"lumpy" poems
Call a doctor/ plumber/ priest*
My heart is broken/ leaking/ deceased*
My life is worthless/ so much better/ over*
I'm going to kill myself/ tell your wife/ Dover*
How could you leave me/ not know/ lie?*
I hope you return my stuff/ come back/ die*
I'll never forget you/ forgive you/ go away*
I need closure/ a DNA test/ to tell you I'm gay*
Your face/ crotch/ top of your back*
Is so beautiful/ lumpy/ unusually slack*
Your ex/ mother/ best friend from school*
Always made me great coffee/ feel inadequate/ drool*
I will miss you/ **** you/ stalk you forever*
That way we can be friends/ get away with it/ be together*
I'm sorry you did this/ I did this /we failed*
I promise to pay you/ dye it back/ get you bailed
Please don't leave me/ show the Polaroids/ write or call*
(*delete as appropriate, just delete it all.....)
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 8:13 AM UTC
Went to my magwinya lady today,
she's contained at the canteens on north campus,
As she rose up her left eye was bluish ****** grey,
A lump in my throat formed not as big as the one on her face,
my eyes secreted their salty solution,
my mind quickly processed confusion,
"M-m-m-m-may i-i-i p-p-lease have five magwinyas"
She smirked at my muttered utterance as she began to fill the thin transparent plastic with the oily flour-filled *****
I reluctantly asked "What happened to your eye?"
She responded in Xhosa reasonably assuming my common cocoa coating meant our tongues matched until I told her otherwise.
Eventually she simply said, "Fight".
I said, "you got in to a fight?"
She said "Mmm".
I went over to my banana lady and said the magwinya lady has a black eye and she casually claimed, "Her boyfriend beat her yesterday."
Confirming what my teary eyes and lumpy throat knew to be true when I saw my sweet magwinya lady with a swollen eye ****** grey and blue.
Frustrated at the nothing I could do.
Powerlessly pirched on a brown bench as the black sparrows chirped pleading for a piece of my last magwinya,
Should I tell her to escape?
Is that even my place?
How many black eyes are blotched on this bruised land i, a fearful foreigner, trace?
I'll bury my brain in my book,
somewhat cowardly crook,
I'll see what i saw but take no second look,
like a camel's head in the sand,
I'll timidly tell myself these things are just too hard to understand.
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 6:43 AM UTC
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares. Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
it's cold and dark and calm outside
so you make sure that i'm tucked up tight
but i need fresh air so the window is open ajar
whilst there in the corner lays a battered guitar
i'm high as hell so you carried me home
and wrapped me up into a bed of your own
you throw a lumpy mattress by the guitar on your floor
and apologise in advance for the fact that you snore
because i can't even remember my name
may give the green light to most, to see me as 'fair game'
my hair is a mess and my clothes are askew
but that doesn't seem to matter to you
i'm taken aback as you toss me a shirt
you try to stifle your laugh but i catch you smirk
as i try to escape from the clutch of my dress
i hear a laugh which you fail to suppress
i wrestle your shirt with my limbs in a tangle
you yank it over my head, for which i am thankful
i wriggle free from the blanket and sit up cross legged
as you fling yourself down at the foot of your bed
you tell me you've just got a text from my mother
who says she trusts me with you and no other
and that you are under very strict instructions
to keep me away from all teenage destruction
it's 1.30am and my thoughts are cotton wool
but our bottle of ***** is still three quarters full
my eyes spy the battered guitar in the room
and i beg you to play me my favourite tune
an undeniably slow start as you mess up the chords
and ramble on about how i'm probably bored
but my eyes fix on yours with an encouraging grin
and as you continue to play, goosebumps rise on my skin
and as you place the battered guitar back down
you sarcastically ask whether i'm happy now
the buzz of my body and the smile on my face
shows that here, happiness is truly the case
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Oh my little piece of poo,
How much that I do cherish you.
A texture like that of sticky clay.
With an aromatic, stiff bouquet.
I can roll you into little *****
And stick you to the bathroom walls.
I can shape you any way I want.
And get some more with a little grunt.
If I want you a little runny,
I use prunes to fill my tummy.
"Add some color." did you say?
I'll just eat corn and peanuts. Yay!
Want some green, some red, some blue?
A box of fruitloops, that'll do!
If I want you a little lumpy,
I'll eat raw carrots, their kinda chunky!
Playdough can't come out of my ****
And I can't make playdough with my gut.
Most people flush you far away.
But I recycle! With you I'll play!
So here's to you, my piece of poo.
Thank you so much for just being you!
