"listerine" poems
Snail trail leading from mouth to heinous ****
let slugs undulate their way across my listerine lips
old jokes like S-Car-Go
and stuff inside me more variable and insuppressible
similar to Inspector Gadget
Matthew Broderick was my mentor
as a child
I am not in pampers any longer
4 P's of teens
***** petrol party and paycheck
that doesn't include pampers
I used to wade in my own ****
that's ******* disgusting to think about now
now an adult
still just wasting time
and wading through my own ****
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
I have a strong dislike for you.
At first it was fine.
You tried to cater and be kind.
Make me feel like your home was mine.
But now I must express why I hate you
half of the time.
You became clingy-
and it went downhill from there.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Listerine fountains are falling,
breaking through the roof,
shingles like helicopter blades,
scratching up my face.
Your mouth is making violent motions
and I can see mirages between your teeth.
It took me a long time to master,
but I can't here the news on repeat;
I don't want to anymore.
I don't know what you thought
mismatched socks would accomplish,
but those mixed with an heated face
sorta make my scull feel like
marzipan.
5, 4, 3, frozen in the moment,
right before a scream.
2, my iPod crumbles in hand,
just like the game I always lose.
1...one, one, one...
I blocked that out too.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
My last long distance relationship was with YaHWeH
And we’re on break
But when I can’t help myself
I drunk text him
Thumbs fumbling like they’ve forgotten
Keys I used to know with eyes closed
“Why do you give me emotions
If they are only going to be doubted?
Invalidated continuously?
What would it be like to feel something
Without being punished?
Prayer emoji, prayer emoji,
Cry emoji, upside down smile.”
And when the emotional puking is done
And I’ve resigned myself to silence
And acid green Listerine
The universe chimes
“One new message.”
Taking a deep breath,
Pushing down apprehension
And the nauseous excitement
Of a boy texting back
Read.
“They are not always thus.
Each time someone was there
In your corner,
Maybe not the most voices
Maybe not the loudest
But there.
You are the master of your destiny, Love
The master of your punishment
You do not have to feel punished
You are rejoice made flesh.”
Peaceful smile, peaceful smile
Kiss emoji.”
I pause, reading it once,
Then twice,
Swallowing then nodding
Keys now vaguely familiar.
“Sometimes I forget.
Shy emoji, shrug emoji,
Monkey covering eyes.”
“God is typing……”
“That is what I’m here for.”
Kiss emoji, smile emoji
Blushing beaming smile.”
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
American city, your roads make me gasp,
Hold my breath with cancerous anxiety.
Your sidewalks,
Ancient ruins of time passed: A failed optimism for Utopian desire:
A house, a yard, a car for every person.
Now derelict, termite infested, but rented.
Chlorinated chemical water runs through rusted, moldy spickets to
Rinse pesticide seasoned vegetables.
And yet they remain so tasteless.
But who cares?
Suburban middle class zombies?
Created with media placed propaganda.
Born and inoculated with DisneypepsiMccocacola ideologies.
Oh Wal-Mart,
how we love your homogenized Chinese products.
Oh America,
how we love your multi-million dollar cathartic films,
They bring my mind to no place and inspire nothing.
Your theme park inspired retail caters to any identity I desire:
I am a professional,
My wallet lined with the best credit cards,
SUV, Hummer, Super boat, designer label, mall bought,
bleached teeth smile, with slick greasy hair style.
I'm cool, I pay for the gas.
Beep your horn, and rev your engine.
We are at war with each other.
Everyone get out of my way: road rage lifestyle: compete or die.
Big screen television dream.
Bought it at Target.
Open my cupboard: Macaroni and Cheese, delicious.
Ambian, Prozac, antibiotic, Listerine.
Collagen bovine beauty:
Manicure, pedicure, dye and wax
Acrylic nails, hair extensions
And silicone sacs.
Oh, American city
How we want to steal your money and **** your blood.
Chop your trees and cement your grass.
American city you are dead.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 6:22 AM UTC
72 hours in
I'm giving serious thought to
drinking the Listerine.
The ***** is it's citrus flavored.
I can't even rinse with that toxic concoction, let alone swallow it,
but I'm running out of options.
I finished my other MacGyvers--
the Nyquil was first to go,
followed by a Dimetapp chaser
(the cherry,
not a refreshing grape-flavored one)
and a shot of Wal-fed
that induced indigestion.
My kingdom for a belt of whiskey--
maybe a snifter of ***
You know you're bottoming out
when you wax nostalgic
for drunken days
when soiling yourself was justifiable
due to your general state of disarray.
I'm the **** that adheres to the bottom of the barrel—
******* in the shower with my shoes on,
pants removed as a cautionary measure.
Not that life can get worse;
nothing trumps waking up miserable,
sore,
jobless,
alone,
queasy,
woozy and
drooling uncontrollably
and lacking ***** to blame it on.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
I'm not a poet
I'm a self proclaimed genius with a pen
with thoughts running through my head
like gazelles in the plains of Africa
and I'm just waiting for a lion
to come swallow them up
and finally give me a good
idea
a good idea that rests on your
mouth like a Listerine patch
and comes out in a cool minty breath
a good idea that is so
easily shared amongst the masses
and is of the ability to make them
cry
laugh
smile
think
but how can I make them think
when I can't even think of a good
idea
besides, who is this 'them'
that I'm trying to please?
and how can I please 'them'?
with a notebook full of
scribbled out sentences
and torn out pages
both results of my rage
and yes, I write a lot about writers block
because writers block is so evident to me
and I see a whole lot of words
like butterflies in a field
and I'm without a net to catch them
and I just stand there staring
wishing I could piece them all together
but, if I write about writers block often
then is writers block something to write about
therefore I don't have writers block?
I don't know
I'm not a poet
I'm just a teenagers with writers block
just trying to catch butterflies
-Slang
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
We were kids.
You shut the door on me in the pouring rain.
You had this wide-eyed, crazy grin on your face
all the time
amused with yourself
and that was enough.
How did I know
how to tell a boy I liked him?
I just knew your breath smelled like
listerine when you got on the schoolbus
in sleepy half dawn
You sat behind me and sometimes,
if I peeked my eye through the crack between
the seat and window, you'd smile
and share your headphones with me,
a simple song or two from The Postal Service.
On brave days, I'd scoot back to be closer
and breathe you in
in tentative girlish awe.
You laid your head down on my lap
to nap the rest of the trip
and I'd watch you, holding
my breath,
slowly playing
with your orange curls
spilling
through my fingers like sunlight.
Almost a decade later,
I've forgotten the schoolbus.
We're reunited with a group, eating
sushi, laughing until we cry
at my spicy face and the clumsy
way I can't hold chopsticks taunt.
But reaching past you, I brush
your hair on accident and stop short,
the sensation tingling my fingers,
remembering how
more than once I've
gazed at you in wonder.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
You smell like laundry detergent, mongrel, and marijuana
wrapped in strawberry cigar papers. The way
the couch smells warm of people
prior to the heat and sweat we produced
on its rough synthetic fibers
that left me brush burns. Of French fries
and cheesy steak hoagies caked
to your apron as big golden
grease stains. You smell
of a soft shower, the nothingness
smell of water, that is still a smell.
Of loofah drenched with cobalt body wash
that your mother bought, not quite
feminine enough, but nothing you picked out yourself.
Of turquoise Listerine, the first and last time I had to wash
you out. Pineapples and watermelons, latex
and the salty smell that could be sweat
or ***** When the air is mixed with gasoline
and ***** ground winter snow,
filled with rock salt. That’s what you smell like,
in case you were wondering, her jacket
smells of you.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
I don't even know anymore man
I don't want to live anymore
My chest gets heavier every time I exhale
Every bridge looks like a place to jump
Oncoming traffic a play zone,
I want to wash my skin with a razor blade loufa
And clean my teeth with cyanic Listerine
I walk barefoot in hopes of venomous spiders
I break mirrors while walking beneath black cats on ladders
All the while hoping my 7 years comes in a lump sum
I hope I choke on a Goldfish for the irony
Because it's the snack that smiles back
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
No woman Is worth what you put me through,
Girls talk about men and the bad **** he'd do,
But that's nothing compared,
To the emotional despair,
From terrorist attacks, from a woman's lair,
**** I'd wonder why I'd care,
Sayin' it isn't fair,
Ya disappointment's perpetual and you were never there,
Should have not got ****** now my heart need repair,
And through all the pain and agony you weren't even aware,
I tried to shrug my love,
Pretend I didn't give a ****
Hoping it didn't come back round like bad karma, ****** luck,
Hard truths,
Cold facts, It's all through,
What's the point of part one if there's never part two?
Heart's glued,
Still trying to put back broken pieces,
It's all you,
And I'm thinkin' over thesis,
Go back to observation,
Evidence of perpetration,
Hold you accountable for all ya allegations,
It all supports my theory,
If I'm superman your kryptonite when you're near me,
I fear thee,
Cryin' when you week and weary,
Sayin' "Jared, I need a friend so please hear me"
'Cause that's the nicotine I try not to let get near me,
Askin', "Are you listening?"
Through self imposed misery
Treatin' me like a figurine,
So I play you like a tennis team,
And make sure you get no love, back to my history!
Because you never deserved my presence,
Men try to win ya heart just a part of contestants,
Just to win a section,
Of your empty affection,
Compulsion, and expections,
Of giving that's one way in direction,
Taker Take her,
Come meet you maker,
The distance you created like the comet did the crater,
Don't ask me for no favors,
Cause i savor the flavor,
Of live with out you compared,
To a life with you despaired,
And everyday your name slips me,
Is like a little victory,
Because you name is to me,
A bad taste in my mouth, and amnesia is my listerine,
Forgetting things,
Now relationships are hard, because, of what you did to me,
Left me with scars, half dead like chivalry,
But it still lives through me,
If I ever see you again, I'll pretend, it didn't get to me,
Stop talking, and start listening,
Vapid actress,
When will you stop actin'?
You can fake love but you can't fake passion,
Vapid actress,
When will you stop actin'?
You can fake love but you can't fake passion.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:47 AM UTC
When fragments fly from your mothers favorite glass
It's time to give in
All your pride waves out fresh like water after a listerine rinse
The blinds stay closed because the windows glare
not just because the people behind them do as well
Condensation rises on your glossy eyes and youre as high as where the snow falls from
An insomniac mirthful mercenary defected from an army of awake dreamers
Draw string bags of angel dust rest on the loops of your belt
But here I am trapped under yours
A Jiminy Cricket with a pillow over my loose lips
It's toxic when we make our hearts skip
Pumping your veins with strange men in nice jackets
I can't just close the blinds to hide the glare.
I'm caught in this piercing snare
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
He told me he likes Bukowski.
That was the first sign.
You see, boys who like Bukowski and me
Don’t get along.
You see, Bukowski and me
Don’t get along.
I’m a Sylvia.
I’m an Anne.
A Maya and a Virginia.
You see, I am well versed
In death and silence.
You see, I have no interest in
Alcohol and misogyny.
He told me he likes The Smiths.
Now The Smiths
In and of themselves are great.
I’ve always been a fan of melancholy,
Of heartbreak.
Now The Smiths
Who have been morphed into this
Pseudo intellectual mirror are not my thing.
You see, boys pin me to a pedestal
For merely knowing who Morrissey is.
You see, I don’t care if
Dying by my side is such a heavenly way to die.
You see, I don’t plan on dying with him.
He told me he drinks his coffee black.
That would explain
Why when he kissed me
I tasted nothing but bitterness.
That should have been a warning.
You see, I need a little sweetness.
He told me he smokes cigarettes.
You see, cigarettes remind me of my father.
He told me I’m not like other girls.
As if other girls are a disease.
As if I am this magical creature.
This manic pixie dream girl with wings.
You see, there is nothing special about me.
I am me. Simple.
I told him he was a sad boy.
A boy who pretends like he’s wrapped in barbed wire
But is really a caged petting zoo animal.
A boy who will smile like he has a secret
But really has nothing to share.
You see, sad boys drink whiskey.
To me, whiskey tastes like listerine without the mint.
You see, he tasted like whiskey.
You see, he reads Bukowski.
You see, he listens to The Smiths.
You see, he drinks his coffee black every morning
And smokes a cigarette on his balcony
While reading the newspaper
And listening to a vinyl record.
You see he doesn’t love me.
He loves the idea of me.
He loves the idea of sad girl.
You see, there’s nothing romantic
About a boy who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
You see, I hate Hemingway.
You see, sad boys and me don’t get along.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
i need this listerine for my bad
breath he said, but i knew better
than to give him a quarter.
he begged me with blue eyes
and every puff we exhaled into
the back bay that grey morning.
i’m here to help
i answered him
and i’ve been there-
at McLean in ART, where the girls
didn’t like me cause my music
was a trigger. but
i pulled through, sometimes
on my own, with help
from a court appointed drug group
(even though i carpooled
every wednesday in a baked
out mini van).
i’m here because day after day
i dragged my spinning
body to the toilet, sun dawning,
to spew bright yellow fluid
into the waiting water.
and i’ve hit the ocean floor:
i used to sniff the bowl to make
the ***** come up faster.
i’d say if i get up again in less than ten
minutes, it’s gonna be a rough day
(but yesterday started this way
and i ended it with a beer
in my hand anyway).
i’m here because when
officer spirito dragged my racing
body through the hallways handcuffed,
because of the purses
missing from the locker room,
i still spent the night on the
closet floor rocking back and
forth, knees to pounding
chest, a hollow
voice on the phone saying i’ll be fine
(but i know that ***** cut
with ether and i’m gonna
need a hospital).
i told my sponsor
i wanna get clean cause
dope is taking my friends one by
one like bowling pins, and i’m lonely
cause all my ex boyfriends
are still locked up
upstate. she just told me
to pray to god
(but everybody knows
that prayer only works
in emergencies).
i’m here because that relapse
my first year of college got me
pretty close to death. i didn’t know
i could puke that far and
the emts didn’t know
a heart could beat that fast.
but **** the past
and **** the future. i can’t
say much about the rest
of my life, but i can
make sure i’m sober the rest
of this night. you can get through
centuries one hour at a time, so
since i know what you want it for
why would i give you that quarter?
no response except a drop
of spit hung from his silver beard
like a pendulum, and the smell
of the chicken i left to cook
too long inside that soup kitchen.
if i didn’t laugh, i would have
cried the whole
time that he said to me
i need this
listerine, baby,
i need listerine
i need this
listerine for my bad
breath.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:11 AM UTC
too sweet
not like candy
more like raw sugar cane
dainty and honest
to the innocence of tastebuds
but grows stale and sticky
to the back of my throat
and all i can think of
to wash you away
are a couple swigs of listerine
and her mom's stash of *****
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC
The motherly figure
Locked away in fumes
Smelling of skunk
The green smoke taking her away
To anywhere but here
The man of the house
Glass after glass
Of wine
*****
Beer
Even Listerine
If that is what it took
To get even a slight buzz
I sit alone
Adding another mark to the tally
Behind the mirror
Only a few more
Before it is accepted
For my life to end
The youngest
Unaware of all of the despair
In her family
The only one
Who truly smiles
In our family portrait
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
I wake up every morning
To stare in the face of death
I love my wife with all my heart
But not her morning breath
I put tic tacs under her pillow
And even a bottle of scope
But do you think she'll ever take a hint
Well I'm guessing probably nope
I'd swear that woman eats road ****
Or something crawled in her mouth and died
When she puckers her lips to give me a kiss
I look for a place to hide
The dog won't lick his **** anymore
He licks her mouth instead
Don't ever tell her I wrote this
If you do I'm as good as dead
Okay, you know I'm only kidding
I'm not really being mean
But you know what I got her for Christmas
Yep, a bottle of listerine
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
Bottled, bound in a brume blue-green,
a mist of Listerine again descends.
And slick, with what’s like shower’s
sweat, there's wipes of writing
on the wall. One thought, on
an endless loop of overcast,
warm marks on rippled sobbing glass:
o u t.
Seated, seeping. The mute little girl
fallen down the town well.
We are half-aware of the consequence
of these dreams of outside air. Clarity.
It kills me, but I suspect that now
a good deal of this vial’s moisture is mine.
Chewing cautionary label gum,
(Do Not Swallow!)
We churn the potential
over and over in our mouth--
it taunts a minty tingle.
A curved black mark.
A chasm shadowed.
A welling up of a desire to gulp.
Desire for just one breath, one vision past
this germicidal upturned glass.
To live unlost, unwet, unmasked
a lifetime halled with gorgeous mirrors,
mirrors free from fog.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
I wash away words like dead flakes of skin up to night, from morning. I am made of them. Like a cup left under a tap, I have become full and started spilling over all the drops I wasn't built the capacity to hold. I pity these words for they have nowhere to go.
I spit them out like I've eaten something disgusting and they attach to my saliva like it was glue. The listerine washes them from my mouth every morning when I brush my teeth. The way they swirl down the drain when I shower mesmerizes me as I watch them go down one by one until I am clean. Even then, I have no idea how many more get blown away by the wind or get lost in the flurry of small movements.
I really should find a way to make them more permanent, but I don't. I write them down in the air above me head, the plastic jeepney seat, and on the skin of people I touch. Lucky are those words that are written for at least they have a home where they are recorded, remembered and immortalized. They're so unlike my words that die unheard and unsaid.
With all these words I've wasted, I could have written a masterpiece. Perhaps I have. I'll never know. I have never written them down.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Brush your teeth please
Do something listerine
Save up for a dentist
Or rip them out and get dentures
Totally inconsiderate
I think I'm gonna *****
I don't know whats worse
That or no deodorant
Why do I have to Poker face
Just to save you embarassment
This isn't your island private
Your on the train in public
Your space bubble is broken
I'm just about choking
Dam you good manners
I must behave and be decent
First world issue I know
A bit of a low blow
Now I write about it
So I can just forget it
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
Foolish Romantic
Burn Your Polaroids
For The Hopes Held There
Have Become Void.
Hold Out Your Hands
To Receive Your Sight
Can't You See
You've Been Robbed Blind?
Just A Kid Caught In The Cookie Jar
You Stand On Tip Toes
"Reach For The Stars"?
...
Foolish Romantic
Put Away Your Pen
Freedom Is Fool's Talk
Revolution- A Sin
And Lips Laced With Leftover Listerine?
Darling, Love Comes With Bad Breath
And The Smell Of Bodies
You Hope It Feels Like When Worlds Collide
But There's Pain In Tomorrow
Want For Naught But The Night.
(July 13, 2008)
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
I saw an ad in the local paper
A reunion for the class of 54
I decided I would attend
I’ve never been to one before
It should be grand and lots of fun
So I rented a tux and black tie
Put new batteries in me hearing aid
Bought a wig and polished me eye
I emptied a bottle of old spice
Did me toupee nice with brylcream
I soaked me teeth in steredent
Then gargled with some Listerine
I soon arrived in splendid form
Smelling my very best
It was held in a hall at an old folks home
A place called the shady rest
It’s the fortieth year and it’s very clear
Every one is out to impress
Even the Janes that was always plain
Wore their most elegant dress
They came round with name tags
But didn’t have one for me
Then suddenly I remembered
I was in the class of 53.
©Hazel
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
Washing down nicotine burps
with slurps
of listerine.
Pearl lipstick layers like
sediment over
those festering trenches
where blisters whistle.
Machine gun lung curls
like a basilisk
around his flaccid fist.
Failure to plant a seed.
I left my attention
inside one of those bored hours
spent with you.
I want it back.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Wrestling My Father
The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers
mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol
Winston’s from back before you gave them up
for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis
sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating
off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized
inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,
thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,
greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to
reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn
still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling
what little I can of you by lung full.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
In the city
it constantly feels as if there are rabid dogs snapping at my heels,
I snapped back anyway to come apart which is just how it was when Scheherazade broke into my heart as we walked to the prom, when she told me a tale of the nights she had seen in the budget hotels marking milestones of dreams.
Somehow though it's different now, this pain behind these windows eases off and slowly goes.
The dogs remain and growl but they've thrown in the towel.
The Scheherazade I knew then is just a story for old men,
In time to change for a change of my luck where the nights still smile sweetly but who gives a ****
Not the dancer who makes points with the tip of his knife or the ramblings of a senile old man where his wife waits on tables,
not the leopard who once changed his spots for a date or the tigers aware of their new life as rugs.
Shrugs in the background where Cohen and Simone moan a tune into tune and
soon it's my go to go and to go is always the option.
To stay are the dreams that we own.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC