Litterbox poems on Hello Poetry

Margo Polo May 2014

Stink

I wrinkled my nose
and said
It smells in here

You remarked
Maybe it wouldn't
stink so bad
if you'd clean the litterbox

Yes because
the litterbox
smells like
stale beer
and chewing
tobacco

*******.

#smell #rude #stink

Patricia Drake Feb 2014

Food For Lions

She wanders the streets unnoticed
past the news stand
with a front page giraffe
and letters in a foreign language
she barely speaks
sometimes she sits on the edge
of a bench or a litterbox
to rest her legs and her sore stilettoed
feet
She doesn't talk much
she has no friends
just work
and people
even the media
leave her alone

Maybe if she was a giraffe
with big eyes
and an enormous mythological heart
to pump blood through her neck
to her head
and to pump news around the world
Maybe then
someone would notice her?

For what news is she
compared to a giraffe
put to sleep humanely
purposefully
to secure its species
then displayed in scientific lectures
as insight for future generations
and lastly fed to lions
as if it had died on the savanna

But what purpose has she
that ******* the street
other than serving urban lions
she knows
no one will care
no one will learn from her experience
let alone from her death
by lions

Perspective on the news story about the death and subsequent public dissection of a zoo giraffe endingn with it being fed to the zoo lions. The story has caused an uproar in the media by animal rights activists all over the world, thus blocking the newsfeeds everywhere. This poem is to call for perspectives!!!

softcomponent Sep 2014

"i love you"

i don't spit it down the throat of every
girl who makes me feel less dead.. even
if death inside is a starred little sidenote
in the CIA World Factbook, it's some
-thing sacred in my jeans and undershirt
heart-pang-thump boombox screams for
help. I read deep into the books and so arrange
the angry letters to live again inside the head of
someone else who is 'out-there' in the letter-fed
litterbox of word salad, doused in the vinaigrette
of mossy, ancient, cradle-laden sadness. I wonder
if the world is made of sadness and my pain is just
a girder-- I wonder if the world is made of loss and
my heartache just a brick all sunset-red forever within
the orangey dusks of Eastern London urban suburb
industry-- and yet it couldn't be as loss implies an absence--
yet an absence might be matter in the vein of metaphysics
as metaphysicality.. all of it blaring sirens and quiet nights
alone in frothy evening heat, not enough aesthetic to this
new bedroom, lacking dresser-drawers desktop for god
-sakes you still live outta your suitcase ready to **** yourself
and bring your clothing with you like the pharaohs of Giza--
whoever left you stranded on this planet must've taken one
last glance on backwards to whisper rather sympathetically
'good luck' before the tryptamine caused him or her or 'it' to
fade back into the radiowave of the grave with life so condemned
to speech and distinction, you would never be lost in the fade...
what was there to 'say' anymore, except "hey everyone watch
my scars start to bleed *** they're scars we keep cutting on
sharp little ridges pretending they're gonna get better and
better and better again-- hey everyone pay attention to my
pain *** I'm not waving ******* I'm drowning.. I'm not
waving ******* I'm DROWNING"

drumhound Jan 2017

There's Always Tomorrow

It started
in the corner of the dining room.
His favorite leather shoes set aside
to repair on a more convenient day.
He would get to it –
eventually.
In the meantime, both umbrellas
that bang and bump
in the floorboard of his litterbox car
made their way
there
next to the shoes.

Higgin’s yard sale had treasures.
A 16 lb. gold-glitter bowling ball,
a new set of silverware
(new to him)
and a VHS of Rocky III
which he always wanted to see
but would never see
hidden deeply in a
hoard of lethargy.

He goes to the Dollar Store
for soap and brandless chocolate,
returning with discount storage
boxes to organize the
growing meant-to’s in the corner.
But for now
he put them…
"uhhhh, there next to the other stuff".
Spring is almost here anyway.

Here.
Was.
Gone
just before the Summer, Fall, Winter
and the next Spring…
and 15 Springs after that.

One day he woke
on the body-worn sofa
entombed
by stacks of the Hays Daily News.
His cold, unhygienic feet
reminded him of the shoes
he could no longer see
buried ‘neath
piles of misshapen intentions
and a dead cat
staining scattered old calendars
all crossed off with
“How did I get here?”

Thomas W Case Dec 2023

Kings and Queens Die, While I Train Kittens

I'm not surprised anymore by
the extraordinary.
When life bombards
me with trivialities, and
ordinary events,
something always happens to
jolt me from my lethargy.

"Bukowski **** on
the training pads!"
My brother yells, from
the dining room.
I'm living with my
brother, and
we have two
black kittens, Mojo and
Bukowski.
They bring me
hours of smiles.
I've never seen
eyes so full of
trust and adoration.

Bukowski has an
aversion to the litterbox.
We have tried everything.
When I put him in,
he jumps out like it's
a muddy pond.

His brother Mojo adores
the litter box.
Not only does he do
his business, he also
plays and sleeps there on
occasion.
We've started with
the training pads and
newspapers.
It's working.
Amidst all the destruction,
hate, and chaos in the
world, I'm eaten up by
the magic of the ordinary.

I talk to them as
they doze in the
afternoon sun.
"Thank you boys,
you got me going again,
Mojo, you broke the
dry spell."
They blink, and
Bukowski licks his
brother's head.

Check out my book, Seedy Town Blues on Amazon.

#bukowski #kittens #life #writing #joy

kfaye Jun 2017

Untitled

5 korean girls are the only onesstopped to help as the train pulls away

face like a litterbox.
in a shirt too big
smell of herbal insecticide hits like a ceiling fan collapsing on my
head.
it pushes through the soupy air
and just hangs there-
.the drunk man gets up
on his own, and slips his
shoes on

im ok he says to the water around his mouth.imok

.

its dancing around us as everyone rushes to beat eachother to the
bottom of the ramp.

the day is waiting to end

— The End —