"johns" poems
There goes my ******
Scarring all the good people away
There she goes...
Out of the skirt and into the pants
Given power
But still controlled
Given a job with no promote
There she goes being told
How she should speak and how she should not
How she must look and how she must not
There goes my ****** being forcefully entered
For years and years being circumcised and beaten
And there she goes...being blamed for it all
There goes my ****** being a *****
She has ambition and she has strength
She's got tough skin and all that it takes
But that's just short for...BITCH
And there she goes being stuck at the bottom
Looking up at the top
Trying to break through the glass ceiling
And into the powerful world of Johns
There goes my ****** demanding equal pay
But will the masculine listen to the words she'll say
Maybe one day
Maybe today
My ******
She'll never go away
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:
Painting a Function Different
I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—
Her task, is the *********** of space
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....
Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!
It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
I decide what to get for her birthday—
We are good friends
through painting a function different
For me?
Predestined necessity.
Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—
Thanks going without saying.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
she had an uncle who spent
twenty years in the ring,
landing solid blows until
he landed
in a downtown Oakland hotel,
older than he, wrecking ball got it
in the dawn of the cyber age
but for ten droning years,
it was his cage
he never had a title shot
but he kept his belly full
and had cash for the women, the drink
never drove a car, cabbies knew him
and knew the smell of gin meant
“keep the change”
when his legs got weak
and his left eye went to blur
the money stopped rolling in
but he still thirsted for the gym, the gin
he got himself a gig at Big G’s
just enough hours to clean out the showers,
to keep the johns from smelling of ****
and a few greenbacks comin’ his way
he would end each day
alone in his room, inhaling the gloom
that seeped over the transom
like smoke from a smoldering fire
but there was no fire left in the ancient hotel
or Parrot’s burned up belly
only fading memories
of a wounded warrior
who taunted his opponents
by mimicking every word they said
in the ring, where he earned a bird’s name
but never its sweet song, before time
took its tattered toll
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
One hour north of Oslo
It is spring morning.
I see my bus
Through my breath.
Up here it's cold until
The sun screams in the summer day
And whimpers red and spiteful all
Night;
We've barely seen it for six months.
Winter is white ground/black air;
Colour only in the cheeks of
Dog walkers
Under thick hats and wrapped in
Yards of scarf.
Life is magnificent when awakening
From annual cryo.
I smile at it from my seat.
It's almost time for my ritual.
Friday after work.
Alone.
The one beer, and the burning of
The Long Johns.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
mr moonlight
mr nowhere
maxwell edison
mr jones
dr robert
sgt pepper
mr kite, bb king
edgar allen poe
walter raleigh
mat busby
the hendersons
and maggie mae
mr mustard
captain marvel
rita lucy jojo
vera chuck and dave
mother nature
polethene pam
mr heath doris day
and buffalo bill
loretta martin
**** sadie
hey jude eggman
my michelle
rigby and pilchard
or elenor and semolina
took father mckenzie
too see a dancing horse
henry his name was
rocky raccoon was there
prudence rode elephant
to the i me mine waltz
---
There gonna crucify me
the way things go
christ it aint easy
the next day dont know
you know the walrus was paul man
johns bird can sing
george was a genie
ringo wore a ring
but paul is dead now
george stole his soul
john is alive though
ringos in a hole
her royal highness the tax man
commit the perfect crime
she asked for more
with a belly full of wine
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.
They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.
I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.
Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.
Infinite.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
This morning we jogged early
I was back in my flat by six-thirty
From my tenth floor view of the Charles River basin,
The morning was incandescently flushed by the peach-colored sun.
The transparent clouds seemed stylistically stained, artfully workshopped, which offered a softened, Tiffany glass effect wholly worthy of worship.
I can’t stop to admire it. I’m jamming things into suitcases.
Cramming things into boxes, giving things away.
I had a second interview Monday afternoon, for Johns Hopkins med school. They put the question to me:
“The semester starts in 18 days - can you do that?”
“Yes,” I replied, and just like that, I'm a Blue Jay.
Of course, I had to withdraw from the masters program but Harvard gave me a full (95K) refund - I think they’re more excited about my med school admission than I am.
I’m not afraid of discordant notes.
They change the landscape.
Take us to new emotional places.
Any major work is going to have them.
.
.
A song for this:
Hang on Little Tomato by Pink Martini
It's Amazing by Jem
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
I never said I loved you, John:
Why will you tease me day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
With always "do" and "pray"?
You know I never loved you, John;
No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
As shows an hour-old ghost?
I dare say Meg or Moll would take
Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
Who can't perform that task.
I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;
But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
Use your own common sense.
Let bygones be bygones:
Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
Than answer "Yes" to you.
Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at today, forget the days before:
I'll wink at your untruth.
Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
No more, no less; and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
And points not understood
In open treaty. Rise above
Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,
No, thank you, John.
3.1k
Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 3:25 PM UTC
Working at the amusement park is a grand old time.
There’s nothing like having to hide
In the ticket booth when you wanna smoke a joint
So your boss doesn’t find out and fire you.
Every ride has bright, multicolored lights
And this is how I waste my time away.
The closest bathroom is half a mile away,
Those Porta-Johns are full all the time
And always smell like Marlboro Lights
It’s where those teen brats like to hide.
A kid always asks for another toy gun from you
And immediately bends it all out of joint.
Jocks, barbies and snotty kids mill around this joint,
Throwing all their money away
Buying more and more tickets from you
Screaming, complaining, cheating all the time
And there’s no good place to hide
With all these obnoxious lights.
They’re poor substitute for big city lights,
They only illuminate this cheesy joint,
Don’t even let ***** gutters hide—
I’m surprised they don’t want to look away.
Cotton candy disappears in your mouth every time,
But you think it’s worth it, don’t you?
The only boy who ever liked you
Works across the park, beyond the lights,
But you miss him waving at you every time
Because some skeez is yelling, “Let’s blow this joint!”
And a mom drags her eight kids away
Screaming, “One more word and I’ll tan your hide!”
Why do the five-year-olds always play hide
And seek in the Fun House? “Hey, you!”
Where the hell are your parents? Go away!”
Finally Anna, who manages mini golf, lights
A gloriously white-papered little joint
And we smoke until closing time.
This is where I hide, and yet these lights
Are poor substitutes you know, for home, the joint
You tried to get away from, before you wasted your time.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
A face riddled with bruises
Clothes like rags on dolls
Tis not life he chooses
There's nowhere left to fall
He sleeps out on the street
With news to keep him cozy
No shoes upon his feet
No pockets filled with posy
It wasn't always like this
His life was once a pleasure
A wife that he'd keep happy
At the lengths of any measure
But one morning he woke up
And everything seemed fine
John got a cup of coffee
And drank it up by nine
He headed into work
With suitcase in his hand
But just outside his office
Was an unfamiliar man
He asked John for some money
Anything would do
But John, he simply smiled
And bid the man adieu
But just as John was leaving
The man stood up and yelled
And with sorrow I must tell you
That's when our dear John fell
For this man he told dark lies
A trickster with long sleeves
A demon in disguise
The devil if you'd please
But last do not feel sorry
Do not wet your eyes
For today it is Johns birthday
And it's the day John Miller dies
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
You dangle from the strings
of an invisible puppeteer
you sway from the knots he has placed
on the inside of your ears
the scars on your face
come to resemble a smile
I know that crash has left you defeated
but you will never know how much it hurts to see you dangle
for someone who wants to see a dead man dance
your inflated stomach and sunken eyes
sway sway sway
being held up by some cheap string
you look for a quick fix
You are held at the elbows that have nothing left to bleed
your feet cannot compete with the sound of music
that only you can hear
Do those monsters make you dance?
is there always music on?
I bet you wanna die
everytime you hear that song
Do you remember Kaycee's smile
the way she sung that broken tune
I bet you remember that black eye you gave her
when you thought the devil was in you
Because I remember going ******* 5000 miles an hour
on a cold dark rainy road
and smelling the alcohol on our breaths
as we laughed out loud at something
someone must've said
I remember the way the light was off
and waking you up from that gravel road
seeing pink and red all over the floor
Johns hand cut off from the car door
You cant revive someone who doesn't have a brain silly...
Do you think of awful things
Or are you just a puppet
that sways
sways
from invisible strings
So Dr Phil dont ******* sit there
and preach to me about denial
when you yourself
are still wearing that
pain-stained smile
Do not tell me what it is like to
let **** out
When I know you close your eyes
and still hear her shout
Dont sit there and ******* tell me
"the healthy thing to do"
When you tell yourself that healing
is simply seeing what is true
So you know Puppet, that we are guilty
as sin as sin can be
We killed we killed we killed a friend
we killed her, we killed Kaycee
John may shake your hand and smile with a lump in his throat
But you and I puppet boy know what makes us choke
You cannot bury a headless corpse.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Sometimes we have a life long dream...
but not sure where to start....
and sometimes we must go to the extreme..
with a thought that's not so smart....
It started with an issue..
she knew she had to resolve..
Unaware of her options, but knew it had to be solved..
He destroyed the girl that she had been...
destroyed the world she had lived in...
She weighed the pro's and the con's..
and concluded it had to do with ponds...
So she set out on a mission..
and decided to save for her own condition.
A well deserved vacation in the " Florida Keys"..
for her and her honey , and with his money....
The months how they passed...
So slowly, then at last...
The day they left was 20 below..Brrr..cold
Soon they were driving down Old Cheney Road..
A backwoods road where the St. Johns' River flowed..
I hear the fishing there is great...
You'll get a bite with very little bait..
They reached the lake in the early morn..
and that is where her plot was born..
She poured the coffee she had made..
and laced it with some " gator aide "....
Here my love she said so sweetly..
I made this special for you my sweetie..
The cast was made, the bait was set..
No reason for her to sweat or fret...
Eyes did close and body went limp..
She started to shake and then thought..
Come on girl be strong don't be a wimp..
No one knows we're here or where we're at..
She rolled the body to the edge of the water...
heard a splash !..it was only an otter...
Within a flash, the body was trash...
there must have been 20 gators below..
ripping and flipping the body about..
She packed up and decided to go back the scenic route....
post note: I've always wanted to be my own boss, and now due to my recent loss..
The Insurance is an assurance and I don't have to wait...
I'll open a store and call it " GATOR BAIT "
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
there is this certain house
call it the beach house
once a well-worn respite,
it's quaint disrepair no longer charms
sands that once barely dared
brush against the steps
victory dance over the porch
and through the warped, unclosed door
as it hangs nearly unhinged
passersby notice
much as hazy eyed prostitutes
stare thru effete johns
from that absent mind place
where it wouldn't occur
to look inside
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
(10/8/12)
They are known by many names - **********
Hookers, ladies of the night, escort services, call girls
But what’s in a name ! it’s a trade name like electrician
Carpenter, plumber, doctor.
First and foremost she is a daughter - has a mother
And may even be a mother.
You may not accept her as a sister, a cousin , or an aunt
But she is still blood.
her ways of thinking and living
May be different from you
But do not criticize unless you’ve walked
A mile in her shoes.
She may open her legs to all and any man
But there is one thing you must understand.
She is a woman with many needs
And on this men do feed.
She puts to use what GOD has given
And that’s how she earns her living.
She knows that these are her tools
For her to survive - and it’s one of a kind.
Her tools can be used in so many different ways
Whether she stands , sits, or even lays.
She does the same things that all women do
She even has dreams just like you.
There are many who use their income
From day to day - then there are the ones
Who use a lay- a-way.
They’re the ones who think ahead
And 30% goes into the bank instead.
So when their bodies tell them it’s time to quit
And to enjoy life
By then they’ve accumulated a nice slice.
Now I decided to figure it out
What their lives are all about.
Using a very low figure, even thou
It can be much bigger.
If they have ten johns at twenty dollars a pop
Each day for a five day week .
10x 20 = 200 a day times 5 days =1000.00
A week times 4 weeks is 4000.00
At 30% being banked is 1200.00 per month
Times 12 months is $14,400 a year for 20 years
Is $ 288.000 dollars.
This is a low figure, and how many of us can
Retire in twenty years and have saved this amount?
So with this in mind- who are we to criticize.
© L . RAMS
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 10:19 AM UTC
we went walking in the
birdsong breezes
hand in hand in the
spring grass 'neath the juniper tree
and her heart sung me a lullaby so sweet
her heart laid her empathy's hand to cool my worried brow
as she walked up the beach
in the strange empire just north of miami carrying a conch
barefoot wearing a quilted hippy skirt
and filled the world around her with joys
its the truth of her
it shows in everything she dose
we went walking in evenings tide
as sea and sand swirled neath our bare feet
as the golden taste of setting sun nourished our souls
she gave me loves tender and true
thrice she tapped at souls gate with her giggling charms
thrice she gently laid spring doves to sing me awake
thrice clad in her hippy quilted dress she loved and saved poor mortal me
and so we went walking in the evening tide to cool our bodies
and set fires in our souls
her voice in my minds eye as she read my poetry aloud
in a parking garage at three am
because the echoes added to the magic
but the only magic i see is her
we went walking in the fresh spring morning
in a deep rich forest to marvel at king johns kingdom
and when we found him
as any gentle soul would she fed him
and wiped away his tears
its the truth of her
in everything she dose
theres no cruelty's cage like denvers hippies
theres only love
we went walking
and made our way home
her college girl glasses on my nightstand
with her french romance novella
and a pack of english cigarettes
she sleeps sweetly in my arms
while spring stirs the sunsoaked curtains
filling the air with birdsong and flowers
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
the devil in the details
retain the written
cast off the spoken
like the table scraps from
some dark kings feast
his richly clad hands gripping the meat
with stranglehold
the other clutching the spilled wine
his rages echo in stone hall
pronouncements of beheadings
and tax collectors greedy hand
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
it was a bright kingdom
long ago
its glory days faded but still it shone brightly
rich in its fair folk and fertile lands
sit down here by the fire
take your ease
let me spin you a tale
let me weave you a storybook kingdoms dark fall
drink up your wine and steel your heart
for its a tale of a king
of love and lust
betrayal and blood
its a cautionary tale
of a young princess and the bright hopes
that blinded her
to the terrible man she loved
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
she had come across the channel waters
in fine sailing ships
stood in the deck expectant eye to the distant shore
in her lace and silks and jewels a three
her hair flowing like a river of dark chocolate
her eyes of crisp blue
she was the finest of maidens
a princess caring and true
the kindest heart and the wisest mind
she thought she was destined to be a queen
but fate has terrible twists cruel and careless
cry now for this sweet princess
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
all these years later it is a tale had to speak
so sit yourself down here by the warmth of the fire
gather the courage of your heart
for this is a tale to test the strongest not to break to tears
this is the tale
of king john and the kingdom of the forest
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
I found a penny in the sand
As rusted as can be,
But when I held it in my hand,
A thought occurred to me...
Why mint a coin of idle worth,
That beggars would eschew,
Then leave her buried in the dirt
Beside the ocean blue?
There mighty winds would roar and wail
And blast riptides ashore,
To brush his head and wash his tail;
What boy could ask for more?
The months and years went by and by
Without a saving grace,
And Johns would gather on the fly,
A piscine meal to chase.
And when it seemed that all was lost
And Penny's fate was sealed,
A Nickel by her side was tossed,
Her destiny revealed....
~ P (#Pablo#apits)
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Come on along, or go alone
I've heard them say
A penny for your thoughts
Well if I had a nickel
I'd head for beggars tomb
I'd call a tune
And listen to uncle Johns band
Come on along, or go alone
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 12:26 AM UTC
long hair long johns of sad happy
clear fog is the dog god doggone dog
kind of you to kind of listen
kindling burns like Hong Kong midnight brightlights
whose birthright, or birthwrong
down-under daggers for flags
flagged
flagulation
creative sensory compensated penitentiary
forward lad landing laughter for the last log on the fire
the last day for earth to say
please plead for plaid shirts to pay for themselves
otherwise there will be ****** for you to see
summer in the winter if I sprinkle a little bit more wood on my splinter
sink or swim, sink and swim, sink to swim
swim to sink
ah
um
oh
ehhem
undo your dress and undo your last mistake
please retake the photo so I can stay awake.
don't, I mean, yes
yes
hands could be cold
but
then
a
g
a
i
n
I just call it what I must
plustwo double yous in a zoo for the future flu's to cruise like truce
11/11/11 armistice
missed the list when you kissed my wrist
I extracted bliss from the Buddha's jist
just
cause?
just call for the muse music
don't mind me
I mean
yes,
yes
motorcade king of spades I got laid to the silence
of a forest in the poorest richness I've never ditched this
**** zip
zap
my zipper is a little critter crawling through the litter on the city's twitter account
doesn't amount to much but I sound like I'm salted in breath
dead like MacBeth, the challenge was the shaken speare
sprained everclear of the diamond tear or the shattered cheer of ancient seers
truth
is greater than fiction.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:24 AM UTC
get away from me all you fools
store owners
underpaid store clerks
delivery people
disgruntled factory workers
bosses
know it alls
child molesting priests
rabbis
loud mouthed reverends
strippers
track armed hookers
pimps
johns who's wife won't give it up
teachers
shady lawyers
pill poppin' doctors
nurses
kids with colds
old people with dementia
***** dogs
feral cats
evil grandmas
perverted grandpas
street sweepers
***** garbage men
slick bartenders
waitresses
drunk people
people high on life
dope heads
meat heads
sober judges
all of you
go to hell in a handbasket
and let me live my life
in peace.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
The Back Beat of the Bass, In a Bourban infused bar
Smooth to the bend of , The blues note Guitar
Saxman whail's to the, Smoky Slow blues Singer
And Drummer riffs off , A High Hat Brush Stinger
The Pianoman lays down, A Slow soft tune
As the Vocals Stir the mix, In a soft **** Croon
People dance so close, It Shuts out the World
Lost in Love, Lust, & Bourban.....
Bartender sets up another Round
As the Crowd of the room, Soaks up the Sound.....
Toker's Blowin' Smoke, Hid in the hall by the Johns
The Bars Mood Sways...As the music Carries on
A Patron at the Bar, Orders up another beer
And the Dancers Float, Across the dance Floor
The Glow of Neon Spills, Colored Red Lights....
A Soft **** Setting, For a Memorable Night
The Guests all begged and, Pleaded for an Encore
So the band fired up... Just one more
All on A Saturday night.....JMF 1/31/15
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
When Mr Manfred shopped for clothes
he always sought the best
long johns for the winter nights
and a stringy summer vest.
His Chevy was his pride and joy
he used it on weekends
and drove it down to Illinois
to hook up some old friends.
To neighbors he was the perfect gent
who never raised a fuss
so happy was this malcontent
he drove the high school bus.
But Manfred had a secret
it kept him so discreet
his captives couldn't run away
because they had no feet.
Moody Manfred kept them hid
force fed them through a straw
he wrote in chalk upon the lid
disappointment number four.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC