"mops" poems
To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
***** spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
I wash myself off,
a mop head.
Used and ***** but with a lot accomplished.
Sometimes I'd like to just
-pop!-
***** it off.
My head, I mean.
Get a fresh one.
(Get some-) Don't even go there.
If cleanliness is next to godliness then the devil
must be a janitor that doesn't
switch the water out
between
rooms and just spreads the dirt around.
Floors and mops get ***** that way.
Is god water then?
Or maybe the cleaners.
Destroying dirt despite the devil's
intentions.
Cleaning souls like toilets.
I'd like to think that god is a woman
who's cleaned toilets for
twenty years.
That's perspective.
That he's worn out his jeans
replacing rusting pipes.
Maybe god is the feeling of being off your feet
after a long day.
I don't know if I believe in god.
But I know I've met a mop head
or two.
All just a little *****
Not one brand new.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Two old sailors stared across the knots of dryish land
One could not even see a single grain of sand,
They thought it odd the problem was so very hard to solve.
Do you suppose one sailor said, “that mops had been involved”.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
This is a Mindalithian
Mindalithians live in marvelous mansions
with mischievous children in Minnesota
Midalithians eat mounds of mac-n-cheese,
meaty meatballs, and magicians
Mindalithians like metallic mushroom
and mega marshmallows
Mindalithians make magnificent magic, meditates mellowly
and marches with mops
this Mindalithian taught me magical meditations
and made me march as a mop
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
Jocks
While lovely Eileen entertained us all,
with her wonderful words of lace and satin,
it made me want to answer the call,
make guys proud, like General Patton
the guys wear jocks to cloister their tools,
the perfect size so hard to find,
need to protect those precious jewels,
from errant kicks and grabs from behind
most are just elastic and cotton,
some are furry you get from **** shops,
absorb the sweat they smell quite rotten,
pick up with 1 finger or handles of mops
the backs are weird like gives you ******
when grabbed by the band and yanked real hard,
guys in gym like to snap like frozen veggie,
then try to get you on their dance card
cause now you can sing those real high notes,
your face quite large like you have the mumps,
squeal like girlie man being attacked by goats,
don't bend over you expose those rumps
but it is important to protect your package,
keep is safe for your favorite gal,
not real good to have swollen sackage,
not even if choice is a guy named Hal
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC
Mops, thistle, bells and whistles; make this, poet.
With circus flair, out of fur and shabby things... _make this._
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
i don’t think my mother
ever brushed my hair.
and if she did,
i can’t remember it.
i could lie and say
that i wonder why,
but i know why.
it was because
she was busy with
my sister’s brand-new curls,
busy tending to her own
dark roots and dry ends.
when i am a mother,
i will balance my sons
and daughters on my lap
and one by one
comb through
their soft mops
with patient hands.
they will never wonder
why i left them
to sort out
the knots
on their own.
they will know
i am there
to help untangle
the predestined messes
caused by the wind,
and caused by me.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC
Life’s just a riddle that none of us can answer
we’ve got some leads, we’ve got some clues.
Still the answer eats alive like a cancer,
and the treatment is something I’m like to refuse.
It was raining
as always in September.
They were complaining
about what; I don’t remember.
Reputation staining,
or maybe full dismember.
In need of some training
or my tempers need to be tempered.
It’s true you can never go back home,
being on your own doesn’t need to mean being alone.
You can gift the people silver, gold and chrome
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.
Life’s just a puzzle that’s missing a piece;
you can try your hardest to fit in another,
or you can accept it and leave the picture incomplete,
and spend the rest of your time left to be frustrated and suffer.
It was a cold December,
some would say you could smell the ice.
I only seem to remember,
the nerve of those celebrating, bleedin’ Christ.
Start a fire but end up with embers
I think a spark or light would be nice.
So I go in search of vendors
but they’re charging far too high of a price.
The nightmare had a nightmare of its own
never learned to share even though it’s full grown.
You can gift people blankets and tapestries that you’ve sewn,
and they’ll still ask you how to skin a bone.
Life is like a flower
it blooms out until it drops.
Each day hour after hour,
until time’s ticking then stops.
For treasure I still scour
moving so fast my steps are hops,
and the floors filthy; needs a shower
but I think I’ve broken the brooms and mops.
It’s true you can never go back home,
the path is covered by weeds and stone,
and to each town and city you roam
there will be those who ask how to skin a bone.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
Their eyes were so bright,
The whites of it dancing
Like the moon in the night,
Alive, as they stood there,
Crouching.
The oppressive evening
Brought a cave of shadows,
Heavy footsteps leaning
Towards a hallway bare,
Or so deceiving.
They carried themselves
With a regal air,
Their sunburnt fingers—deft,
Clutching their scabbards,
And in them,
Mops.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
Cinders
Sisters
Masters
Slippers
Oh Dear Cinderella
Mice
Nice
Quite
Oh My Cinderella
Mother
Oh bother
Nice Cinderella
Sobs
Mops
Drops
Why Cry Cinderella
Now....
Fairy Godmother
Look there's a horse then another
Be Back Before Time Is Gone Cinderella,
Prance
Dance
Runaway Cinderella
Slipper?
Missed Her?
Oh Charming What Have You Done Mister
Does it fit her
No, sir
That one?
It's her.
There's Cinderella
So,
No More Tears
It's your wedding day
Everyone cheers
Bye My Princess Cinderella
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
She dreams a hard-working man;
one who comes home at night.
a man who grins cities
and smiles tall forests,
who mops sweat from a tanned face
with the frayed-but clean snows
of a thousand meadows.
She dreams a man, whose
rough-gentle hands
know wjust what to do
and he can do it too, just like that.
a man not too pretty, whose quick-eye
winks, a ******* jack of a guy,
too humble to be proud.
She dreams, in her silence,
of a man,
who can drive away a cloud
as though there's nothing to it
and without a word of brag,
but with her permission,
just do it.
wirtten by Daniel Williams
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
Throw away your brooms and your mops
and all the tops to your good old canned goodies
and in fact throw your little cans of goody foods
with soups and little fruities away down
your flight of stairs and flight of windows down
those shining new linoleum walls
no need to worry about garbage here in these streets
so clean so clean so mean, and lean
and here everyone cries their child cries
and their bottles whistle that empty milk whistle
red wine milk drink drunk drank drinker
old clean city blues I see your dirt musings
can’t hide from me this great dirt
more dirt here than dirt itself has to offer
all things candy coated sticky nightlife
sticky affluence all your feet
stick to the black tar candy sucker floor
and I see you’ve been rat-free for thirty years
no bugs no slugs no moss
only late night sad sauce
always empty and wanting more
no rats no cats no dogs here
only cowboy hats
and all those old boys move
on down South anyway
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
it's not that i didn't tell you to stay
it's that my face had been flattened
to a degree unrecognizable, unable to express emotion
eroded by too many acid raindrop-tears
and too many vicarious hits
of that ........ you covet more
than the newborn child ... years away in my stomach
we will not see light
you cannot make it fill the cavity between your selfish molars
and my cavernous ribcage
you can slash the curtains all you want, but the sun don't like you no more
and i barely love you
(even though it cannot dissipate more than it has)
and you won't admire me as a stolen sabertooth
all the crest whitening strips you fed to me
to protect me from the plaque building up
in my voice box
in my lexicon
are in the trash now, honey
i don't give a **** how yellow i'm getting
and if you really loved me
you'd not care either
but you have this need to place all theoretical constructs
on a ******* pedestal above you
like heaven
and happiness
and love
like they are unreachable for you because
you have short arms
and short legs
short ambition
short breath
and so you keep pushing various cleaning utensils toward me
brushes
mops
loufas
and i eat them
i swallow the bleach and plastic and mesh whole
like i've swallowed your feigned empathy
your lack of morality
and i'll regurgitate them for our (never to be) child
when .... is born
and i'll say "here, ............, look...look at all your father left you"
and i'll eat the placenta
and i'll purge it
and maybe by then
i'll have learned how to teach
our never to be had child
how to leave an addict
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
One way or another, the streets would be paved with gold.
It was a matter of time, sure. But more importantly,
it was a matter who the **** would help a town like this.
Shitsville, New Jersey: a faecal suburb.
Years of dead and still rotting potential
with an ugly face,
the eyes of a hawk and a sense
of remorse an executioner would be proud of.
The day I see a kid sleeping as sound as they should,
I'll drop to my knees, pull my resentful fist
out of God's *** and
kiss it for forgiveness.
But the streets are ****** now.
And the janitors have drugs and hookers,
not mops and brooms.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
I really don't like the idea of growing old.
Don't patronize me with the alternative.
You know squat about that.
There's the smell of bleach and ****
And the lingering odor of soiling
Up and down the corridor.
There's the swish of mops,
And night comes early.
You say you'll visit, but when? You're busy with life.
I won't be seen at gatherings,
Perhaps a visitation for old friends.
The world should spin counter-clockwise
Before expelling me in its daily gyration.
I want a giant to hold me again,
And tell me I'm a good boy for eating,
For crapping in the toilet.
Soon enough, but you don't dare say so aloud.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 1:00 PM UTC
Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state my present condition
Reveling misinterpreted guides
Keycards lock the door
With me inside the floor
Blood dripping on me now
Mops began to plow
Yellow taped neighbors disavow
Red clocks separate events.
News mikes electrify the tents.
Reporting flesh
Reprising death
Writhing pain
Cross cornered disposition
Weary eyes state the present condition
Never fooled by green grass
It will leave me.
It will pass.
Dec 17, 2009
Dec 17, 2009 at 7:16 AM UTC
Gas station, masked man
Save tolls for the gas can
Clean feet, ***** dozen
Remedies for the cousin
Sweat shops, floor mops
Save the blood for the dance floor
Bewitched, leg twitched
Good Aiming Rednecks
Saving gay couples from the ***
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Dandelions thrash to the opening chorus of rattle clank by the chain links
yellow heads bobbing
tussled mops of white ****** back defiantly into the wind
until they lean against one another
exhausted and bald
Foxtails sway
feathered limbs thrumming
raised in the air like they just don't care
drumming to the beat of highway traffic
never alone
but gathered together in tight clusters
wary of outside influence
Thistles nod to smoother tunes
the conservative hemming in the edges
seeming almost out of place
until they throw down with their true colors
sporting mohawks in ever shade of purple
The show ends with deep shades of night
falling like a curtain to quiet the floral concert
Until dawn when the show goes on
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 9:58 AM UTC
Love is deceiving: that it can put you into a chaotic hurricane of misfortune yet you will keep being so blindly lucky.
Love is manipulating: that sometimes it becomes an ultimate tool for a person to politically dominates you. It mops your own self-authority.
You'll eventually become controlled. You'll be owned, you'll be toyed, that the presence of yourself means nothing more than just a belonging brought along.
Love is voracious: that it always makes you so greedy for affection, and craving more than just attention.
As the things don't go straight forward with your wish, and you don't get what you hardly need, you'll be left suffocated. You'll gamble your very lack of happiness only to be evaporated.
Love is lonesome: that every night, it will let you so sleepless, envisioning to a constant uncertainty which frustrates you to the utmost.
There will always be a constant battle in your mind that will dig the hollow so deep beyond the control. You'll soon use to the clattering cries and more simultaneous tears evoked.
But the good thing, it will sharp your melancholic soul elegantly: so exquisite that you'll paint your feelings in a train full of letters.
You'll possess the ability to bewitch gibberish into an excruciating enchantment for the woeful lovers. Those are the one whose joy are scattered to a blow of ashes.
- April, 24 2018, 02:23 AM.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
I sat today i watched your way
Some so cold hurried away
A man asking for a pound
To buy his food or ride again
Men in smart clothes to work they dash
No time to sit or eat a snack
Ladies smiling others lurk
Little children looking up
Seeing adults mess it up
Beggars forraging for **** ends find what kind of life they walk behind
Street so full of every kind
Different spoken words so true
Arguments between a few
Lads in crowds having fun
Girls giggling while they run
A man stealing goods from shop
Running from the alarms no stops
People queing for the bus
Dropping paper cleaning mops
Police men walking taxi fares
People meeting others stares
Mindful people walking slow taking in the citys glow
Sad and lonely souls i see looking lost and cold not free
People of all nature here
One race called human kind
All together in my window
Free
Unaware of the picture i see
Old young short tall
Dark light strong small
A city full of people all
Full of love i see them all
Just a moment i sat today
Yet a life time of people i saw walk by
Amazing city now train i take
Back home to a lane a country gate
Total silence falls the night
From country to city a different life
I saw the poverty i saw the poetry
I saw the street painter
The flute being played
The rich the poor the lost the together
My day in the city
A moment to treasure
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
one drop to stop the shop
two drops to get back
three drops to rest on brick
four drops to move from stress
five drops to feel lucky
six drops for selfies
seven drops for flavor
eight drops to soak the mops
nine drops for massive clouds
ten drops for topping off
ten drops to block out the sun
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
Julie stuffed the cigarette
into her mouth
and hungrily inhaled
Benedict was late
and she standing
by Charing Cross station
was annoyed
the morning
had started bad
the nurse on the ward
questioned whether
she should be allowed out
after not taking
her medication
and who
was she meeting?
after such questioning
and the doctor saying
OK but to be back
by such and such
an hour
she felt like a child again
as if her parents
had been resurrected here
and not at home
traffic whirled by
noise
cars hooting
vans and lorries
passing by
people
O such people
Eliot was right
about death
undoing so many
she exhaled
watching the smoke
sit on the air
before being
whooshed off
by a passing car
last time Benedict said
he'd meet her
by the station
at such and such
a time
and here she was
but not he
she leaned
against the fence
last time they'd gone
to the cinema
but this time
she wanted
more time away
from such places
to be with him
not sit
and watched a film
but where was he?
she felt like a *****
standing there
smoking
one hand supporting
one elbow
one hand holding
the cigarette in such
a sluttish way
she did feel
such a ****
wearing the short skirt
and the red top
her hair drawn severely
into a bun
at the back
of her head
last time
in Trafalgar Square
she'd been almost
picked up twice
dressing as she had
telling them
to **** off
getting mad
even the nurse
on the ward
thinks she a ****
especially after
that quick ***
with Benedict
in that side room
she laughed
and inhaled
her spirits rising
with the sight of him
coming up the hill
from the underground
waving his hand madly
happy to see him
knowing the day
after all won't end
that badly
and the image
in her mind
of the ***
in the cupboard
amidst brooms
and buckets
and mops
in the dark
and the fumbling
and he walking fast
towards her
that bright expression
in his eyes
thinking that is how
worlds are born
while another dies.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Life has no night crew
with mops or those handy yellow signs,
nothing for the vicious viscous puddles
you have forming below your eyes.
So tread carefully on it's stairs,
and avoid suspicious railings,
because Life is slippery when wet.
It won't be before you had blown the water-main,
but the tumbling backwards after
that you will wish you could forget.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Beware of the Spider who crawls in your hair.
Better shave yourself bald 'till nothin is there.
Be scared of the Spider who creeps in your head.
He's there right beside you as you sleep in your bed.
He sneaks in your socks, he'll hop in your shoes.
He hides in the mops, and waits in the brooms.
So goodnight my friend, and sleep tight as you can.
You might just wake up with him in your hand.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 10:26 PM UTC
He’s gone off to war once more.
Polly has seen him leave from
an upstairs window. Master George
in his smart uniform getting into
the family car. He looked up at her
and took of his hat. No one else
looked thank God. Now she has
to sleep in the attic with Susie again
and not with George and his
warm loving ways and beautiful sex.
She stands by the window until
the car is out of sight. No more ***
for her tonight. Susie had the sulks
for the days she slept alone, the
cold sheets, the lone pillow, none
to hug and hold against the cold.
Polly walks from the window with
her mop and bucket and enters
the room where they’d lain the
night before and mops the floor.
She imagines he is still there in his
bed, the pillow embracing his dark
haired head, his eyes soaking her in,
drinking her up. She wants now to
imagine him putting his hands about
her waist, squeezing, kissing her neck,
the damp patches on her skin. War
mustn’t maim him or **** him, she
mutters, moving the mop, war must
not take him from me. The bedroom
window is open to the morning air.
She leaves the mop and sniffs the
pillow where he lies no more. Her
cheek lies where he lay; she can sense
his smell, sniff him into her head, wanting
him back and whole, not lying in No Man’s
Land wounded or dead. Dudman the butler
calls her name, along the passageway,
his footsteps treading, bellowing like a
cow in labour, she grabs the mop and
mops away, saves her thoughts of George
and love and *** for another day.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC