"lob" poems
The child alone a poet is:
Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,
And all’s poetry with him.
Rhyme and music flow in plenty
For the lad of one-and-twenty,
But Spring for him is no more now
Than daisies to a munching cow;
Just a cheery pleasant season,
Daisy buds to live at ease on.
He’s forgotten how he smiled
And shrieked at snowdrops when a child,
Or wept one evening secretly
For April’s glorious misery.
Wisdom made him old and wary
Banishing the Lords of Faery.
Wisdom made a breach and battered
Babylon to bits: she scattered
To the hedges and ditches
All our nursery gnomes and witches.
Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves,
Drag their treasures from the shelves.
Jack the Giant-killer’s gone,
Mother Goose and Oberon,
Bluebeard and King Solomon.
Robin, and Red Riding Hood
Take together to the wood,
And Sir Galahad lies hid
In a cave with Captain Kidd.
None of all the magic hosts,
None remain but a few ghosts
Of timorous heart, to linger on
Weeping for lost Babylon.
4.8k
Your intrusion
Is conducive
To my city burning down
So I defend from inside my castle
Civilian hordes
Wield swords
And I've gotta flail
In my chain mail
My city walls have been manned
So use your battering ram
And intrude on me
Muscle into my muscles
And burrow into my bones
By disarming my mob
While catapults lob
Incendiary boulders
That protect me from
Temporary shoulders
That have exploited my nation before
Mining the resources from it's core
Avoid all the blasts
So we can clash
In the arena of my mind
Where steel strikes time
And my defenses
Defend me from my life
So intrude on me
And shatter my protections
And shatter my conceptions
So intrude on me
And break my perceptions
But be careful
Intrusions have reflections
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
I can't get enough of you.
You're careful not to lob my heart.
Though you don't feel for me.
It hurts honestly.
I'm being eaten from the inside.
Flay my skin.
I do it out of rancor for myself.
But then you smile.
Adorn.
I've fallen.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:56 PM UTC
You know,
Maybe,
It’s just me but I guess I just find it
Funny
That people say it’s girls who have loose lips
When the boys at this table have mouths
Like open caves
With stalagmite teeth
Bats come flying out
I guess,
Maybe,
It’s just my magic trick,
The way I become invisible
When the boys
Sit down for dinner
And they open up their backpacks
And their gym bags
And pull out butcher knives
That shine like brand new quarters
In the cafeteria fluorescents
I’m not sure,
But maybe
The churning of my stomach
Is a sign
That there’s sharks
In these waters
I feel my wet socks in my wet shoes as I jiggle my knee
And watch the boys
With their knives
Start chopping up girls on the plastic top table
They cut slices off of Julia
and Megan
And Kara
and lob them across the table
to their friends
Just Like the men at
Pike Place Fish Market
Fling whole salmon
Into each other’s gloved hands
I saw them do it
When I went to Seattle once.
I feel water climbing up my legs.
I see a shark fin.
Did I blush red?
Maybe,
When the boy next to me catches
Katie’s legs
In his calloused hands
And laughs a laugh that sounds like
An out of tune violin
They’re all laughing now,
Like car horns and fire alarms
Laughing about
Katie’s legs
And Kara’s ***
And Megan’s hips
And Julia’s ****
It’s the ugliest orchestra I’ve ever heard
And perhaps,
Maybe,
I’m the only one who’s noticed,
But we’re not in the cafeteria anymore
We’re right there
In that room
In that bed
In that moment
With
JuliaMeganKaraKatie
And I don’t want to be there.
And I know,
For sure,
No maybes,
That If JuliaMeganKaraKatie knew
We were all here too
In her room
In her bed
In her
That she’d cry enough saltwater
To flood the whole earth
And wash it clean.
We leave the table
Bones on the floor
Shark boys clean their teeth with toothpicks
My clothes are soaked
All the way up to my neck.
-I never go in the ocean, I’ve seen the sharks when they frenzy.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
my four-year-old sister asks me where we live , and I tell her
that we live in a land where america is the punchline
to one of god’s jokes
that half of us are busy debating
the existence of ,
while the other half of us are holding
our bibles like they’re grenades that we can lob at
anyone who doesn’t agree with our opinions .
I tell her we’re still busy digging through the mine rocks
of our subconscious for some hope of gold ,
while on the other end of the world there are tribes of people
who are happy just to have charcoal to eat for dinner .
we live in a world ,
I tell her ,
where streets are filled
with the bodies of people who work harder trying to find
a place to live than the people with 5 million paychecks ,
and those bodies get stepped over like doorsteps just the same .
where “ soup kitchen " is a synonym for “ system failure ,"
where sometimes the pops of firecrackers and gunshots
are indistinguishable .
here in america ,
I say , we wear
those pops like bling rings on our index and middle fingers ,
and we flip the middle one at anyone who dares to suggest
that handling a gun like a solution is actually the thing
that creates the problem in the first place .
my four-year-old sister
wants to know about how come
we tighten our coats and purses closer to our bodies
whenever we pass someone of a different color on the street ,
and I tell her that in america ,
we only trust the people
who’ve got the same color of a mood ring as we do .
we live in a place , I tell her ,
where the system has failed
but then again ,
the system wasn’t very much
of a system in the first place.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
i wake
it is 8
i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!) 2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r u n n i n g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott". We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
DIRT CLOD WARS!
seek cover
They go behind a dumpster. us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
with a rock in it.
He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
(and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
(5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
(the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
( i am way out left
because i know . . .)
- suddenly -
she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as my hand grasps her shoulder.
e v e r y m o l e c u l e o f m y f l e s h
!ignites!
and i feel as a god)
The game is over. Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****
Suppertime and we are called home.
years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and the heady . . .
. . .dizzying
breathless . . .
. . . bliss
of
p
l
a
y. . .!
Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 5:56 AM UTC
Me-
“D” UP! “D” UP! put them hands up, hands up.
And I’m robbing folks on the pass if they slip up.
Don’t allow nobody to pass by you, move your feet.
Don’t go for every reach, just keep them in front of you my G.
They dealing with a team full of experts.
Juice & I will double-team, so squad be on high alert.
Make them work, cut off those passing lanes and
once they turn the ball over, we’ll be gone in an instant.
Juice-
Aye, look at these wanna be play makers.
Zay steal that, now pass that.
Cause I’m about to lob that to my boy Doug.
BOOM!!! I see you Doug with the 360 alley-oop dunk!
YOOO! Ball is thrown in, watch for the pass and skip!
Me-
No worries I got the ball my guy, don’t trip.
Here Juice! Run 54-hip.
Juice-
Aww snap! Time to ****
I’m about to put the boys in their feels!
Cross-over stepper, step-back decker.
I’m a G.O.A.T. getter, nobody does it better.
Weak mismatches and easy pass dishes.
Pick & role to the pocket, they can’t stop this.
Zay-
Man, we about to hurt these fools on the other end too.
About to get tortured as we break their hearts in shambles.
And when we rock them and stop them at the rim, it’s straight blocking.
Even if they try to shoot, BLOCKA, BLOCKA, BLOCKA!
Juice-
It is what it is fam, to bad they about to lose.
Zay-
At the end of the day, what the hell they gonna do?
Juice-
Now this is epic. We got them looking pathetic.
I said what I said, ain’t no room to be apologetic.
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 2:58 AM UTC
There’s a time in the heart
where all things go to rust
and to forget
is not the path
to forgiveness.
When one hand claps
the world falls down.
Little strings
old sheer tissues lob off and peel away
creating a raw clean mess
that can only be healed by a new love.
So for now
the heart only feels what it wants to feel
empty as a plastic cup.
Clear clouded calamity.
So far away is the future
murky as the waters that puff in the wind
away they go, singing out into eternity.
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
You take more than what you're due
Replacing joy with tears
Compelled to a destiny you thought was yours
Will you ever get it right?
He is a lonely, ****** soul
Delegating his passion from one to another
A back office Romeo
Roll it over and accept your penalties
Replace the tears with self-determination
Toss it all away
Cast it in the fire
Lob it in his face
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Tyrant vandal Belly buttons born from tongue toy hammer whack shameless pantomime gold-digger jezebel ***** archetype bad product off food witchy fingers green fluorescent pink yellow ray of backwards twist mother truckers flat wheel tyre engine fire engine whoop weep tear tears down ripped up feeling face straight up to ceiling baby crib our tired little limbs break against the tide I want to swim away from here place island Caribbean holiday at Christmas I don’t want to be here when I get back lead trail hike walk up the stairs followed my shadow tie me up to lamppost dead flowers bouquet take give taker giver relationship spit out the blues by Benny and The Jets riddle saxophonists up walls and silly laughter clown faces you are a good morning stream streamer party thrower down sink lob me up pipes plumber broken loo place to sit and ponder on my **** think too many faces cherub fat little smile me a river bend down here we build a fort like kids and you’re home for ***** sake safety traffic cone orange still scares me to death bobby pins left on windowsills I chuck the memory out back it makes me sick pummel the cheekbones down flat face two face baby feet get into bins bin trash bag split when I picked it up I’m covered in rotten courgetti hipster you’re a stinking mess I hate your stupid shoes walk in a straight line you drunken ******* skip home with me hop scotch decanter glass slips off side crash pop Rice Krispy cereal noise white noise rain playlist through the walls
I push through in pure stubbornness
I
leave us be
lots of love,
distance.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
Ah! An idea! Bouncing neurons bump
frontal lob to ear canal, rushing down
veins, pulsing through arm muscles and finger
bones until the tingle erupts for a pen.
Arms scramble, books over desks
shoved onto their sides, French homework flies around
Mozart concertos swirling up towards
ceiling fans and floating down, down, down ,down
until landing gently on, of course, a pen.
A pen- the holy instrument that will
transfer innermost thoughts and emotions
into beautiful prose and poetry.
Held by fingers, the pen is power- but
wait, the pen has no ink. (Gosh-darnit-all)
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Dust & Rain
Walking through fallow fields
I stop to breathe the sweet approaching rain.
Can I speak of freedom here
in open air? Now? When I can't look
my-self (or both or all my selves) in the eye and
ask: Why are you here? What are you?
Doubt thunders while I cast my eyes
toward shadowed skies. It warns “don’t
look today in the eye until
you’re worthy.” Though even the rain
sings acceptance my eyes only drown
watching the drinking dust.
I see mossy stones laid in that dust stretched
over property lines where neighbors
lob tired words across, where hunters
hounds no longer run, where stone shards
lie memorizing winter. I lift one stone
firmly by its top and see the ancient
marks etched in its face. I lift it (cold dead thing)
and cast it far from me.
“Maker come unmake me, please.”
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
the gurgle of your laugh
is mouthwash
in the bathroom sink
charging across beach
like zips on coats
yours is red
breath ragged
a tyre with a puncture
but keep revving anyway
feet crash as bells
**** as waves
cheeks like the Japanese flag
raspberry-ripple drink
this fizzy petrol
makes us buzz
our vehicles rumbling
full of three-dollop ice-cream
rattle of matches
in my back pocket
hear the scratch-ffttth
as I let one go
lob it towards the sea
grab your hand
swirl in a circle
so we become smoke
swarming from incense sticks
then we go back
the way we came
over our xylophone footprints
if they could chime they would
me and you now froth
spilling down the side of a pint
dialogue luminous
as a blue margarita
ankles chatter together
ladder on your tights
and we sail in bathtubs
to where we’ve never been
wearing sunglasses shaped
like briquette-black hearts
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Impulse buys and crap meat pies,
crispy snacks and cans
Fast food bags, discarded **** all chucked from sweaty hands
Into bushes, roadside drops or tossed from speeding cars
Consume and lob, “it’s not my prob”
junk stuffed from fist to gob
Foods that **** eat our streets, Mother nature’s ******
Disrespectful, scant regard, her beauty hid amidst
A correlation, may I address... littering to health
Or on a controversial note, worst areas lack in wealth
Discarded dreams, stretched at the seams
Life’s stitching’s come undone
Scratch paper hopers, ciggy smokers
Our streets are overrun
Deadly habits, toxic foods, mainly line our streets
Left for volunteers to pick, a never-ending feat
Healthy trash? Avocado smash?
Imagine streets adorn
Kale and spinach everywhere
We wade through piles of corn
“There’s ****** carrots are everywhere, why don’t they use the bin”
“That courgette’s dropped right next to it, why not just put it in?”
Coastal towns with plastic seas, wildlife getting sick
All tangled, trapped in Ghost nets like a phantom sailors’ trick
Above the ground to the depths below the litter never ends
Poor old Mother Earth, being driven round the bend
So how do we control this? Education is the answer?
Let’s all work to turn it round for Generation Alpha
The new emerging vibrant minds, absorbing like a sponge
The lessons passed on down to them, by loving Dads & Mums
A shift in thinking is afoot, I feel it in my bones
Let’s join as one community, it starts within our homes.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
Crow on the ground—
In his pecking lob sidle walk,
Struts with airs unlanding
On the sleeping lawns.
His black eyes are sideways,
Eyeing me as I watch—
What a rude intruder.
Is it me or is it he?
I make my coffee—
At a window into his world,
He waits, wades with indifference,
Goading the flighty songbirds.
The blackness moves—
With the dimming, trailing sun,
So many things left unknown,
Crown on the ground.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
the outside of the house
was looking rather dull
and over a color chart
I did ponder and mull
a shade of maroon
made for great appeal
so did a rich shade
of Kensington teal
with the color decided
for the paint job
into the local hardware store
I did nonchalantly lob
the chap behind the counter
asked if he could assist
I said of course you can
as I waved my wrist
we walked to the paint and putty
section of the store
where there were gallons of paint
sitting on the floor
we discussed the advantages
and disadvantages of exterior gloss
and I opted for a shade
known by the name of Rock Moss
the paint was placed in the trunk
of my Nissan four wheel drive
I then set out for home with a paint
which would bring my house alive
the overalls that were in the tool shed
I quickly hauled on
and I proceeded to paint
the exterior walls with great aplomb
there I was on ladder high
slapping the paint brush around
when all of a sudden
I landed face first on the ground
the house painting job
came to an abrupt finish
ye olde ladder and I parted company
after the skirmish
a painting contractor is finalizing
what I didn't quite complete
and by next Friday week
he'll have the outside of the house looking neat
it has been an adventure
improving the exterior of my home
yet I wouldn't have had the adventure
but for the ladder wanting to roam
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
I am nothing but a simple fool,
from under the stairs you walk down,
forgive my puritanical perceptions,
but my banality proceeds my sins.
May I be set upon by savage dogs,
that tear me limb from limb,
For am I a wretched creature,
with purpose of a simpleton?
Let me rest my head on this block,
lob it off without a second look,
yes I'm a failure and a low life ****
come on! call your insults it's just began.
Why not burn my body on a cross,
so deviant I deserve the humiliation,
for what is one man's opinion,
to the voice of a nation.
By Christos Andreas kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:16 PM UTC
Why are men so happy ****
Wandering round, just eating food,
Manhood dangling between their thighs,
Never shy, whatever their size,
Sitting causally eating lunch,
Lazy lob, it's all too much,
When they slide along my palest couch,
My heart is really in my mouth,
For confidence, ten out of ten,
Just don't bend over, no not again!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
Writing is, as most hobbies are, an art when taken seriously. Perfect practice makes perfect works. Don't just write a poem or a blurb...
Wrap the vines around the ankles, pull apart the pelvis until it cracks like a pistachio. Take the loosened intestines and wring them out quickly. Lob the liver high in the air and smack it away on its way back down. Creep up the exposed vertebrate as you fish through the guts and flesh. Watch as the skin looses color, and emotion fades with last breath. Itch your fingers through the fluids, crack apart the spine. Work to the nook of the back, where hands fit snugly in hugs before. Punch holes with your nails, and tickle the lungs from asunder with your teeth. Bite and claw through the chest like a bullet through a milk jug. Feel the blood run cold now, for you've been at this for a while. Push the shoulder bones out of place, since they need not be there anymore. Feel the bone grind and pop, smooth without resistance. Watch the arms flop lifelessly and inhumanly away from what was once a body. Creep up the esophagus like a bad acid, tearing and destroying. Reach the mouth, and cut the tongue. Lob it too with the liver. Break teeth, and crack cheekbones. Finally, wriggle into the skull, wrapping around the brain, and squeezing until it falls through your hands like raw beef from the fresh chopped cattle.
Don't just write. Be wretchedly beautiful.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
As Earth spun to unfold a kind
creating sounds it calls upon
to express a thought a feeling
a sensation it barely comprehends,
life at the remnants of the core
of what once was a unique land
named Pangea evolved,
to get acquainted with a notion
that would reign thereon.
It all happened in an area
of encounters where gothic Liufs
held dear by German Lieb
saw Lief the Dutch and Liaf the Frisian
fall for Liof the Saxon catching Lob
praising Liebe rejoicing in the arms
of Liubi. Until came Lufu the English
who desired and felt romantic
****** attraction it believed worthy
of a noun all to itself, and that is when
Luve came into the scene to be greater
than anything else, a word
no one would ever forget.
While behind the curtains
Albanian Lyp begged needing Lips
demanding for more.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 3:24 AM UTC
you:
humor used to disguise,
your vacuous lies,
a smile seemingly bright,
a knife stabbing my insides.
sarcasm used to disguise,
my wrung out insides,
chopped cropped lob,
cleansing me of your scorn.
me:
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC