"lugs" poems
Govan bar banter:
Awa' with ye fankle eejits
that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw
crabbit, drookit
moanin, drouthy
yer Havers-yins!
each unto their ane
an' aye bin.
Tell markers scoured
an' crowned with glee
"alas nae blessing naw
bolt of wisdom
will er'e to
strike thee -
tis poor soil
an' loads o toil
an' broken backs"
Ach awa with ye!
Fir me the skies
an' tracks o wilds
an' winds that curl yer lugs
Hielan mountains glory
summers toty story
an' bonny lassies dancing -
a gallus stoater!
that’s fir me.
Party racket
in Da’s laden jaiket
jangle change
fir a dram
an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame -
times hae changed a wee bit no?
Seldom ventured
tis seldom gained
an' aw the while
the wee bairns wail
Still, life is yin
what yin makes of that
which drives the world
that breaks yer back
Remember love!
ma banters free to give
an' thats all the mare important when
it costs so much tae live.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC
your love is like a candle
untroubled to handle
crafted with senses
your candlewick heaves
and chases untimely
blue and smooth
it trails divinely
melts under my touch
and dresses down
a molten savor
weak and steady
it lugs me flavor
uncharge the flame
in the cold throughout
that shapes me with form
then burns me out
scorching and
heavy; a vibrant tone
never here to stay
but it's where i go
when i'm alone
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Righteous monoxide filled the lugs of apartheid
Read the palm, explained what could be
Read the psalm for breathless trifling
Redefine
Recognize, please
Rewind
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
In the cold of my car I shivered,
as the engine ran,
I sat still hoping to
dispense with the chill,
but my will said, 'accept it you are a wimp and an old cold one at that"
I was wearing my hat and my coat with light gloves,
I loves to wear, they separate my fingers
from the cold,
knitted grey and bold,
they let me hold,
objects of metal like keys to hearts, objects of stone like me very own heart,
objects of desire, that I keep secret until something transpires
which warms better than fires,
on a dark and lonely night under the stars bright, wait was that my tire?
Oh where did I wonder off too,
as I was in thought, now lost,
my wit, not sharp as the nail in my tire, the cost,
on a dark night in November, as six speeding police cars swoop past me,
on an urgent mission to stop a crime, their sirens wail as I am a
counterintuitive pantomime against the noise that assails me while
I am changing
a tire but remain the same,
metal tire rod tool in my hand, stone cold heart beating, against my ribs,
as I labor in disbelief that where I live is across from where I stand,
and with all technology you have to get on your hands and knees to
change a tire, I sneeze, I am not sure which is worse,
my situation or these verse,
which decorate the night, not like stars,
as when spoken aloud every other word is profane,
while two homeless push there wares by me and laugh
with disdain.
For in these transactions they have more street cred than I,
and I would give them a bitcoin of my thoughts, but they
are two and I am one, alone and without a cell phone, and
this poem rolling around like lug nuts in a hubcap, as frost
creeps closer than the creeps who wish to reap of my misfortune.
Of which I now have some, that I can mix with theirs and then
I notice their bloodthirsty stares, so I begin to recite this poetry
and expound on the woe in me and send them packing covering their
ears with out attacking my hapless now three wheeled car.
When I was done I was nuttier than those lugs,
"good news" it was too cold for bugs,
and with good conscience you, from this, can unplug.
©DWE112013
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
I.
The door stands outlined in white:
in this dark night, a presence
weighs in from the corridor.
The fan holds a garbled reflection
of stray light on its illusory blade-disk.
I'm talking about parthenogenesis.
How can renewal be born, when
creativity loses her companion,
freedom?
This monotone life lugs on.
II.
The tree shrugs the question off
by her parting arms half-illumined
by the streetlamp.
The late bird of five calls flew away
to a far-off tree, couldn't be
bothered more.
I hear a voice
soft in the setting chill of the distant autumn:
choked eyes beaming in love.
I seek palingenesis.
Check all emails and ensure zero
unread. But
answer none, follow up
nothing.
Umpteenth time through the day.
III.
Autotomy all over again.
Habits
die like tails, to be grown
all over again.
This is an etiological myth.
An apocryphal story that
renews itself on the palimpsest of life.
I must cut my nails.
This tea has brewed too dark.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
I know an ice handler who wears a flannel shirt with
pearl buttons the size of a dollar,
And he lugs a hundred-pound hunk into a saloon ice-
box, helps himself to cold ham and rye bread,
Tells the bartender it's hotter than yesterday and will be
hotter yet to-morrow, by Jesus,
And is on his way with his head in the air and a hard
pair of fists.
He spends a dollar or so every Saturday night on a two
hundred pound woman who washes dishes in the
Hotel Morrison.
He remembers when the union was organized he broke
the noses of two scabs and loosened the nuts so the
wheels came off six different wagons one morning,
and he came around and watched the ice melt in the
street.
All he was sorry for was one of the scabs bit him on the
knuckles of the right hand so they bled when he
came around to the saloon to tell the boys about it.
1.3k
Ah, Yes We Are Commemorating, Our Fellow Fallen Students
We Are Remembering Those Who Fought
For Better Education, Those Who Fought
For Our Identities.
We Are Mourning.
South Africa We're Crying
For Those Students.
_
When The Language Afrikaans Along With English
Was Made Compulsory As a Medium Instruction In Black schools
in 1974.
16 June 1976, Our hero's Marched Peacefully
Demonstrating Government's Unfairness.
_
I Always Read My Book, I Come Towards Names,
Young People Who Were Brutally Killed For Fighting
For What They Wanted:
Their Identity
Fair Education
People Like Hector
Hector Pieterson.
_
We're Memorizing
All Our Fallen Fellow Students
Our True Hero's.
16 June Is, Not To Strip Naked And Get Drunk
Smoke **** And Burn Your Lugs
16 June To Remember
Those Students Who Died For Better Education.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
Water fills my lugs till the point where I don't
have space
like a field of lavender flowers
where I'll stay
forever
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
I
hold a thought and lose it like I have Alzheimer's
I see as different I like I have Parkinson's
Broken and sent to the trenches in and out of the face of it
Been made to ride kinds that were unkind to me
Seen friendly enemies and changing friends as if treatment has analogies
In the function of this gumption
I am found stumbling in a swing that relays me to all I can be and all I
really am
Showing me all things that are and abilities for all that I can
Been relying on society and its complex definitions ofwhat it takes to
be a man
Poetry shows an epicenter of the balance between male and female
Having nostalgic thoughts of a former fossil me that still remains
Swerving in the beat of my heart dispelling emotions that are hard to
contain
Stripped in wires for like of espionage, wrapped in coinstrains all I
can rely on is my restraint
Taken trips to Heart-so-raw and the cats scratch and wound like
Jaguar-Paw
Had a love once before and that was before the timeless heartbreaks
where I ended up shutting doors
... And the exes have hexed, coaxed the perplex complex of the poular
axe illium crest of thoughts mislead-ium chest __ Oh how raw, Earth's
crust of fix-fuss no less than confuse thus us so we don't trust, we are
waiting for our rests on the Cosmic tree tugs if not space lugs.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
She tiptoed through the city playing 'Hot Sticks' on her snare drum
Her fire-engine-red bright-as-shit-mother-fucking-snare-drum
Midnight street lights jumped off the chrome tube lugs harder then her four sixteenth notes
Never had realized how good the acoustics were here on 47th
Not so much an echo
A reverb
The lights on behind every curtain
Children pressing oils stains into the windows leaving little ovals of fog from their nostrils
Old ladies in the middle of dialing 911
The telephone wire shoes tap dancing her rhythm on the sky
pop ta-pop-pap-op pop pop-pap-pap-pap-ta-pap-pat
Tip toeing
Like she was yelling the whole world the biggest secret she could think of just wanted to make sure she didn't wake her parents in the next room
I can't remember what she wore
A dress, I guess
Whatever
She kissed my cheek and bit my shoulder
Tip toed away
Blue high heels...hooker eye-shadow blue high heels
I yelled at her, "Why are you tip toeing, you've already woken the whole neighborhood?"
Without a thought
Without a pause
Without missing a beat she yelled back,
"If I am going to wake them all up anyway it ought to be with my song, not my step"
I sat down and heard the stem of a flower snap beneath me
The drumming was gone, all the lights were off
There were no footprints to follow
My shoulder dry
My cheek a tingle
I had woken them with my step
Had no song to put them back to sleep with that night
Tried to whisper a lullaby
Instead pulled the trumpet from my pocket
Blew 'Taps' the whole way home
A string of cop cars, and yelling ladies with their curlers in behind me
Stage lights and groupies
And from somewhere in the fog my desperate attempt to wake them all up became a duet to play them back to sleep.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
Inborn debauchery...sea-swilled communion received...
hung over and over in discipleship.
All's nigh, charged airy pour to date A.D., to tire of
personhood.
Finding the soul's panoramic view insufferable.
Forward motion lugs gluttony--lethargic with figuring.
Hunger's recitative plea has completed the mind's
mockup.
There's twitch and hallucination amongst common
ground--upon which, what was exchanged?
Do tell and do tell...told by the lot cast, as yet to
settle.
Billions cry to sleep--to rise the hardwon face...gaming.
Their sheets serpentine folds retain shadows as light
reinstates its presumption upon them.
Our emergence we day into draws back the flesh as
needle's eye through...we, with such nobility
Kingdoms branch in a single act.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
roses
blooming
thorns
scratching
the inside of my lugs
the petals
itching
softly
i can't breathe
but i don't want to
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC
I was born to love everyone but I loved so hard the insides of my lugs tore apart. Sometimes I love too deep. In a city too dark to love in, we overlook the mountain and hedges that have pricked the life of us with thorns, banished us in places that see silence through congested thoughts. We sing Like a humming birds. Singing in attempt to abolish the very existence of our stars and the stars we shared yet, we lay quilted in stardust and the silhouettes of our shadows. They burst into flames or kaleidoscopes, a beauty, complimented by the prophecy of life itself. Sometimes we hope to speak like our words have lost themselves in the coils of our tongues but we hope to live with strength not habituated in settings of frost and snow. Our worlds don't intertwine but our hopes do. We seek refuge in prayer during the midst of our foggy minds and the very cosmos of our thoughts. We recite the soft speech of the holy book to excuse us from the blackness of the universe. Our souls wonder naked from emotions and exposed to our own destinies created with incompatibility and dissection.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
I cannot see her being a troubadour
there's too much work to be done,
she only hangs around the fringes
lacking that inner feel,
once she sang the Worlds Requiem
but her interpretation lacked punch
had she the wherewithal needed?
Her jaded baggage indeterminate now
lugs her capered turn.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
I watch you burn between my fingers
and ive never seen anything more beautiful
because i know with every breath i am that much closer to my own death
The smoke in my lugs can bring me to peace
The enemy's i call friends can mourn at my resting place
I can see the woman i love, how i miss her beautiful face
she can tell me how stupid i am
i can tell her how much i missed her
the sadness is becoming too much
so i will smoke another, hoping to be that much closer
please bring me to happy land
i dont want to die at my own hands but if the smoke doesnt **** me then something must
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
Autumn.
Mother said,
as she often did
and as often as that Mother bid
we did.
Mum could spot a speck of dirt behind my ears in candlelight
what great sight my Mother had.
My dad said,
"wash behind tha' lugs lest spuds'll grow inside thee head",but
dad as fathers will kept quiet until he needed to
chip in with words,
and though those words were few
we knew
he loved us too.
Time spins
like that bottle game and yet time sometimes remains the same
but I'm glad that I can still recall memories in
that distant fall of my
youth.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
She is prone to bouts of hysteria.
She smokes on her front porch, eyes fixed on the drawling, dipping sun,
kicking at clumps of her wisterias.
She is getting hysterical. She is waiting for a miracle.
It finally arrives. She signs for it, waves off the deliveryman who offers to help bring it inside.
“Never mind,” she mutters to herself, to her future self, lugs it in, box and all, across the threshold,
old cigarette tossed forgotten by the road.
She unpacks it, checks for cracks, dusts it off, brushes down the Styrofoam packs.
“Hmm,” she hums, thumbs brushing across her forearms. Her fingers drum against the table.
Finally, she sets it on her mantle. She tilts her head left and right –
Maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the angle.
It’s the furniture, she decides. It doesn’t match, it clashes terribly. There’s really nothing she can do about it, there isn’t anything to be done.
She picks it up once again, looks it over, sighing deeply. She never keeps her receipts, never really returns anything, but with this – she’ll admit that she’s sincerely disappointed.
And she’s disjointed, she wants a Camel. She is certain the enamel of her two front teeth has started chipping, and then suddenly her miracle is slipping, tipping down out of her hands,
and there’s no way she can stop it
dropping down onto her tile, cracking out in violent pinwheels
smashing cleanly into a pile of useless shards on hard ceramic
and she can feel the teardrops starting; she doesn’t think that she can stand it –
because her miracle was precious;
because she thinks she would have kept it.
Mar 14, 2020
Mar 14, 2020 at 8:42 PM UTC
i have a new job it seems.
it's at a funeral parlor.
it's not the job of my dreams,
but it will do for a starter.
i write poetry to keep myself awake,
and i need the job quite badly,
so i can't afford, sadly, the same mistake
it was last month i lost my gig
for drinking on the job,
but the jury was probably rigged,
'cause it's not like i'm a slob
it's drinking that makes me happy.
it's not like i take hard drugs.
though it may appear quite sappy
i'm not like those other lugs
the job is pretty simple:
each hour i walk around.
i check the locks, i punch a clock;
i don't even walk the grounds.
is there really need for my job?
it's not like the dead will walk
or there's anything to rob
'cause there's nothing here in stock.
the lights just flickered right now.
a thunder storm is approaching,
but there's not a cloud, i avow,
so is subject worth broaching?
today is tuesday; i return
from making my rounds and found
something strange. there were lights burning
when there's no one else around
it's later; lights were on again.
i'm starting to think i'm crazy,
'cause the doors are locked, but then
i know i can be quite lazy
later, there's casket in that room,
which was not in there before.
i do not want to portend gloom,
so i quickly closed the door
but i find that sight quite haunting
and i am more than a bit scared.
what is that lone casket wanting?
are my faculties impaired?
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC
I went crazy
I did feral little dances
I acted in ways most betraying
of my previous social stance
but there were others
a multitude
it was the fault of the moon
we are weak and...
Mr. Moon
The Whey-faced Satellite has drawn deck
of our cowered population
on this full beaming night
this Friday
the anaemic loon quaker
is a menace
it lugs hard on the minds most creative
it moulds imagination and felonious thought
where previous their dwelled only a shopping list
it skims hostile cream from the fragile
and kissed wetter still
the most eager berserker
a dance of madness tups open the houses
pucks at our activities
plucks strings that fire our kinetic clatter
and scuppers any will to resist
Human species take the streets in corrosive numbers
A Party like this
shall make a dent
A Party like this
shall be a fist in Our Story
Hosted by the Moon
here I am
in the mix
prancing like some zany goof
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 8:56 PM UTC
“I have barely left you as you submerge in my mind,
As I struggle with soothed echoes in my head,
Sea swells lurch over rocky shoreline drops of azure,
Brightness bursts and lugs the pedals of the foam,
Oh deciduous radiance breaking in the froth,
Trembling sail whose effloresce demise retort,
Becoming desultory fragmented brine of the Sea,
Foreordain jaundiced precludes merging of the mind,
My love we have found each other thirsting afore,
As a butterfly ***** nectar from flowers blooming,
She so feeds the nectar from my soul now drunken,
Here enthralled we lope in the brine fused as one,
Knowing the deep nature of water and cosmos,
Conjoined like a substance of the deep blue,
Mangled by our overwhelming of fervor desires,
Absorbed in perpetual sand we bear our souls,
Of our unflinching benignancy”
By A. Guzaldo 07/27/2018 ©
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
His silence is louder
Than his words
His eyes brighter than the sun
Love in his heart shine
Through his eyes
Radiating my heart & soul
Making it bright
In solitary he remains
Hiding pain in his veins
Strength he regains
Pillar like arms he lugs
Tenaciously he hugs
Like the mountain forehead
He carries, shinning his pride
Always ,I want to be by his side
He is the survivor
In the battle of life
Steady ,bravely He marches Facing Endless strife
He wears the weapon of courages
Blossoming ,blooming
He always flourishes
“He is the embodiment Of bravery “
©️Sobbingsoul
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
you poured gasoline
inside of my lugs
you struck the match
and watched as the inferno begun
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
Far away upon darken the land
cries of an unknown making way
calling out for a medicine woman
to take way pains calling out names
but all they get is the rain,
Cold darkness whirls slowly
setting the fog of shame
Days are nights
and the nights are days
but the pains never fades away,
Oh medicine woman will you
find a way to take away all this pain?
she looks deep into the eyes that weep
she cast her spells and gave them hell
the lost people feel down at her feet
crying out in need,
But the old medicine women
acts so mean to all how could see
drink and drop down to the old ***
she put her medicine into it
she put birds feet and eyes
the tongue of lies
frogs and bugs and lugs
and she put a little black box of rose dust,
And that is when they all began to fuss
they started dancing around
like beaten up clowns
they didn't feel much pain until
the spell was over
The medicine woman started to cry out
water, water at your feet
silence is what you will be,
Silence is what she cast
no more words of pains
but the rain made its way another day
dreams that plagued the spirits
deeper into darkening dreams
Oh, medicine woman, you are no friend
you are at your end so hold your tongue
that is when Dark Angel stood up
out from the ashes of burnt rose dust,
Then the medicine woman
cast her spell saying to Dark Angel
you are dark and evil
that has fallen from ancient heavens
you had been cast to the sea
for your soul to bleed
so now remove your eyes off of me
and let me free while she speaks
Dark Angel has taken her down
into the cocking *** of spells
and given her hell
that ringed the old black bell.
- Judy Emery © 1980
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 1:01 AM UTC