"listings" poems
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
I sat down to watch the radio
There was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I could have watched one channel
And learned to fricasse
A chicken raised on wild grains
By a woman chef named Bea
I started checking channels
But I decided in mid flick
That I was getting tired
And I was also feeling sick
So I sat and watched the radio
Since there was nothing on TV
I have two hundred channels
But there was sweet F.A for me
I worked on through the listings
English, French and some bad ****
There were movies on one station
That were made 'fore I was born
Out of all the things I saw on there
The best show I could see
Was something shown in black and white
Made in nineteen sixty three
My TV s high definition
With cables left and right
But to find a show I'd like to watch
Was taking half the night
So I sat and watched the radio
Watching nothing happen fast
But as I sat there watching
I travelled bckwards to my past
Still flicking through the channels
Trying to find something to see
I thought I'd found a hockey game
But it was all in Punjabi
So, I listened to the music
Watched the radio, passing time
Then I thought, why do I have this?
With what I paid, it was a crime
eleven channels showed the same
times 8 networks made
at least eighty eight tv stations
That didn't make the grade
Twenty two were pay for view
The French networks were ten
Then the networks there in Real HD
And so, it started once again
Pay for **** was fourteen strong
New shows added two
Weather, sports and info shows
Now I was at one eighty two.
I could have bought alot of stuff
On informercials through the night
I could have bought Pro Active
But instead I watched the light
I turned back to the radio
With the station light in green
It was better than the tv set
And all the crap I'd seen
So, Tonight I watched the radio
There was nothing on TV
But as I sat there bathed in that green light
The music showed me all I need to see.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:03 AM UTC
a real estate agent
is the person to talk to
if you want a house
with a nice ocean view
listings of these kind
of properties are rare
there's not many on the market
which isn't very fair
residing on the scenic
North Carolina coastline
would most definitely
be ever so divine
as the sun rises
I'd look out over the bay
to catch a glimpse
of the yachts sailing away
upon my two storey deck
I'd read a book
whilst partaking of a serving
of salad and roasted chook
I'll be on the phone
to the realtor this afternoon
so he can line up a sale
for me pretty soon
near the seaside
is where I want to nest
living in a bush locale
isn't all the best
to smell the sea breeze
wafting o'er my yard
that would be a fabulous
tip top draw card
where the brine rushes
into the sandy shore
I'd so love to be situated
there forevermore
my pots and pans are packed
and ready to go
I'm just waiting to hear
from the realtor Mr Row
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
it would appear the semi-colon
has an identity crisis;
it might appear
it can’t decide if it’s a dot
or a comma
and so does an acrobat act;
but really the semi-colon does more than that
for it does
complex listings the comma can’t manage
and can say things quite cleverly, like:
“All things are expensive; life *****
So really this semi-colon
is not a semi - but indeed a full-blown device
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
I'm smitten
I'm in love
Track listings written
Hounds of love
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
On late the by-lanes one night,
unusual spot I green, a bottle
like any, but for words, may be,
on the label printed:
'Old wine. Hamlin. Best before: the future'
Scarred, the mouth, to fire
a rocket used, ringing in a day
when celebrating, a hero,
Goliaths thumped by a David new.
Hope, on the horizon, the word rising.
Threw it away, almost I, when
reversed comes, rolled up a parchment,
by ash burned, from the ******* a part:
a mix strange of clippings and retort.
Marked, astonished, the date, I: was it
from today, even of TV, a listings part;
'...mesmerized by the language of hope';
'Parks fill up as people gather to celebrate';
'Our democracy is alive and how'.
Of proportions messianic, news frothing
how new born, a leader is. Familiar all :
myself now, from one such, returning.
But curious, written, the words indeed:
*'Monuments wear and rivers thin,
as boatmen sing the evening song,
miracle-workers and peddlers of
honey and mead, pipers at the gates
of dawn, not men of mettle and deed'*
Of a piper, suddenly, as in a fantasy
a song, and heard I, helpless, wails
of mothers, a hundred .
