Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Purcy Flaherty Dec 2018
Mining for nose goo;  digging in deep,
plucking, pinching, scraping the meat.

Busily forming sweet salty clumps.
squidging, rolling and flicking off lumps.

Piggies, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'm mining sweet nose goo;
right under your nose.

I'll hide behind a book, a hanky or a rag, slip my belongings in a nose bag.

Piggies, bogeys, snot and green crows,
I'll be mining sweet nose goo;
right under your nose.
posey, hanky, rag, Piggies, bogeys, snot, crows, nose, goo
Francie Lynch May 2017
Now that you're older
It's not about hair,
Consider the here and now;
There's no fooling with the passage of time,
Birthdays now greeted with whimpers and whines.
If you stay out til quarter to nine
You've missed your Red Rose pour.
Should we commit you,
Or simply omit you,
Man, you're sixty-four.
....................................................
­
We're getting older too,
But if the truth be told,
Never as old as you.

Now you can't frolic,
Or party til two,
You aches and pains own you.
Scan your body daily for foreign lumps,
By mid-afternoon you still haven't dumped.
Bladder in turmoil,
Kidneys are weak,
I could mention more:
All your joints creaking,
I think that's you leaking,
Man, you're sixty-four.
Always depend upon your diaper to conceal and not reveal
What you drank and ate.
We'll leave that with you.
And carry ID, Jake,
You'll forget you're you.

Make use of posties,
And Mary-Jo too,
What's old may now seem new;
Indicate precisely what you'll do and say,
Memory's surely slipping away.
You're still an alpha, thanks to ******,
Don't expect much more.
Should we just boot you,
Or simply just shoot you,
Man, you're sixty-four.


Seventy-four's at the door.
A thousand weeks til eighty-four.
At ninety-four get ten more....
In good health.
My brother is turning 64 next week.
Advent Feb 2018
Used cups of coffee
crumpled notes on top,
all scattered
all left untouched

Shoulders’re in pain,
lumps in my throat.
Sitting straight back,
head’s wandering
thoughts I can’t explain

The screaming, the jolting
the laughing, the crying
multitude of emotions
happening all at once
in different corners
of this orange box

and I keep waiting
for time to tick off
and find myself
floating on the driest desert
withering,
lost―
in actions and in words

a.t.
BJ Donovan Sep 2018
I'll stumble out the door and walk the dogs.
Drunk but willing we'll find our way home.
I compose poems as we stroll and they ****.
Poetry is a strange brew of church and bar.

Poetry is a contained madness where all
feeling is coagulated in lumps of
related thought and spat upon the page
in anger and love and despair.
Taylor Jun 2018
I've got everything you want and more
Got all these flavors you'd want to explore
I'm ready to fulfill your crave, ready to be adored
I wanna be the only taste when you walk out the door

Baby, don't I have everything you need?
From lemon drop to berries and cream
So why does it always feel like something's missing?
I'm silently begging for you to never leave

I love all the pretty words you say
I love it when you call me your babe
Every minute, every hour, so much time to waste
I swear I could be with you all day

Devour me up until I ache
I'm your sugar to your sour lemonade
Wanna stick to you till I go numb
As long as you don't spit me out like I'm chewing gum

I'm sitting here awaiting your arrival
You're right on time and it's so **** vital
'Cause I'm so elated when I'm made into a bubble
But then I'm deflated and I'm left there to crumble

Baby, don't I have everything you need?
From peppermint to peaches and cream
Why does it always seem like something's missing?
I'm begging you, darling, don't you ever leave

I love all the pretty words you say
I love it when you call me your babe
Every minute, every hour, so much time to waste
I swear I could be with you all day

Devour me up until I ache
I'm your sugar to your sour lemonade
Wanna stick to you till I go numb
As long as you don't spit me out like I'm chewing gum

Chewing gum, chewing gum
Don't spit me out like I'm old chewing gum
Feels like I'm being used, I'm left in lumps
But I'm so infatuated, look what you've done

'Cause I love all the pretty words you say
And I love it when you call me your babe
Every minute, every hour, all the time we'd waste
I swear I could be with you always

Devour me up until I ache
I'll never grow tired of your sour taste
Wanna stick to you till I go numb
As long as you don't spit me out like I'm chewing gum
♥️.
A poem with no form
Is like a cat without a home
A homosapien needs communication
Like a king requires a throne
A blatant infrastructure to remain fixated upon
Glued to a retirement package you've outgrown
Love fizzled away after several months
And now you are left with lumps of coal
Stuck in your throat like shadows in a hole
These drunken noodles are truly unruly
So we worship ancient poetry inscribed upon a bowl
ThePoetNextDoor Sep 2018
The happy days are here to stay
For no matter what you and I might say
They are like pebbles made from lumps of clay
Knead and press they were made each fateful day
Spread now on a beach come whatever may
There in my mind they will always remain
Time will come for them to be relived again
Then round and smooth they will feel like only yesterday
Michael Marchese Dec 2017
This dot Commy’s Nam when I see you’re all neutral
To futile lords still passin’ Acts of Removal
Pretentious performers as if upon stages
Of casting call characters caught up in cages
Like ****** who off-shore **** the poor on vacations
Still checkin’ their facts from the founders’ plantations
When bail-outs are ballots and bullets are mallets
Why not be a rabbit hole in Hefner’s palace?
And dare call it talent, a gift or a passion
Just model behavior for slaves to a fashion
Show running the breadlines when crimes are a dime
In the dozens of ***** Weinsteins on your minds

Instead of the felons when court is in Sessions
Instead of the under-oath treason confessions
In rapid succession they feed you the buzz
Until nobody cares what the debt ceiling was
When the roof has been raised for the privatize party
The right wants us dead and the left shows up tardy
I’m sorry “you people” are making me sick
Guess I’ll just pop a pill from the cabinet pick
Like has-been Michael Flynn’s and these Ex-Tillersons
Resource hogs cloggin’ bogs up with smogs of odd jobs
They’re the sleeziest Slytherins still seemin’ Jesus
Pro-life until *** aid is the fetus
Egregious excesses of who the **** needs this
Huge 2nd place trophy wife ivory tower
Big guns for a stickless diplomacy coward

Here’s my ******* tricklin’ down your faces
You blatantly ****** repeal and replacists
You war-profiteering, grand **** of old Racists and fakers, uranium cakers
Now stuffing the stockings of doomsday clock-makers
With melting North Pole lumps of coal-hearted cash
‘Till every last Christmas trees nothing but ash
As the fascist machine builds its pyramid scheme
On the dreams of the themes of your Disney World screen
But the credits will roll as the talking heads stroll in
The shoe bombs of Terrorist’s livelihoods stolen
But I leave ‘em spinnin’ like Christopher Nolan
Holly M Feb 2018
the tune had been haunting
london for weeks past,
but when the lights went out,
they went out fast.

none of us thought
those days would end.
the music would always be there
anytime we needed a friend.

the sweetness of the soprano;
sprinkled over a sultry saxophone;
the steady heartbeat of an upright bass;
titillating trumpets tooting a tune.

the raven-haired lady: the envy of the room;
the men could only dream
of being so lucky.
the ladies could only scream,
hoping to catch the tall dark stranger's eye.
at the end of the night,
we all sang a whiskey lullaby.

but the wind blew cold-
it made us shiver.
the band packed up their magic.
the soprano ran off with the tall dark stranger.
all alone and without home,
the raven-haired lady blew her mind out,
nowhere left to roam.

nights became weeks and weeks became months.
our throats were perpetually plugged with lumps.
it's hard to say how meaningful it can be-
the touch something can have,
no matter how seemingly arbitrary-
until it is gone with the wind.
ollie Oct 2018
They call it dysphoria
When I was ten it started
I cut my hair because we were going on a summer trip and didn’t want me to get too hot
A pixie cut
I was only allowed to get it after I stopped referring to the hair as “boy short”
I let it get messy
The tousled, boyish look felt right on me for reasons I couldn’t explain
They called me “he”
“Him”
“Sir”
“Will your son want an adult menu?”
I was ten or eleven
At a fair we went to every year
I don’t remember what the man said
But I do remember he referred to me as my mother’s son
And she did not correct him
She ruffled my messy enough hair
And said “my little boy”
I should have known something was wrong when my chest inflated
When I felt happier than I had in weeks
And all I had wanted was for her to say it again
Because I did not know that I wanted so badly to be my mother’s son and not her daughter
I wanted to **** myself when I was twelve years old and she made me grow my hair out
It went to my shoulders
And it felt so wrong
It wasn’t me inside my skin
I cut it when I was thirteen
To my ears
Then shaved half my head
Then shaved most of it and cut off most of the top
Begged to shave my whole head
Because the less hair there was the more likely they’d call me what I saw
“Ollie” someone suggested one day
And new air
All over
“Ollie” they called me
As if it took no effort
As if it meant nothing
How could it ever mean nothing when it finally felt like someone was saying my name
“Oliver” they started to say when I was too energetic
“Oliver” they said when they had a serious question
Like they knew
Like they didn’t care who I was
And it was me
So me I wanted to cry
So unnatural I wanted to break off the tops of mountains and bury my embarrassment in the rocks
Some days it’s my jaw
I know that’s odd
But when you want so badly to be someone you tend to study their features
My jaw is pushed back an inch farther than it needs to be for a girl
Sometimes when I push it forward my jawline sharpens
It feels more masculine
More square
Some days it’s my height
They tease me for it
My 5’0
‘Cause you can’t find anyone shorter than me anymore
And I know just nine more inches would be average if I were who I wanted to be
My hands
And how my wrists fit in everyone else’s
Because they’re too skinny
Sometimes it’s my voice
And though I know it’s lower than most boys even
It’s wrong
It speaks like a woman wants it to
My hips
Too wide
My shoulders
Too narrow
My hair, somedays too flat
My chest
My chest
I want it to be flat
Like my hair
Somedays
I press my hands down in an attempt to push it off of my body
Because it does not belong there
These two lumps I’ll never use
I subconsciously started wearing baggier shirts
Not because they were more comfortable
Partly because they didn’t carry clothing in my size
Partly because if it were baggy enough, no one could tell I had *******
I want so desperately for them to be gone from my body
Because until you know what it feels like to only be able to love yourself when you’re looking up you can’t understand
But the worst part
Is the name
They call me a name that makes me flinch when I hear it
I want to cry sometimes
Because it’s wrong
It’s not me
Boys don’t cry, they say
But do you want to know a secret
We are the boys who flatten our chests and cut our hair
Who run along the train tracks in the hopes our legs will build the muscle the average man has
We are the boys who want to be strong and do not know how
We paint our faces in the colors they do not respect and let our tears streak through
We are the boys who cry
Boys will be boys
Even if they have to pay thousands of dollars
And fight for the right to call themselves such a thing
Boys will be boys while we have the chance
We did not when we were younger
S Bharat Apr 14
The Gust

I shatter the lull and drift
The dry leaves and dust
Even inside the threshold
Because I am the Gust

Today I have brought
Cool wind of the sky dull
Sky has sent the message
Of the Rain's arrival

The sizzling Day living
In May has been told
But his Night is remained
Completely untold

Black clouds rule over Sky
I convey you renegade all
You will be responsible for
This upcoming rainfalls

Lightning threatens Soil
War has begun with Sound
Birds shall take shelter and
Cry with yelping hound

I carry the smell of lumps
Yet, it is pleasing to some
And they are unaware
Of what is about to come

S. Bharat
Yenson Aug 28
And so it took the peasants from the town of Muppetsomia
them air-heads, fools, buffoons, dopes, manics and lumps
two scores and a ten years to grasp the concept of subtlety
but alas too late, as all they do is always so lame and *******

Please pardon them for all they know are fellow Muppettians
in trailer trash community where idiocy is inherent in everyone
and by Jove, they do get riled and agitated when they see strangers
for they can never understand that others do not think like them

The Muppettians shout scream all day saying ******* they only know
they say they are planting seeds to grow in Muppettians minds
because they were brought up on dud seeds planted from birth
and the idea of anybody having a mind of their own is meaningless

And so it took the peasants from the town of Muppetsomia
them air-heads, fools, buffoons, dopes, manics and lumps
two scores and a ten years to grasp the concept of subtlety
but alas too late, as all they do is always so lame and *******
Next page