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
Human Observations (the woman pees)
if you walk the world with pen and paper
or eclectic electronic devices,
sure as the sunrise espied,
the pen will quick leak
when wearing white
and so will too the
righteous words
righteously,
thereafter
when you can't sleep and you must
slam your sweaty fist into pillow
know that the pillow is
silent thinking, dude,
you really ain't
got a hope, a
prayer
fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say I
will do but only when
restless in my rustling
no-safety night sleep
in my lumpy bed,
where I’ve already
dream-drowned
a million
times
the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***
she does not, won't put on makeup
in her pj's to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps loverman,
so handy, nearby, shamelessly
firm, unwavering, good god,
great for one "disposable"
use per night
when you tell your child that you love them,
and they do not reply at all, it isn't that they
don't love ya back, 'tis only that they haven't
learned to love themselves
something well that just
cannot be
taught.
the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said, here,
take it
back
if you don't believe in Faeries and Elusives,
try, for then you have a middling chance
of getting the missing, disappearing
whole sock hiding
in her ******
back, intact
If must look up the time where your
love is currently hiding/residing,
then the probability is more than
1.000, that you no longer love
her enough, or
she, you,
not at
all
you know it is time to shut down,
hang up the pen and close the
iPad cover, surrender,
give up the poetry gig
4 real when you start
to prefer an
autocorrect
suggestion
~
More to follow.
someday.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Nina pranced about
the lush green grove.
The pitter patter of her footsteps
like raindrops on the ground,
and her movements,
like a fog rolled through a valley.
A white satin leotard
decorated with flowery lace patterns
A tutu that blossomed
from her slender waist.
Hair elegantly tied back into a bun.
Face, filled with symmetry, lightly made up with powder.
Her cheeks flushed with a pinkish red blush,
but natural like her lips of pomegranate red.
The grove,
short deep green ryegrass that rolls over the lumpy ground like moss.
Trees shade like many arms shielding many eyes.
The pure white light of the sun shone through the canopy in beams.
Nina danced furiously intent and
music box intricately
in and out of the beacons of light
as a ballerina should following a lifetime of training.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 12:44 PM UTC
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
i have one foot in the grave
the other in an abandoned bathtub
i light a cigarette and
stare into the void
buddy holly is rolling lumpy black cigarettes
over the sound of grown men crying
five bunnies crawl out of his eyeglasses and
maggots are anchored to his chin
you cannot disturb the gypsy bathing
in her own river of tears
you cannot break the silent wonder
i have one arm in a sling
the other in a windmill
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
O Golden Hair, My Friend
Kitty kitty
So fluffy
So witty
So unbearably pretty.
Stay away from
The city,
My kitty kitty
It'd be such a pity.
Hussanara
This is my mango.
There are many like it,
But this one is
Mine.
Without me,
My mango is useless.
Without my Mango,
I am useless...
My Sweet Wonderful Mary
Dark dim witty kitty
Trailed into New York City
With bad intents inevitably
Bad.
Through Earth and lake committing
All its great natural giving
Forced utter pain incoming,
Dad.
Lord (Religious readers please take no offense again the writer was not quite there)
God is a champ.
The bearded light upstairs.
He's cold and he's damp
Like fresh lumpy pears.
Won't one, if you dare,
Stick your hand in the air
To clamp
Like bears?
He's a scare of
Puny people
With long ginger hair.
Whose souls the cannot
Go in there,
The holiest of despair.
They all run through his stare
Of bulging eyes he got!
Anyone want to translate that one? I sure couldn't.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
Silly girl, don't cry alone.
Comfort is the soft murmur,
the gentle backrub,
and the cuddling
on a lumpy couch.
Silly girl, you cried alone
all those times
when you didn't have to.
Warm embrace, skin
pressed to yours,
holding you close,
the tears drip onto
covered shoulder
cold tiles a memory
Silly girl, fill yourself with happiness
after you let it all out,
instead of the chilly air
you **** up with desperation,
when you cry alone.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
Tonight I’ll go into the copse of firs
Where I last saw her, and love blossomed
I remember lust, a face plastered on hers
And the love that was then awesome.
But those woods are black and empty
So barren now and without life.
Rocks cut my shoes, once just lumpy.
There’s not a bird that chirps a fife.
The sun sets and frost nips my nose
I still remember the vibrant red rose.
The ice beneath, it chills my toes.
And the little brook, it’s now froze.
Without you, I just can’t exist
I still remember that last kiss.
Without you, I count the hours
And I watch the death of flowers.
Without you, My heart cries out
For sadness to be dispelled--
Without you, Life means nothing
And I ache with lack of loving.
Without you, There’s no catharsis
Why was I then so heartless?
Without you, There’s only blackness
No salvation from this sadness.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
Romeo, gosh, I'm sorry how things turned out,
and sorry I didn't die after all like you thought.
I'm old now, you wouldn't look twice at me
but I miss you still, even so, most definitely.
You could find me tonight across from a cornfield
working the St. Lucy's Fall Festival and how would you feel
about that, babe? I wear a lumpy old overcoat
and sell tickets to teenagers so in love they almost float.
I get feeling sentimental and sad about everything
remembering how you said you were the All-Powerful Weather King
and could make the sun come out if I wished it,
or kiss me and kiss me again if I told you I missed it.
My goodness, Romeo, you don't know how often I still think of you,
like when I saw some crestfallen kid with wild hair walking through
the festival like he had something on his mind
and he seemed lonesome, like you, and quiet and kind.
It's almost midnight and the lights are going dim
so I've got to pack up and go home alone again.
I wish so hard that things had turned out different
and I'd say, "Romeo, oh Romeo," and you'd know what I meant.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 5:29 PM UTC
DUMPY TRUMPY
Dumpy Trumpy
Sat on his ****
Lumpy Trumpy
Infamous ****
He is not a friend
To the left or the right
And has no live dog
In the political fight.
Dumpy Trumpy
Pats his own back
Bragging how he is
Way ahead of the pack
Of half-witted politicos
With nothing to offer.
He thinks he will win
On the strength of his coffer.
Dumpy Trumpy
Made a big jump.
His gold plated ****
Made a sickening thump.
He waved his money,
He figured it’s enough
To sway the competition
No matter how tough.
Dumpy Trumpy
His Mussolini face
Deaf to the meaning
Of public disgrace;
He figures that even
If the GOP rejects him
He has lots of money
He’s sure will protect him.
Dumpy Trumpy
Plays to the stands
Of wingnuts and crazies
In disgruntled bands.
He’s sure if he curses
The current regime
He can be President.
At least that’s his scheme.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
People of peace walk gently
People of strength never be stilled
Abundance awaits those with courage
RW Dennen-
Stay out of Iraq the spirits
pleaded...
Eyes wide opened, boots and shoes lined up in order
in almost perfect straight lines in Philadelphia July 2005
Symbolic death shoes of civilians out of synchronization
in a war of soldiers
Under a small tree meticulously placed
we're children's shoes in a perfect solid circle
I read o months of age on tags
I read 8 years old on tags
I read 12 years old on tags
And on and on the children's lists grew,
as wisdom must have waned
and common decency
was once cherished
These shoes and boots sadly became
the dimishment of human beings,
horizontal and vertical rectangular
snapshots of once smiling faces
all in the name of war, they vanished all too soon
And I saw running tears and tears being held back
and I felt lumpy throat feelings in unison
with the rest but in cemetery silence
Touching deep feelings so overwhelming
is to touch a false bent flower and flowers
and pictures of deceased soldiers and civilians
and letters once presented at doorways
throughout America
America cried its sadness and disbelief,
the vanished breathers of life giving air,
Our sons, our daughters,
Our mothers, our fathers,
Our sisters, our brothers,
Our relatives,
Our close friends,
All perished, like a vampire that ***** away the life blood of
the once innocent
I noticed mostly tourists coming in droves from Market Street
towards us volunteers who were located adjacent to the
visitor's center side entrance as silence like before still prevailed
And like before the atmosphere prevailed even stronger
as these boots and shoes became tombstones
And tender hearts became tombstones
broken into small pieces
Passions never changed into loud speech
And the green turf
rolled down towards the sidewalk
like a green carpet holding all those boots and shoes
like a quilt interwoven with boot and civilian
shoe memories about days that should never
happen again...
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
And so I become a fly on your wall
with my blood-stained ledger
the price of my self-loathing,
and curse of my curiosity.
Hear the truth
Trust your lumpy gut instinct
These suits are depressing
But I crave to know of the corruption.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
First, I spotted the gaggle sagging innocently enough,
One might say blissfully reflected in the laptop screen.
Then out of nowhere came the phrase, "whodunit?”
And from the hanging sag, a sly, silky, voice whispered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Clearly a few clues were left behind, wispy hair strands,
Scattered age spots, skin tags, a few moles, posed upon a
Pale listless, crinkly, lightly pimpled, surface, and from a
Wrinkly, shallow crevasse a voice teased,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
Totally hooked, curiosity piqued, southward I spied,
A once upon a time perky, treasure chest, half hidden,
Now two solemn, empty grain sacks laid east to west,
And close to death but not quite, lazily they muttered,
"Ahhh, don't stop before the good part."
The final chapter, an ancient, untold mystery solved,
No crime, no villain, nothing stolen, only flesh alchemy,
Where a plateau of supple, touchable, skin once resided,
A lumpy, bumpy, flabby flesh pillow lolled, and it murmured,
“Ahhh, Boston cream pie, a quick nap, that's the ticket."
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
sinking echoes lined upon
the purple skin of night
past a curtain of her dreams
strewn into lumpy skies
a wave of solemn emptiness
a taste of seeping prayer
be melt into a blue of dreams
and banished to despair
truly this core of twisted mind
karma in disguise
feeds upon my every pore
and trace the stony eyes
you linger on as traces still
vignette of phantom love
but into the shades of gray
chased upon by world
yet know my muse the arms of sea
were made to hold the sky
when brims of time fade to dust
my love shall survive
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
there’s a hole in your sheet
just large enough for my arm
to tuck away under the cotton
& above the swollen, wet mattress.
you smell of *** and confidence;
the lamplight glistens on your skin.
tracing the scars on your skin
until they’re white as a sheet,
i gently kiss each one, confident
that you will return them. armed
with love you leave the mattress,
our fortress of white billowy cotton.
as you reach for your cotton
boxers, i marvel at your skin.
left alone on the lumpy mattress,
i cover myself with the sheets,
exposing just my face and arms.
i love watching you walk; confidence
seeps out of your pores. confidence
i can touch under the cotton
when i’m wrapped inside your arms,
flesh to flesh skin to skin
together for hours under the sheets,
our own world on this mattress.
i feel secure on this mattress
knowing i can always confide in
you. rain’s coming down in sheets,
soaking the plants hidden by cotton.
you return with shiny drenched skin,
soaked roses bundled in your arms.
wiping my tears with my arm,
i leap up from the mattress,
the thorns have pierced your skin.
i pull them out with confidence
and lead you to the cotton
where we’ll play under the sheets.
on this mattress we’re both confident.
my arm tucks away beneath the cotton
skin to skin under the sheets.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 1:36 PM UTC
Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Decided to run for President
Even though, they neither had
An idea what that title meant.
So Lumpy Dump and Denso Pence
Both thought it would be lots of fun
Dump because of the money he'd make
And Pence for fame when they had won.
Lumpy Dump seemed to think
The title made him King of the Earth
Denso Pence hoped to show
Exactly what he was really worth.
Neither one of them realized
They'd have to follow all the rules
Which they were not a mind to do
Because they were both such fools.
Lumpy Dump strung words together
He didn't make all that much sense
But he felt he was doing just fine, as
He sounded brighter than Denso Pence.
Lumpy Dump thought he was slim
Not dumpy like a big old bag of fat.
Denso Pence thought he was bright.
That shows where these to were at.
Let's all hope this is all we hear
Of these two unfunny circus clowns
After Hillary kicks their *****
And runs them both out of town.
We have already had such bad times
And need good times to commence
Which will not happen unless we nix
Lumpy Dump and that idiot Denso Pence.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs
Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper
Somehow I sit on a bag...
of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement
Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas
Phone rings
“Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
It's the bill collector's recorded
“This is inexcusable!” message
Charities are legion
I say, “There is a line”
Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!
The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”
Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
gas bill
sewer bill
“Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?
Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
“Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail
On my belly twisting screws
“Son-of-a-bitchin tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
“Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow
It's 8:30 PM
The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter
At some point, I will take off my coat...
Right now--
I drink a beer while standing
To get a better view....
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
Excuse me if my edges are a bit jagged
If they cut and scrape you, I am sorry
I really didin't mean it, you know
You might think I'm an eyesore
Not worth all that much or very useful
But I fooled you, didn't I?
For I'm simply a chunk of coal,
Seemingly dark, rough and lumpy
But you know what happens to coal, don't you?
It takes a heck of a lot of pressure
And it sure takes quite a while
But in the end it is a diamond, clear as crystal
Its many facets shine up in illumination
A valuable, precious gem to behold
As many of us are refined to become
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn
we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby
you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress
my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber
you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday
i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz
let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow
let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back
i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep
perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer
be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me
just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape
take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash
come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
We spent months building
together but by the time
I realized it was your pantry shelf
I was already sitting on it
as a bag of sugar but
I gradually turned into salt
so you stopped wanting me
and I forgot I was living on your pantry shelf.
Until one day you cleaned out
your pantry shelf and I thought
I was lumpy old brown sugar
to be thrown out but months later
when you wanted to use me I realized
I never left your pantry shelf.
I was just baking soda in the back corner
and I’m still living there and don’t know
how to take myself off your pantry shelf
without your help so I guess
it’s my turn to use you.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
Pink fluffy apples
Green juicy flamingos (hiccup)
Black sour marmalade
(hiccup)
Orange lumpy liquorice
Purple tangy mushroom
White rich yoghurt
(hiccup)
(hiccup)
(hiccup)
What did you put in my drink?
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 10:09 AM UTC