Strained, to read, further my eye,
when tore up the piece;
Broke up green, a bottle on the street.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
the fragments from your thoughts
dissolve into my numb limbs
wondering eye sockets shock skin and metal bones
as if to display the ever-growing feeling
of melancholy
the frozen voice of apocalypse chants
to my garden stone heart
a tiny glimpse into the void of yesterday
surrounding images of sounds and mescaline
being
drowned by smaller devils
ice-cold fingertips wash my face with delight
the over-turning silence tied
my fast paced tongue
dry salty smoke air
into that bell of mourning after
good-byes
the mutated shape of my heart
descending into your
vast and diluted throat
a violence that slowly asphyxiates the life out of
a part of me already gone
the distancing shadows
the murderer’s weapon soaked with *****
*****
images of pale dissatisfaction
the digestion of hello and
strange eyes bellowing across the floor
dragging in its carcass
the days of fresh blood
and stale conversations dreaming
awake
dirt tongues
fabric visions repeated on patterns
tv listings
exits painted over
walk-in closets regards left
on the table
un-opened
coming back
again
to the same house
and
closing your eyes
emptying the lies left across my face
(here)
it’s not your fault
too many scars
while listening
nothing is coming out of your mouth
(I am your body
crippled
ill tempered
disgusting
disfigured
and confused
by ugly lights)
for good
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
My immortal record player Technics SL D303 entrench's
something recently acquired
possessing physical music.
LP covers, with track listings
printed as intended,
to be read,
one records' perfection;
Jackie Lomax's début
got me into his Three album
thanks again E bay.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
you make me melancholy
you are here and you are whole
my initials are printed on your cellophane skin
you paid to have someone else mark you to say
"this is the last time"
"this is my home"
you have made me into a saddened poet
and nearly a mother
our names used to run together justlikethis
now they are separate creatures
ensnared to each other by &
and that is better
we appear at parties, an institution
wedding guests in patchy blazer
and swollen dress
people take photographs of us
i hope someday to see them captioned
by someone who never dwelt in that moment with us
you are thinner this time around
more delicate, i worry someday i will cling so tightly in need of you that you rust beneath my fingers
like i sent you around a carousel and you came back astride a horse and in an ill-fitting suit
longer hair, thinner face, fuller beard
sunken eyes
i made you into a watery corpse
and i'm sorry
i lie on my side and bite sea green glass bottles
think about the child i'll bear you
suffocate and cannot dream
i cry tears of frankincense and battle the dead inside me
calling for me to join them for a day
boy, pray for my life
i can be cold and altruistic
and all i want to do is pen songs
that is fine with you
you have become a mortician now
in dress, in manner, in aspiration
i missed you terribly
i know i am incessant
you stumbled through a curtain and onto my doorstep
i welcomed you with flat palms and clenched teeth
i love you
and i'm sorry i smoked you out the first time around
i told you in a rainy place we've been before
we took it as a sign but i'd already made my mind up
when we lay sunken in my floor, and i breathed with you without hesitation
**** it, why'd i ever let them take you away from me
i'm sorry, friend
we blew kisses to our stars and now i'm making you a father after all your friends
in your veiny hands you'll hold our only child
i'm so sorry for what i did, and what i'm bound to do
you'll be back soon, i miss your sunken cheeks and the way you say goodbye
i need to rest my bones, you make bitterness taste like home
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
my boyfriend blocks me for four days
because I won’t give him the chair he wants.
I’m left scrolling through IKEA listings,
pretending the algorithm knows my waiting.
outside, neighbors drag out plastic stools
for another birthday party. balloons
tied to the wrong wrist, a dog howling
like it knows who gets the last seat.
on day three, I start naming the chairs
in my apartment: recliner as prophet,
barstool as witness. I kneel before
the ottoman, bargaining like a priest.
when he unblocks me, it feels
less like forgiveness, more like return policy:
no receipt, box dented, parts missing.
we drag it inside together, silent, already exhausted.
what I wanted to say was:
I would’ve sat on the floor
if it meant staying.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 11:52 AM UTC
poets were forever deemed the Peter Pans
of the adult world -
where once the sonnet reigned,
was sooner replaced succumbing to
gangrene by a Ferrari, or another polished diamond
of more diadem count in Pythagorean -
they really looked at poets like they murdered
the profession of accounting or plumbing...
god bless the poets, god bless the poet who
made it to a brothel... the only poets that escaped with Cain
and the murderers and the thieves, and the ******
i forgave my enemy to escape... let him earn
fireplace respect and custody of children should things
take a sour turn... only poets are welcome...
Jackie Chan, Billy the Kid and Dante...
**** you worship bound knights of auto-suggested
failures selling turnips and charcoal
writing poems like writing a signature in digital
imprint; they called us the children of
fervent art expressed -
a matchbox filled with huff-heaving-bollocks that was snarled-at
scratching the effortless geography of hind and
itch of the tabernacle to gallop toward a bloodless
Crusade - as Papa Urban promised unreal -
welcome the cocktail shakers of the crushed craniums
of Jerusalem's innocents - we come in
peace, come in the name of the un-spiced potato
gulags of the supposed stews of the many promises
the Pope twerked for granted in the raised *****
of the Ancient Mosque - **** praise be to Allah -
god / dog - but faithfully, anally yours...
**** a **** - nine dead, it's day-to-day Germany:
i like to dream... yes yes right between the sound machine...
you don't know what we can find...
why don't you tell your dreams to me...
close your eyes girl... papa fried Freud squirrel...
tripped on a white horse galloping standstill
in a 1sqm balcony - everyone swore it was Zorro....
but i corrected them, it was: Zoroaster (colon,
former fame for listings, otherwise the italics,
colon the synonymous variation of italics, pressurised
theatre pause - no listing).
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
"Let me be your home" she said
it's all she could offer,
just peace of mind and comfort of familiarity.
"Is the rent high?" he asked
joking, in a way,
also making her seem like she had a price to be haggled
they were in like
and liked things so.
Spaniards in space-
that's what these two were,
just a couple of conquistadors
navigating relationships and apartment listings
ended up in her heart
view of the lungs
things were good,
she made breakfast, he did dishes
they visited the brain every now and then
see the scenery
museum of neurons
they love that stuff
rightfully so
they lived quite happily ever after
in her heart
until the attack-
then things got weird,
but their love survived the paplitations and cholesterol
they could survive anything.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 10:24 PM UTC
-Slightly sadistic 17-year-old girl seeks suitable mate
Re: matters of dystopic fantasties
- A cannibalistic companion, mayhaps
to soothe lingering curiosities held captive by the bright red and steady rhythm of dripping blood
Disclaimer: this advertisement (pronounced ad-vur-tiz-ment) is not a cry for help - but next week's definitely will be
"Hi, I'm not usually like this, I haven't really done this sort of thing before, but..."
thinking to self I would like to carefully extract your organs and construct a small fortress out of them. I would like to staple your mouth to my mouth. I would-
"Oh, what? No, I didn't say anything."
- I'm imagining you as more of a shadow, all tangible beings seem bleak to me - but could you still hold my hand???
"Yes, it's lovely outside. Beautiful weather."
- But when we venture outside its proven that our eyes are much too sensitive for the light and inside beckons as much cooler and safer, inside of me is dangerous - and inside of you is an inferno
(Please set me on fire)
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Pretending I am kissing the lips that
I am missing,
Love is at its peril if you think that I'll
be skipping,
Out on you.
Pressure builds up like receipt listings,
Thinking your Gonna leave me one day
And have me crying,
Not over you.
Love will be dying slow right now
because of the betrayal,
Peace in a hot dinner plate , I will not
Let it go stale,
Words I'll send to you.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
The fat one in the ratty grey sweatshirt
thumbing through job listings
says to anyone,
“You wanna know
who’s the most beautiful
woman of all time?
Marilyn Monroe.
Oh my God.
Not my dating type.
But oh my God.
I’d walk twenty-five miles a day
to find someone
that’s got that
much meaning.”
And I,
listening,
for an instant,
burn for something
that I would walk
twenty-five miles a day
to find.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
I am walking a tightrope
that I am continuously falling from-
my feet try to move but I see no balance.
Gravity and I have never really been friends
too busy falling, never keeping my feet on the ground.
So I walk-
jigsaw puzzle for my feet below and head above.
I try to conjure what it would look like
if I did in fact make it to the other side.
But I realize that's another part of me
I will never get to face
because my body will not ever let me-
my fear overpowers my skill
and I cannot hold on any longer
not with these two feet I own
or these two hands
too busy trying to hold up everyone else
long enough to make sure they're back on their feet.
I'm tired of not being in control
so as these emotions become too strong
and I become too weak
falling to my imminent destruction becomes routine.
Consistently pushing away anyone who tries to help
and any chance I get at happiness
I make sure it never ceases to exist again.
Control was never in my nature
so anger consumes me when I am the lesser
when the animosity takes over-
there is no coming back for me.
My mind goes blank
the only words I can spell out for myself
are regret, so this pen bleeds ink
just so I will remember these words
cannot be erased from someone else's mind
that these episodes will constantly become re-runs.
I'm getting so ******* tired of this show already-
always wanting to turn off the tv or change the channel
but I can't afford cable
this is the only show that isn't static in my ears
the only show worth watching.
Sometimes, I wish it would get cancelled
and fade away from the listings
so I don't have to see it anymore.
But the episode gets played over
I still cry at the sight of them-
I still let the plot lines dictate my emotions.
Control has never been something I was good at
but somehow this tightrope I walk
has become such an occupation
as if people are waiting for me to fall from it.
I walk steady now-
awaiting the moment I fall
I worry when I stick out my neck
for those watching my downfall
that this tightrope will become just a noose
and this show will turn into the news
reporting on what I could've done better-
repeating my mistakes like re-runs.
Time has been nagging at my feet again
I guess it wants to speed up my downfall.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
boring, useless and impossible
i understand why these are not the first listings
in the job description
but they should be somewhere on the page
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
It feels like this.
When you're sinking further into the ocean
And all you can see is the sharks and the snakes
And you can only move with the shaking of finger tips
All the regret and could habe beens,
The should habe beens al wish I could be younger
Drags you further down
Until you're sea level of the floor
The coral and seaweed wraps you up.
Every scream of a name or two or three escapes
And travels to the surface to even
Being ignored by the seagulls
Or you're alone,
Soaking wet in your room
Can't even look at a mirror
Because every inch of you screams
Liability
Putting listings out for guys that aren't it but
Are a bigger picture of it all
But wanting to put a hit out
For your ownself
Make it easy, messy free.
A bullet to the head,
Three months to tell all them you tried.
Because you did.
You tried being kind enough,
Skinny and perfect enough.
You tried until it really mattered.
And you let yourself go.
You break and bend and you wish
You'd ******* ****
To try again
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Bleak doctrines
wandering wisps of wit with
congested callous coffins
in their wake
waves watching
wishing
when silence strikes and speaks
longer listings that get louder as violence peaks
crudely unrefined
found in the darkness without a sight
one of a kind
the crack in the dark and slip for the light
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
i hate the way you talk over me,
i feel invalidated and a rejectee,
i hate the way you make me feel,
like i am not even supposed to feel,
i hate the way you convince me
that my emotions are unreal.
i hate when you make me feel alone,
even we are together
and you're always on your phone,
i hate the way you prioritize other things,
like i'm always the last in your every listings,
i hate the way i cry at night,
and you seem not to care,
i hate that i'm sad,
and still blame me for it.
i hate that you make me second guess myself,
doubts and worries will then flood my head,
i hate the way you fail me multiple times,
then act like its no big of deal,
and i hate that they don't even rhyme,
i hate that i spent too much time thinking of you,
and you spent too much time avoiding to argue,
i hate that i often thought i was so special to you,
but it seems that i am just another shade of glitter and blue,
i hate that i say things that i hate about you,
and still find one thing to love even though..
at the end of the day, i still freaking hate you!
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 7:30 PM UTC
As in everything pertaining
to our daily staple, it differs
not from listings in Debrett.
Are we, what we eat must
surely be the relevant question
of one's consuming etiquette.
A class system exists in all our
lives whether we like it or not.
There is a hierarchy, on the shelf.
We gravitate to the comfort zone
where we are familiar. Our baskets
contain the roots of our family tree.
Palates are hereditary, taste needs
no acquisition, quality is congenital,
ingrained, wholesome. Well, bread.
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 5:34 AM UTC