"mustached" poems
i played Dolores Haze
sitting sideways on your lap
on your birthday
i felt kidnapped
by incessant language
i felt intrigued by genius.
i kissed the brunette above your lip
old fashioned mustached man.
pastry eyes i could've eaten for days.
my second gemini
was thin and frail
high on amphetamines
and drunk on ego
he weaved in and out of me
like a snake looking for peace.
he fidgeted nervously
after every ******
i gave him
(or he gave himself on top of me)
mercurial men
hell bent on
changing the world
with no aid beyond
the words in their mouths
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Forgive. Forgive.
Say not I did.
Say not.
Say.
Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
Take me.
Take.
Give me a report on the condition of my soul.
Give me a complete statement of my actions.
Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in.
Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.
Number my sins on the grocery list and let me buy.
Did I make you go insane?
Did I turn up your earphone and let a siren drive through?
Did I open the door for the mustached psychiatrist
who dragged you out like a gold cart?
Did I make you go insane?
From the grave write me, Anna!
You are nothing but ashes but nevertheless
pick up the Parker Pen I gave you.
Write me.
Write.
2.9k
I laid there staring
at the insanely
bright and rude
fluorescent light
that
mocked my suffering.
The cold concrete
floor felt
good against
my screaming aches.
My body was
pleading with the
Gods for just a
taste of what
had been taken
away.
My bowels were as
controllable as
a teen aged
beauty.
With a ****
I brought my
burning face
toward the cool
silent cold metal
toilet.
Ugly yellow bile
that only a tired
and tortured
body could
produce
spewed forth.
A moan and a wipe
then a hollow knock
on the graffiti
covered cell door.
"You made bail"
an almost robotic
sounding voice
says.
With a thousand tiny
swordsman stabbing
at my face I
managed to smile
into my own bile.
I looked at the
mustached uncaring
face in the
small window.
"You look like Death Pal"
The mustache says to me.
I spit the acrid taste
of day old *****
and ****** resin.
Then rise and run my
sweaty palm through
my hair in an
attempt at looking
presentable.
The mustache opens
the door and
as I walk out
I look directly at the
rogue hairs
protruding from
the mustaches nostrils
and say.
"Death Is Beautiful"
The mustache holds
the door as I walk out.
I'm feeling better already
"Oh Yea well so was my Xwife
look at how much trouble
she still causes me".
The mustache says
Every step
I take down
the institutional colored,
masonic checkered floored
hallway causes
my body
to scream with hope.
I can feel the sweat
roll down my face
but I refuse to let
this mustache
see my suffering.
We stop at the
property window,
I sign a half
of an X where it
says signature.
Then before
I gather up
my belongs
and head
back out into the
night I looked
over at the
mustache and said
"You had a Wife?"
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
Just the other day
I met Robert Goulet
I was surprised a bit
The way his mustache twitched
A mind of its own
Like in the Twilight Zone
Jumping right off his face
His mustache ran away
Teeny boppers next door
Giggled out of control
As Roberts mustached jumped
Landing in someones lunch
That's when the Maítre ď
Let out a girly scream
Quite an embarrassment
To all us burly men
Then throughout the day
The mustache of Robert Goulett
Made a name for itself
As it ventured about town
His mustache all could see
Has a tinder streak
Helping old ladies out
To get across the street
Why it even saved a cat
Giving all its nine lives back
Pulled it from a tree
That was burning excessively
At that same moment saved the town
Itself from burning down
But that story's much to long
To try to abound
The town was so impressed
They trimmed up the mustache
Of Robert Goulett
Then gave it a ticker tape parade
After that they named a street
Because of its heroic feat
If it had two hands to greet
Would have handed it the city's key
And if the mustache could talk at all
Would have given the greatest speech
If Roberts mustache had only known
It'd do this good out on its own
It would have left the upper lip
Along time ago
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 7:49 AM UTC
Perches on my window
My mustached friend bulbul,
Finds me shaving,
A stray bird and I call it a miracle,
It pecks from my hand tidbits of food
Not scared at all
Looks deep into my eyes
And plants there a sunrise,
Asks the bird, ‘why do you shave,
And not save your beard
For the time it would fit your sunken face
When it would tell
There aren’t any of us around,
No miracle of waking up each morn
With our sounds’!
It knows miracles are drying up.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
I was six:
On the steps
Of the small
Carousel
Stood the old,
Greying haired
And mustached
Man in a
Ratty suit
Smiling and
Anxiously
Peering out,
Waited for
Me.
"He is your
Father, say
Hello please"
"Hello" I'd
Said to the
Stranger who'd
Introduced
As father
Yet I hadn't
Met or seen
Before or
After and
That's where it
Ends.
The one,
The only,
Memory
Of him.
Good riddance
I suppose.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Laying back
I stare at the mustached men
Staring down at me
They all have white hair
And blue eyes
They float on by
With half smug grins
Holding back their pride
Of their mustaches
Some have big fat ones
Some have long wispy ones
Some are bristly
Some sway in the wind
Like an old sock on a telephone pole
Their stern gaze
Judge every face they see
Once in a while
Their faces swell
And get dark and puffy
Then the mustached men cry
And shower the landscape with tears
I wonder what they see
Looking down at us
That makes them so sad
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 11:27 PM UTC
I decided today when I woke up
To write a poem for everyone
I'd start off with the very old
And end up with the young
In between I'd have kings and queens
Along with a peasant or two
A genius with a dozen degrees
Even a few without a clue
For the in-laws and the outlaws
Though at times they act the same
If right now they're sitting next to you
No need to mention names
I'd also write it for the Catholics
Protestants and Jews
So as not to leave anyone out
A Methodist marching band with kazoos
What would a poem for everyone be
Without rodeo and circus clowns
The ones that paint happy faces
Over the top of their life's frowns
The tall the short and skinny of course
Those that are tipping the scale
Which these days are most of us
But let's not dip into that well
And of course I can't leave out
All the gays and all the straights
Who never knew that they were straight
Until the gays knew they were gay
I guess we've all been labeled
I really don't mean to offend
Oops...I almost forgot to include
All the mustached women and hairy backed men
If you find you weren't in here
And think that your unmentionable
I'd like you to know my friend
My rudeness was unintentional
You may take this poem for everyone
And do with it what you wish
Perhaps the closest receptacle
Where it may join it's friends...the trash
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:42 AM UTC
The artist chose concrete to sculpt The Kiss.
Playfully made the woman taller than the man,
his gaze uplifted, filled with total captivation ---
lemur eyes, mustached smile, desire unmistakable.
Her arm about the nape of neck, hand caressing cheek,
certainly she cherishes him, intentionally stokes his passion.
Concrete the perfect medium for immortality.
This image implanted firmly, as I take my morning walk,
when it hits me, somewhere between Key Bank,
7-11 across the street, and John Deere lawn equipment,
why it is, women place such importance upon relationships,
why they love us, despite flaws numerous as wharf rats.
They have an unremitting need for romance.
That's what the sculptor knew and finally I do too.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
Candy cane soldiers
roll her down like a boulder,
Her wet cheeks nearly speak
with that bed of concrete on her shoulder.
Could it be? It is she!
Redundant locks trapped in braid
Suddenly, squirming around the corner
a mustached man repeats
"Your wish is mine to fade,
you hold no recognition in the decision youve made.
So its time you come with me"
The princess and her scruples finally flee.
Unsteady warp
blurring corpse after corpse.
One with a top hat
and 3/4 of a profile pose.
Horns surrounded with fur
turned to a hairless neck for a nose.
Useless change changed the pace,
as far as walkin' goes.
Each taste is heavier,
Each word is touchier.
Their fingers grew legs
runnin where answers grow on a tree.
Could it be? I see he.
How can you not
when he hides in the most obvious of spots!
Im serious.
He's as clear as the beer on your beard,
you're delerious.
Take a look at the windowless reflection
pointing in the direction back at thee.
Sneaky little red-eyed bumblebee
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
Jerry Singing at his Lathe
Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.
Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.
Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.
Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.
Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.
July, 2006
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Please let me have several weeks
So that my anxiety can decompress
Several weeks
That I might feel comfort again
With you
Give me several weeks
So the furniture is gone
And we can properly pretend
That there is no history
Past or future
Only the present
Cause you don't need this
And this is just practice
For your epic
If you don't
Stop for a month of Sundays
And really think about
What it is you're writing
Who you're antagonizing
I guarantee that you'll never
Ever
Have time to formulate it all
Type for a month
And you'll never get far enough
To encourage bindings
NO more
Fix that
All that ********
That makes you RAMBLE
Yeah I said it
You run on at the mouth
Just kiss me
Tell me how you feel
With the mustached upper lip
And your fat bottom lip
Leave me mouth insides
That I have to wipe off
Several weeks before you leave me a poem like this
Don't do it.
I'll leave something that like this
Raucous. On blast. Larger than life.
Don't **** this up.
I JUST got you a job.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
It¹s Raining
Here in this place a forgotten past
The smells of damp wood, of mold, of dusty books, of rooms occupied for many
years;
Of wet wool
Of brewing all day long; of cooked cabbage and rolls and butter; of potted
meat;
The mustached old men close their umbrellas they make sounds like talking
of something but nothing is said;
These rooms are not here any more -
It is a place of another time that I know but cannot have known.
Will it disappear the moment I step back outside into the Bloomsbury street?
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
A girl is ***** but wait for the punchline
Except it is not a joke,
And it is an actual punch
Hitting her left cheek
As I sit in a coffee shop,
Her story is being played
Through the speakers, while playing on the news
Everyone giving their own opinion
A couple of men sit at the table beside me
The bald one states that she asked for it
My eyes roll as a drop of coffee runs down my chin
The one with a large mustache laughs
States, "her mother was a failure."
The third man ignores his ignorant friends
But instead listens to the young girl's story
Bald one says her clothes were too tight
Mustached one states that the skirt was too short
Her knees were showing
Knees that are now bruised and ******
The third man states that it wasn't the
FAULT OF THE GIRL
But instead the FAULT of the man
He states that a woman should be able to wear
WHAT she pleases
WHEN she pleases
The bald and the mustached nod in agreement
One says that her clothes aren't the problem
The other says that women need RESPECT
As a woman, covered head to toe walks past
The men stare, except the third
Because it is not the woman's fault
And he understands that
But it is the FAULT of men
Who "cannot control it."
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
i walked down my street today
although it doesn't belong to me
i still like to pretend it does
like i grew up here
like i belong here.
oh well.
so anyway i was walking
and i saw this old woman
hobbling toward the flower shop.
this struck me as a rather romantic idea
and pretty cliche, too
but what the ****
it wasn't really the fact that she was walking to the flower shop
that interested me
although the teenaged girl side of me
was sobbing the same tears that hadn't been shed
over The Notebook
(i wish Nicholas Sparks would die in a hole)
...i think i'm getting off track...
but in that minute or two
that i watched her walk
her hair cut to her chin,
her glasses thick
i didn't see
an old woman.
i could see quite plainly
who she had been in the 1920's.
short, unflattering dress
necklace
tight around her neck
the strut
that only a woman
in the roaring twenties
could pull off.
she quite clearly articulated
hidden love affairs
with mustached men
amber drinks
in crystal glasses
stenographers
and married bosses.
and even though she's now
wrinkly
old
stooped
her former glory
still remained
i could still see it
even now.
and really
i guess i wouldn't mind getting old
if i could be as ******* cool
as the old lady
i saw on the street today
that doesn't belong to me.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
She was washing dishes,
Putting things away,
Glad for a little quiet after the fray,
Hospital bills would be coming,
Juggling bills to pay,
But she was glad for the quiet today.
Sam came in with dirt on his face
From playing "trucks" on the drive,
And trailing a gritty wet trail
For a cookie or two and some milk with his Mom.
She milk-dunked an Oreo
Looked at her son, and said,
"What shall we do for today?"
To the milk-mustached boy
Who'd barely made it to five.
"How 'bout checkers?" he asked,
And she looked hard at him,
"Where did you learn how to play?"
"At the doctor's," he said,
As he dipped cookies in,
And startled his mother again.
"Honey, who taught you to play?"
"Max and I played. He showed me how,"
He said with a straight, serious face
As she spilled the milk from her glass.
"Honey, Max has been gone for two years!"
"I know, Mom, and now he is six, and not three.
In heaven, you get to decide.
And Grampa and Gramma came up to say hi,
And numbers were swirling around."
She paused, now uncertain, and mopping up milk,
"So did you see Jesus?" she said.
"Yup, Jesus was there. He said I could visit,
but I had to go back," Sam looked at her matter of fact.
"Can I go play now?" And outside he went,
Brown smudges still stuck on his chin.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
My first American love
was 4 inches taller than me,
had a muscular upper body,
(all they did were push-ups,
day, and night, day and
night) and stood on
skinny legs, pale;
mustached by thin,
fine brown hairs
They wore pants,
nothing but jeans,
black mostly, sometimes
faded when they weren't clean;
sometimes denim if they
were purchased by me
(They had to be Levi
or Calvin Klein)
And their tops
had torn sleeves;
holes punched in
everywhere due to the moths
in the closet;
nothing
but torn seams
It was rare they wore
anything else
We first made love
in a 2004 Tornado Red Volkswagen Golf
they received from their parents
as a graduation gift;
that night my body was just another present
piled on top of it
And on and on
the shape-shifting went
until we got tired
and slept
We were smoothed out
like freshly baked
carcasses under the
rising dawn; and when I woke up
I realized that great American love had gone
A promising horizon peered over the
dashboard, past the Little Tree air freshener
peeking through as though it were
a mother returning for her runaway child,
and saying it's time to come home;
breakfast is ready, father is waiting
and your future has been put on hold
for far too long
My first American love
was found in the form of a song
once the car radio was turned on
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 2:17 AM UTC
We were told to read a book about a mustached murderer
and most of us were put to sleep
by the architect's chapters
but I read them anyway
maybe just to say I did
or to more enjoy the blood and
wicked victories of the killer's story
-cj
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC