"milks" poems
Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.
There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.
The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.
35.4k
i like it ickity split
mad to exceed the world
in dark dreams ******
to evoke blood wet mouths
insertions paradise of fluorescents
in a dark aperture
her pudenda
a rolling hill
gaudy wound like a smash mouth crying
split torn tearing, pink estuary
for gluttonies' joyride
that can hardly be endured
twisted tongue spice melts and glitters raw
the sheets soaked through
matted hair in saliva
blood and eggs
the screams of monsters rapture
oh feral abandon
every thing else a toil
winged genitals
hell toys for mama
like heaven cant know
his *****
like hanging bats
Nagasaki goes off in her ***
bodies; quake in silence
the bedroom; a chaotic bathroom
tulips shrill flutter
gulp and swallow milks flame
rosy welts laughing
flushing orgasm's
shoved urns
all spilled libations
touching and *******
crimson **** runnels
in bathhouse foam
down the drain
to earthen bowels din
where the dead push up daisies
i am the worm in the fruit
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
O,Thou lands lovely afar, across
Those blue oceans,gleaming deep
Odd shapes in my old atlas torn,
Gazed wistful at, dreamt longingly
Of honeyed milks and coffers rich.
Having now made you mine by mind,
Heart,Faith and an allegiance soulful
I kiss your Earth, breathe in the Air,
Tasting somehow the same as a yearning
For the motherland quit so long ago.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
he is the guy who plants the rice corn and wheat
so each one of us has something to eat
at break of day he tills the many acres of land
for his harvest of food there is a great demand
he is the guy who milks the cows twice a day
to make the butter and cream for afternoon tea trays
shop sell these goods to people everywhere
his milking shed produces such fine fair
he is the guy who grows peaches and marrows
collecting them on tractors and in wheel barrows
he is dedicated to the pursuit of growing staples
which grace our kitchen and dining room tables
he is the guy that rarely gets much recognition
hard work he does and in all weather conditions
the man on the land provides our mouths with a feed
his vocation serves a community of need
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
Peter 2:2
"Like new born babies, crave pure Spiritual Milk,
so that by it you grow up in your Salvation.
Now that you have tasted , know that the Lord is good."
Milk? Yes, I would love to know your Spiritual Milk, and love to share all the Spiritual Milk that I have grown to know of my own Salvation. Know thyself, and thy Milk. only seems fitting, before one goes thinking they wish to know anothers milk. Milk of any kind,that is. For I wish follow the Spiritual Milk before I know all the beautiful milks of any love I ever hope to share my life with. For life I intend to be sharing my all with only one person and with that one person my full and whole life, for life. What do you wish to do friends? and what Milk do you know of thyself? beloved in yourself, you are able and worth it. trust, you are, so act accordingly and raise that milk and tithe your ten percent to your ark
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Muffin milks the tiny teet
of a tête-à-tête torn
apart by warring factions.
slowly spitting the purple plum
dribbling, oozing
over the convex lips
which kissed and kissed.
Cream juices the cocky caucuses
of cordial cacophony.
Moist middlers meddle amidst
businesses of their own interest.
Power is power better bear than
bottom but everyone is ******
Lap the ego from the firehose,
the giant member of the state
spraying like a cat claiming "mine!"
Hellbound, hell no he'll save us
everything is going to ****
One man job to make us come
out of the 17th hole sand pit
of our pernicious premier club membership.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
On my way home from work
I passed by a *****
In a tent-sized, plain orange t-shirt.
It was forever-stained
With fossilised fluids;
A chest cavity of spilt milk,
And subsequent tears.
A double-take took me
To the green and brown keratin
That dragged relentlessly over concrete.
His sloth paws were protesting
Every step of grey existence,
In the colourful expanse of new morning;
They were clawing the ground
And submitting to gravity.
He looked right on through me,
Through everyone and everything
As if part of a hologram
That was no happier, but at least
Apart. I re-count his limbs to ensure
Whether he is even human anymore.
I surmise: only partially.
He milks his palms whenever possible
To heal the cracks of wind exposure
And old substance abuse.
This was no doorstep lounger;
He was a stray cat with no freedom,
And only washed his hair when it rained.
Then, as I later adjust my mask
In the foggy bathroom mirror,
Mind preoccupied with dissertations,
Affectations and payment schedules,
I realise that it is I who has lost my humanity.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”
She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg. Mm hmm.
Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.
She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.
She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.
But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 12:29 AM UTC
Loading the bowl and packing it tight
Take a rip off this chronic delight
Let your mind soar, weave and wander
Relax, hold it in just a bit longer
Let the spirit of the bud fill your lungs
Ghost it, ballpark, have a little fun
Feel your eyes droop low, streaked with red
When suddenly your stuck, you can't get out of bed
Your tummy starts to grumble, your mouth grows dry
You stumble towards the kitchen and eat an entire pie
You move towards cabinets laden with sweets
You eat the saltines, canned corn and canned beets
You devour all the candy, you inhale all the fruits
You head towards the fridge and receive some bad news
The milks gone sour, and there's nothing to drink
Your mouth is so dry and you can't even think
Water is flavorless and wine is too strong
Getting so desperate, take a swig off the ****
Ew, that's too gross, I'm sure you'll survive
But next time this happens, keep a soda near by
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 11:37 AM UTC
Slop ******* soup kitchen soak.
Sick sick sadness.
Embarrassment.
Anger.
Just go away.
Look at me, kids,
Don't look at the window
There's nothing there.
DON'T STARE!
I'm teaching you a valuable London lesson,
How to ignore invisible men,
However persistent.
He came inside,
Asked for a quid,
I bought him a burger,
Just to get rid.
Horrid.
Not him, me.
As he sat there, shaking, eating,
Drinking his coffee (eight sugars, seven milks)
Tears poured down his face.
And the children asked me why.
Mummy, why did that man cry
when you bought him a burger?
Did he want a different toy?
I learned a valuable life lesson.
One I won't forget.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
I saw the news in obituary black and
alabaster-chamber white. Women mulled about
in shining dresses, all pinwheel-galaxy black.
The men’s suits: darkness-between-
stalks-late-in-the-cornfield black
The pastor wore a Cosmopolitan’s-table-of-contents
white stock in the non-air-conditioned
church. His sermon dripped on the bereaved
like hardening wax. A portly woman wheezed
in the second row. A first-roadkill-of-summer
red paper fan swayed idly in her left hand.
The coffin creaked, 4am-grandpa‘s-coffee brown
the procession moved outside slowly. The moment
was like when two trains are idle and one begins
to drift forward. From inside the other,
it feels as if we are drifting backward.
Backward to days before with the namer in his study.
He has on his 1862-edition-Les-Misérables tan
blazer. His wrists crawl out the undersized sleeves.
Above his roof, the sky milks over
to 4th- grader’s-scratched-locker blue.
A wine glass full of just-waking-up-seeing-steam-
waft-from-under- the-bathroom-door white wine
rests on his particle board desk. I want a 70s B movie villain
to bust through the door yelling, "I’m not sorry" and shoot him
with a chipping-paint-bike-rack-next-to-the-library¬ grey revolver.
I want the namer to be speechless, knock over the wine glass
and die with grandma’s-new-couch red pooling on his blazer.
The truth is my grandma’s new couch is this ugly
brown-yellow color. I don’t really know how to describe it.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
I hate buying milk.
I always think about
where I’ll be when it reaches
its expiration date,
and how you still
won’t be there with me.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
I hate the tv, I hate The Doors, and I hate this ******* couch.
I don’t like soup, Ellen just ***** and my cat is a ****** slouch.
Both parties **** Steve Harvey’s an *** and *** is antifa?
My job’s pretty cool, the pay’s not bad, still *** is antifa?
The *** is good, see I’m not ******** but the milks gone ******* sour.
My dad lost his watch because it’s been ten years and he said he’d be back in an hour.
There’s too much ******* not enough ******* because now there’s too many people.
The reason being, these pious ***** take their orders from a guy in a steeple.
So yeah maybe I’m ******** tuna’s too pricey, and I ****** hate Country.
We get it, you’re drunk, your truck broke down, and your wife left you for Humphrey.
You know what it is? Why I’m this way. A cynical merciless *******
I’m too **** busy at work all day, when I could be getting plastered.
Ok fine. I’ll stop for now. And you’re all some lucky suckers.
Btw Johnny Cash blows. Take that you bunch of neckbearded *******
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 8:51 PM UTC
as he sat soft beside me.
“Sure,” I said, with ill feeling.
My instinct was not to cross my friend,
I had too few left.
I nodded to the Ape behind the bar and he obliged
with one lemon & ginger and one green tea.
He knows his regulars well
and we know we’d need to wait til later for anything stronger.
“Look,” he said, and I turned to see
a gap and I counted the two teeth that were missing -
no, not missing - he opened his hand
and there they were, both accounted for,
safe and secure in his grey leathery palm.
“Look,” he repeated, (a little slurred this time)
and turned his fist so I could see
the missing skin and the bruises
that gave testimony to his amateur status.
His ****** grin and wet laughter
shook the silverback back into action
and we got a plate of malted milks.
Like I say, he knows his regulars well
and he’d listened when I told him
where he could get a regular supply,
direct from Staffordshire, in the UK.
“Lo-ok,” he said (more hesitant this time)
and lifted his shirt a little to reveal the knife wound,
replete with knife, buried to the hilt.
“Loo-,“ he started to say, as he slid off the bar stool
taking his tea with him, the porcelain shattering on the stone floor.
I winced – the cups had been a gift
to the Ape from my mother.
‘Why should the chimps get all the best crockery?’ she’d explained.
“I’ll pay for the breakage,” I said
and the Ape nodded his furrowed brow
as he swung round to grab the dustpan and mop.
I drank my tea,
counting off the friends that remained.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
The milks gone bad
My drinks all flat
The lights now flicker
My favorite fruit‘s bitter
Every morning a pimple
My shirts always wrinkled
I’m sleeping less
My hairs a mess
If you were faking it
round of applause
for my favorite actor
So help me god
since you’ve been gone, Love.
my life’s a disaster.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 9:42 PM UTC
Eyes wide open,
mind tightly shut,
we play victims to the postman
slotting news and letters
where little light filters through,
only as he sees fit.
Grotesque, gross manufacturers
spewing out page after page after page
of page three scandals -
of rich brats waxing lyrical,
American hip-hop DUIs,
fat cats cat-fighting.
Media
breast-feeds her gullible men
and milks the misfortunes.
We are part of the orchestra -
synchronised puppets looking to our
Master
to tell us
how
to read the notes.
Outside
there are flimsy flyers
advertising freedom
that have morphed into paper-planes,
but are impenetrable of ignorant masses,
flitting around the heads of the blind -
like cartoon characters after
being beaten up by
fists.
It is injustice.
Peel the scales from your eyes
and open the flood-gates, let forth the criticism!
Ask why an American singer's ten minute jail sentence
is more important than an Afghan girl's sentencing to be gang-raped.
Ask who the ten percent of the South African population are that receive sixty percent of our gross national income and how to alter that socio-economic gap.
Ask what is to become of learners who pass with thirty percent and if that is even possible when books aren't being delivered to schools.
Ask where one can find manifestos instead of accusations from each political party.
Do not let them dictate
your truths as
CAPITALISED LETTERS
with no urgency.
Do not let them confine
your insight to the ink on a page.
We are worth more than glossy sensationalism.
We are worthy of urgent honesty, transparency and enlightenment -
herein lies true freedom.
The liberation of the mind.
The uncoiling fist of a freedom fighter revealing the truth held within.
Amandla awethu.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
Please kiss me, I said
Craving her want, elusive desire
Just once please, regretful nots
Loan of certainty, interest included
My credit is flawless, trust needed
Your searching for reasons, to turn
To second guesses you're in-debted
Musing the records spent
Twice to never fool
But oranges, apples, a mess of nuts
Sifting the pages, money lost
Stolen, more to say
On this cool night, Sad moon
Half empty, pessimism learned,
From spilled milks past
I understood
Inky cloud, view clotted
For a moment we sat there
The most beautiful of voids
Reflections bowed, Memories,
Collapsed, kiss was given
In the absence, ambiguous
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
.
*he lays
perfectly still,
with his back,
one with the ground.
his hand,
tracking the cadence
in his chest,
as he
milks poetry
out of the moon.*
.
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
My father shouting at me
loud enough to wake my dead grandfather, the
red air is frightening I try not to tremble,
it makes him worse,
he hits me with a strap - but his anger soon passes
Tonight the moon seems old,
if it cries it can cry for me because
my sadness is deeper than tears and
the old man I will one day be will remember this.
--
My mother, happy in her freedom swims naked in the bathroom
Swims an olympic record from the tap end
to the end where we keep the shampoo.
Beneath the waves she can't hear the
crashing and shouting from the next room.
The bathroom light is turned out,
the moon fills the bath with its soft-milk.
--
Sad is my sister crying tears like wet feathers.
Crying for a pain she wants to, but can't feel. Her tears
are starved birds that never learn to fly.
--
My sister cries the guilt of an expert,
My mother tends herself with soft lotions,
My father, a helpless bystander to his own rage,
wears spectacles passed down by his father.
--
Tonight the moon is my quilt
Heart-beats are held and all is muffled
The rage is the sea
My skin milks the light now.
MChallis © 2014
www.martinchallis.com
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
That **** warm feeling with her
can take you by surprise,
her aura invigorates,
it's an immediate rush.
I imagine her
lying next to me,
lying in full naked-splendor,
her sensual eyes locked on mine
& a coy smile biting her lower lip.
With quickened breathing,
I shake with anticipation
just to kiss her delicate mouth.
I inhale her kisses & immediately
a stirring below speeds up our intimacies.
My mouth travels over her luscious body,
kissing & nibbling, tasting her skin,
inhaling her flowery fragrances
all the way own to nest my face
on top of her bouquet.
Her taste is primordial,
so raw & delicious.
I love to watch her reactions
as I delicately sift her swollen folds
with my wanton hard-tongue,
Her puffed peaks stand up straight
as she floods in waves.
My moving fingers
spread her beauty
to reveal her excitement,
juicy-love covers my face.
She demands the very best
& I deliver it to her.
Methodical & deep,
she keeps the rythym steady,
grinding herself against me
to take all of me.
And when we reach our crescendo,
she whispers my name
as she milks each spasm.
There is nothing on Earth,
no any words that exist
in any language,
to describe
these loving imaginations,
but at least I tried.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
CRESENT OF SINS
full and half empty bottles of beer;
scattered broken glasses,
deranges the cracked brown hued floor
music gales from an old c.d changer
inebriated guzzler mumbles in incoherent murmur
denuded nubile cavorts merrily
their sleek oiled frame shimmering in the fuzzy light
ghoulish **** silhouette walks in fluid and sinuous manner
fog like smoke chokes the room
marijuana and cigarette smoke amalgamates
swirling up merged into an eternal marriage
heels clad trollops clatters in the room
swaying their assets provocatively
boozers gapes intently with hazy eyes
raising their neck in unison
they ogle at the lure with entranced lust
two vague humanoid shapes lurks in a corner
moans escaping in raspy staccato
musk,booze,drugs defines this room
besotted species lie on filthy squalid floor
vocalizing dirge melodies
lost in muddled blur
dancers prances up and down
crushing cans and glasses in spirited tempo
yelling their lungs out
as the music drown their voices and worries
deep in the gist of the city
irrational rants emanates from every angle
sundry light floods the clear night
as merry goers sip cheap and expensive liquor
sloven hookers milks cash from patrons
the night conceal this cresent of sins
everyone is on a business
the party continues
the music get more stentorian
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
[{chronicles of the dumb speaker}]
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
you liked your coffee black
no sugars, no milks
just black
it’s sickening, you once said
bitter’s the only way to go
i didn't quite understand it then
but i think i do now;
i guess too much sugar
isn’t good for anyone;
much less a boy
already made of molasses.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
Memories of pain, you're screaming again, you're going insane.
Dark thoughts are sometimes called nightmares when your eyes are closed.
and eventually your eyes open and you remember memories
and you call them thoughts but they swarm and sting like a cloud of wasps
and you remember their eyes and you remember to forget before your eyes refuse to close again.
No sleep means dark thoughts become elaborate plots for white sheep
and bread trails become dead tales as you climb off the cross while muttering "me, me, me!"
So you shake the glass from your entrails
and lick the blood from your hang nails
and suddenly nothing ******* rhymes and you realize you don't care
and the little booklet that tells you how to play the game gets wet
and you can't even read it.
and finally you have nothing.
and nothing makes sense.
And now you can sleep, but the dark creeps close and fills your nose, breaks your bones, and milks your moans.
Memories of pain, you're screaming again, you're going insane.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC
Though man seeds no milk
she feeds upon my breast,
gluttony sustaining upon my
being and I am irrigated.
She is subtle on her needs
gently massaging me into
subjugation and I wilfully
rest upon her jagged shoulders.
I am a depleted image that is
fading with the contemplation
that I am but a vessel of her heeding
and soon I will be a husk of silence.
But in tainted milks there is thoughts
of freedom, that stigmata on her
yearnings and sour aromas now tainting
her hold over my essence now screaming.
I was her substance, now I am desecrated
shell of near nothingness. But I'm wilful
of her disposition and she is fading upon
the lilies of waters that drown her needing.
She is drowning in ill thoughts wanting to
devour my being, but I am a new blossom
and she is that which has fallen a leaf of
decayed time and I am now a free flower.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC