not listed explicitly nor in the footnotes
Which accompanied the post mortem.)
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
His wife was due on the midnight plane
That was coming from Beijing,
He got to the airport early so
He wouldn’t miss the thing,
There wasn’t a seat at Wenzhou so
He found that he had to stand,
It’s always tough when you’re sleeping rough
Away, in a foreign land.
He settled down in a corner, set
His back up next to the wall,
Pulled out the pic of his own Mei Ling
In front of a waterfall,
Her eyes smiled into the camera when
He’d taken the snap that day,
But that was before they married,
Now it seemed an age away.
They’d both had to fight her parents when
They saw he was from the west,
They called him a foreign devil, a
Yang wei, and all the rest,
They wanted her wed to a Han, they said,
Mei Ling had answered ‘No!’
She’d made her mind up herself, she said,
And would be his own lӑo pό.
She said she was flying China Air
And that gave him cause for thought,
He knew that their safety record was
The worst in any port,
But he waited patiently by the clock
Til it gave the midnight chime,
Then wandered into reception where
She’d be, most any time.
The Chinese waiting beside him
Milled and jabbered as they stood,
He never could understand a word
But he smiled as if he could,
And then he found they were friendly
Though they nudged each other now,
And some had even approached him with
Their greeting, their Ni Hao.
By half past twelve, there wasn’t a plane
And the people looked upset,
He thought there’d be an announcement,
Someone said, ‘there’s nothing yet.’
At one o’clock there were tears and fears
That the plane would never show,
And then he heard that the plane had ditched
In the waters off Ningbo.
His heart had sunk and he almost cried
But he thought to grieve with grace,
And everyone else was struggling
They were scared of ‘losing face’,
But they all broke down when a man came round
And he said, ‘there’s little hope,’
There wasn’t a single survivor,
Then he cried, he couldn’t cope.
He’d lost the love of his life, Mei Ling
With her beaming almond eyes,
Her jet black hair and her loving stare
But he got a quick surprise,
A man led him to a phone where they
Had called for him in vain,
And from Beijing he heard Mei Ling
Who sobbed, ‘I missed the plane!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" ****** exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Matthew Scott's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
**** suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
I walked on down to the travelling show
Thinking to take a ride,
When the barker said, in a voice so low
‘There’s a Dancing Girl inside.’
He opened the flap of the crimson tent
And he tried to wave me in,
I said I didn’t know what he meant,
He replied, ‘What price for sin?’
I said I wanted to take a ride
Not look at a Dancing Girl,
There were plenty down at the local club
In my easy, ****** world.
‘There’s not a thing she could teach me now
For I’ve seen it all before.’
He said, ‘This girl is the Jezebel
Who performed for Kings, and more.’
I waved him off and I carried on
In my search for a thrilling ride,
And spent the evening whirling, twirling
Over the countryside,
But as I turned to travel on home
I passed by the crimson tent,
And the barker opened the flap again
To see if I would relent.
It must have been curiosity
For I turned and went inside,
Into its darkened depths I went
To flatter his wounded pride,
There was eastern music playing low
And I heard a woman wail,
Kneeling in front of an altar there
And the name inscribed was ‘Baal.’
She heard me there, and got to her feet,
And danced like an ancient rhyme,
But underneath the paint on her face
Was the ravage of endless time,
Gold and silver glittered and gleamed
From the very little she wore,
With chains and bracelets jangling as
She danced around, like a *****
She pressed her body against me then
And jabbered some foreign tongue,
The only word that I thought I heard
Was the one on the altar, One!
The barker stood in the entranceway
And she muttered his name, aloud,
She said Ahab, and I thought to run
He stood in the way, and bowed.
She pushed me up to the altar then
And tried to force me to kneel,
I thought of the Bible story, and
My skin had crawled at her feel,
I fought her off, and pushed her away
The man she called Ahab scowled,
And as I left by the flap of the tent
The dogs by the entrance howled.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
i have watched my best friend turn on to me
a friend, who was barely a friend at all
a friend, who enabled my addictions
a friend, who only half listened
before it soured, i seized the reins
and like a teacup chihuahua behind a fence
he jabbered
he screetched
and now, my toxic friend
you're leaving
i can barely face you,
not because you scare me
but because you fill me with disgust
i am so glad i didn't not become you.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC