"mouthpiece" poems
The idiocy,
Sheer insincerity
Of political apologies.
It WAS meant to offend.
You chose the words carefully.
A dog's-whistle in your mouthpiece.
Your career is your priority.
You are a glorified carnival barker,
With a reputation as an intellect,
But many do detect ******** in your overblown prose
(except those who are equally verbose).
Will your papa be disappointed
If you are never to be anointed?
Your education makes being PM a career choice,
So power for it's own sake should really be a piece of cake.
So how about it, Boris?
Will we hear more Horace?
How much do you want it?
Enough to blow your own Trumpette?
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
4.5k
In your very pure mouth ( god save it )
clanked metal mouthpiece
by cold water in a strange basement
or perhaps even less
Morning doves catapult
leukemia
Astro goth acid wars
White fire black ****** mania
Could we just kiss
right here this September
not have to wake up
or sleep ever again ?
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
*I still remember the day we first met.
It was so magical, I will never forget.
I was invited to see and try something new.
But never would I have imagined I would meet you.
One by one, we got to hold you and learn.
I remember I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn.
And when she finally placed you in my tiny hands.
I didn’t expect you would change my future plans.
I placed my lips on your cold silver mouthpiece.
I took a deep breath and your notes broke the peace.
I looked at her with impressed eyes and lips painted with glee.
She praised the others, but the one she was most impressed with, was me.
11 years we have been together, where did time go?
We already have so many memories, performing at every show.
And the time we played for the queen, do you remember as well?
I will hold you until my hands can no longer move themselves.
I can’t picture a life, a childhood without you by my side.
They said we were partners in crime, just like Bonnie and Clyde.
And whenever I was falling, you were my never failing parachute.
I love you to pieces, my old trusty flute.*
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
You know he’s full of stuff
When the evidence ain’t enough
And he’s acting like a cream puff
By not calling Putin’s bluff
If I labeled him a scaredy-cat
Or better yet Putin’s new doormat
Would that raise the thermostat,
And flush out that Norway rat?
When the evidence is irrefutable
To the point that it’s not disputable
His response is always mutable
And comes out as most unsuitable
Then his mouthpiece attempts to frame
An alibi, but we’re hip to her game
She can’t absolve him of the blame
Though she tries to just the same
So you better believe and trust
That she looks ridiculous
When she’s being duplicitous
By trying to fool the rest of us
It’s a sin to stand there and lie
But she gives it a college try
Like the mistress of deny
As if the Ten Commandment don’t apply
They interfered with our election
With a clear cut interjection
Of cybernet deflection
Without protest or objection
Two days before his inauguration
He was told of the Russian’s participation
Much to his own consternation
Yet he still voices reservations
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
"There were good people on both sides."
Donald Trump's father was a card-carrying Klansman
& Trump learned everything he knows about business
from Roy Cohen, a notoriously evil self-hating homosexual,
gangster, politician, mouthpiece for the Mafia
& aide-de-camp to the same Joseph McCarthy
who engineered the Red Scare & subsequent blacklisting
of Hollywood's best & most creative talent;
this is Donald Trump's history & education & legacy -
why is a man POTUS who lied, cheated & paid hush money;
[the only way he knows how to do business];
he loves dictators, who laugh behind his back,
& even to his stupid, clueless face;
Trump's 'base' composed of desperate, angry morons
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
When something perturbs me to such a point
I have to step back and take the whiff of realization
The opposite of one that ***** smokers take
The puff of fresh air
The one that heals instead of one that stays stagnant
And become the mouthpiece of optimism
Because God could of put me somewhere far more hellish than this
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
PLAY it across the table.
What if we steal this city blind?
If they want any thing let 'em nail it down.
Harness bulls, ***** front office men,
And the high goats up on the bench,
Ain't they all in cahoots?
Ain't it fifty-fifty all down the line,
Petemen, dips, boosters, stick-ups and guns-what's to hinder?
Go fifty-fifty.
If they nail you call in a mouthpiece.
Fix it, you gazump, you slant-head, fix it.
Feed 'em ...
Nothin' ever sticks to my fingers, nah, nah, nothin' like that,
But there ain't no law we got to wear mittens-huh-is there?
Mittens, that's a good one-mittens!
There oughta be a law everybody wear mittens.
2.1k
ravenous ....
...i watch..
the caterpillar
.....munch the leaf..
..edge to spine
in a systematic arc....
with a... squirm and
an inching motion...
he moves ......all energy
concentrated ....on ...the...
mouthpiece..... **********
rhythm,....
...cookie cutter.. nibbling...
...green mouthfuls....
...always ...just.. one ..more......
...willful ...energetic...unstoppable....
...obesity... for a cause..
...i wonder... what
wonderfully... beautifully..
..exquisite ..flutterful......
thing .....will this fat
wrinkly thug......become....
i turn to go inside.....
....i have a hankering...
for some.... green grapes..
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
Eyes closed, counting the careful sheep
Bounding over broken fences breathlessly,
Tired and unused to tripping over traps
Spared by the seconds sat in contemplation's lap.
Your lids, lying lushly atop layers of
Dark pools of depth, spinning splendid tales of love,
Trust, and heartache, I can truly tell today
Was a day of definition for words I wisely said.
Lips moving in silent rhythm, rhyming, I imagine, with words unsaid.
And as I assume the memories in mind the moment falls silent and dead.
A quip, perhaps, spawned by sentries of silence growing lax,
Falling in frequent motion to the floor - hypothetically, for I cannot ask.
Your sleeping state causes silence to spread and create
An empty essence in the heavy air around us
Birthed from broken intentions and misapprehensions
I had upon our meeting of matters as such.
Please, presume to sleep through my present departure
Deprived of arrows from Venus's archer
Allow my invading presence to avidly intrude
Once more, though his objection's mouthpiece does not move.
Lightly, so as to lay loosely upon the morrow,
I brush bold lips upon the brow pulled in sorrow
But whose silent reverie starts in sleepy surprise -
But, to my relief, falls back to oblivion with a sleepy sigh.
Brushing trembling tips of fingers foolishly
Across the air that passes on the lips
That burn with oxygen's contact with it -
I start when I see his tired eyes
Regarding me with scant surprise.
Those dark pools of infinite sorrow lay sight
On me, caught sneaking silent vows of affection,
And a blush engulfs everything from my eyes to my knees
On which his wary hand waits in his wakeful state.
Several silent moments descend indignantly,
And I dare to risk retribution for crimes committed
But to my sudden surprise I see a challenge in his eyes
And abruptly I am bound to the ground beneath him
And though I know once I stole a simple innocent kiss
He steals now from me my heart through my lips.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
Who am I? What am I?
It's been a while since I cried
Am I a brain on top of a body?
Just processor performing code?
Well, who wrote the code?
Who wrote it?
It's been a while since I was I
I'm not a brain, I have one
I've got hardware put there by Someone else
Who am I?
I'm a computer running software I didn’t write
I'm a soul interacting with a body, a brain
Whose health I neglect on a reg
What am I?
I'm a decaying accumulation of skin
And blood and bone and neurons
I got neurons in my heart
And that's a good place to start
The heart is the mouthpiece of the soul
My identity gets tied up in the whole
Idea of my performance
And my influence
Like if I sing a song badly, my soul takes the hit
And if I lead my partner astray, the whole of me is ****
The whole of me is ****
There's holes in me
But who put them there?
I combust in small increments
My skin flies off in perfect circles
They're fragments
My heart, it's hiding behind these explosions
Hiding behind them because it causes them
Because my mouthpiece is expressing my hate
My lack of love for myself
Hate is just a word we put on the shelf
It's like darkness and coldness
Describing something through absence
Darkness; the absence of light
Coldness; the absence of heat
If hate is the absence of love I might
Just be the one who beats me
Who defeats me
Who carries my heart, my brain, the rest of me
Tied around my neck on a string that I pull through
Like my body is in captivity
I'm privileged to honor this body that I didn’t make
I'm greatly gifted a brain to maintain
My heart, my body, my brain
They shouldn't be strangling me
They shouldn't be dragged through the dirt
They should be a part of me
I am a soul
I have a mouthpiece
My heart is my mouthpiece
My brain is my hardware
That rusts and which I expend
God help me love me
And Who I am
And Who You are
God, make it so apparent to me in my falling out
That I am a part of the three-legged stool
To Love You before all else
To Love everyone else
And to Love myself
Help me see You accurately
God help me
God help this American switch culture
I am not a machine that functions at the flip
Of a switch
I am a soul, a CVT, a cable that climbs up and down
Depending on the speed of the wheels
And decelerating is okay
And (not but) accelerating is wonderful
I do not go 60MPH because I flipped a switch
I go 70MPH because I climb
I climb
God help me climb
And to falter well
And to suffer well
Humble me in my faltering suffering
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get O.J.T.?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all that mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
We live in the sunshine of our broken loves,
Where window curtains flow like pouring water from the aqueducts.
Sunlight is the memory of an old world, and we are just
Watchmakers who labor at the trumpets of time
As if to blow from the mouthpiece and unwind
The second hands and derelict hours of our luminous grief.
So too shines the scintilla of frost that covers the ancient wheat,
Snow falls like the listenings of lovers in the dark, and we are just
Cartographers of snowflakes, mapmakers of frozen eyes,
To zone the parallelogram of her strands of hair across the sky.
These and these and these
Were never ours.
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 11:31 PM UTC
Over the course of my tenure
I've noticed something about
These concrete walls and me.
Something's changed i n m e.
Over the course of these days
It has completely eaten away
My tongue . Cutting a w a y
Neatly and p a i n l e s s l y .
It even has a personality, I've
Nicknamed him C l e e t i s P.
However, instead of parasiti-
-zing my life. It u p - graded
Me. Replaced that uncouth T
Somewhat enlightened m e .
Above the soloists -no longer
"I" or "me"; but "us" and "we"
you see self-communality i n
"we". It's slimy-self now fun-
-ctions as o u r newest *****
A mouthpiece & a voicebox
It lives off of small drops o f
Blood from my tongue-stub
That won't ever, ever c l o t!
My business has a s e c r e t
I t s a y s t o m e :
Regardless of Earthly losses
Give y o u r everything to us
W e are your dearest bosses .
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,
and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,
the trail of words
leads away from "I" --
like breadcrumbs
dropped at intervals
for poetic feet
to follow --
-- at last finding the untamed
where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,
for ignorant opinion or
self-righteous argument --
where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --
The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.
Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
I love the sound
of fresh papers
as they come
crinkling and
crackling out of
the package,
the aroma
of citrus and earth,
sweet smelling grass,
the sensation
of stickiness,
dulled spikes
of fresh stems,
the sight
of red orange flames
lapping up
crisp white paper,
of translucent
gray smoke
whisping
out of the small
opening of a pipe's mouthpiece,
the taste
of wisdom, sage, and ash,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my lungs
and brain
full of poetic fumes;
I love to break
you
down,
roll you up,
set you ablaze,
and
inhale
you,
vaporizing my insides,
filling my heart
and brain
full of poetic fumes.
I love to
get
high
off you;
I don't want
to
ever
get
clean.
Let's
roll
another.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
.
Creation of a character,
a personality extension,
allows freedom to fly
and all the things wanted,
needed, to be expressed
will explode through
and be birthed in purity
from the core.
So give yourself permission,
play, imagine, conjure,
bring forth a new you
'guised and naked,
broadcast your words
with a mouthpiece
created from your own
deep.
© Pagan Paul (30/06/19)
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 6:38 PM UTC
In the red corner - me
in the blue corner - life
this isn't a fair fight
there was no sparring or training
I had to come out swinging right from the bell
absorbing every jab that life throws
just waiting for the knockout punch
still dancing and going toe to toe
throwing haymakers left and right
I try to keep my guard up
hoping somehow to win by decision
side-stepping punches
ducking and weaving
uppercut uppercut uppercut
I dropped my guard, and there goes my mouthpiece
ding!
saved by the bell
I still have a few rounds to go...
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Using the 1% of those who got out of
the violent act of poverty
at the expense of billionaires
and taxpayer payed subsidies
Yes, they use the most pretentious
of our few escapees
they become a mouthpiece
to deny the facts researched
by actual experts
Truth is
what is powerful
There's no escape
from the ruler's messages
There's no escape from miseducation
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
Drive me to the edge of the earth;
You're in control.
I've been reading the dictionary lately,
A little something to pass the time
As I melt into the passenger seat,
With the world just ebbing on by.
Blurs bend the visible light;
We're going the wrong way.
Am I really here at all?
These thoughts are hard to handle.
What happens next I'm not sure,
But I'm willing to take a gamble.
Would you please pass me a needle,
With thread that blends to this flesh of mine.
I've been reading the dictionary lately,
And it turns out to have been a complete waste of time.
Blurs burn all things to white;
We're going the wrong way.
Drive me off the end of the earth;
You're in control.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 8:59 AM UTC
'What shall we talk about today?'
Spin, spin, spin the conversation
into loops and recapitulations.
Cassettes were my sustenance but
a vinyl record spins on the turntable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
Rests, then
block chords, then
swing-swung rhythm.
Then,
unexpected concords.
Where did those blue notes come from?
And colour our red, some supposed red, into
purple?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
I grew up on the clarity and
gravity
of soft pink time;
pearl-notes to the steady, steady,
steady
beat of a metronome.
But now,
now?
Syncopation.
My
beat
against your
beat
and we make a violently violet
bossa nova.
Suddenly the classically trained flautist
has time-travelled to her very first lesson.
Because no sound flutters out of the mouthpiece
and her fingers can't keep up.
Swing-swung
syncopation
and she doesn't know to breathe anymore.
Where did those blue notes come from?
Silence.
Have we reached the final double bar?
The cadence is imperfect,
unresolved.
Listen, a cold snap of instant jazz
knocked us over.
Arms clasped, teeth chat-chat-
chattering.
1,
2,
3 -
A not-quite waltz.
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
Won't you tell me what song is playing right now?
I think we know what it is but can't figure it out.
And so Cole Porter and Billie Holiday save us
from
fading out.
'Let's do it, let's fall in-"
I don't want this song to be over.
I don't even know what it's called
but
don't let it end, don't let it,
don't
don't
don't.
I can't cook but I think
I can make
instant jazz.
And you,
and you...
You'll write dizzy like
a Coltrane solo.
As you do.
And I'll lay down my flute,
struggle out of my red minuet and
wonder:
Where did those blue notes come from?
But jazz has always been unpredictable.
'What shall we talk about now?'
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC