"nasal" poems
.
I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.
And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
now tender patches
of failure.
I drop the fork ...
… pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.
And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …
And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?
© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 5:09 PM UTC
Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no ***** ***** or testicles.
What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?
Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!
Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.
So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a ********
Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.
Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!
I say herein lies food for thought.
Mike T Minehan
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:
*It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.*
He had me at
-Where he should have said-
Organic.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
Toking on a cloud with ******* Jesus and his family
Lame folks ask me how,
its cause I ******* smoke
religiously
No God I smoke religious tree,
I get ****** in the name of heresy
You angry penguin ****** preach acceptance
So praise the Lord and ******* shame on me
My guise is Satan *****
and my swag is undisguisible
heartless and no conscience,
sicksicksix most recognizable
-that statement may surprise a little but since we all surmise a little
Why deny me as the devil when
When I clearly play a golden fiddle. . .
From Hell I made a deal
and there is no repeal
nothing you see is real,
I will invade and pervade your mind
So wait in anticipation,
life's a figment of your own imagination
I'll watch you dissipate into oblivion
Pound for pound,
I'm a cenobite at heart,
I just haven't a heart to be found
It's not hard for me
its profound,
the sound of suffering
your soul is ours now
and I will tear it apart
Here's a toast to our orchestral
Symphony of the flesh
My swag's so ******* flawless
100 carrot diamonds,
******* love me cause I'm gorgeous
can't stag no more, fat stacks galore
embrace the force it opens doors
Is there a source, but of course -
it just lies dormant/
What's a ***** to a floor except a doormat
And you know that I'm no diplomat
It's just a fact I ******* hate those stinky ratchets
And I sharply lack tact
tell that ***** her ***** smells like Magikarp
Body language, that of Snorlax
someone once asked
why don't have an open mind
brains would spill out
if my ******* snapback
weren't so tight
Its the season to seize C's
and hallucinations be dazzlin em
don't believe your eyes son,
its only a phantasm but
Words are like playdough,
fun to play with not to eat
So clap your ******* trap and get lost to the beat
I can't be defeat
So suckle my teet
My verses are perverse
I'm high as **** words: failing
Get low
ill as **** so ******* sick,
blowed half past belligerent,
tweaking off my nasal drips,
There's serenity in debauchery -
***** I ******* bask in it
have a taste
basketcase,
I drink red bull it gives me ******* wings
"Memento quod sumus lascivio venatus"
Remember that you are playing the Game
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running swinging like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like the Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when i sneeze flying lighting manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I was only dreaming pops
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when I sneeze flying lightning manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I realise I was only dreaming pops
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns
And ills of other sorts
Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion
Establish naval fleets
Of fisherman friends sweets
To banish nasal congestion
smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue
If your enemy is constipation
Let senna be your friend
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends
Show viruses they're not welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
You lived next to a mushroom field
The smell was pungent and distinct
It reaked of sewage and sulfur
I never understood how anyone could
"Just get used to it."
I hate mushrooms now
Moreso that I ever did before.
I mull over the things you did to me
And made me do to you.
All I can remember is
The smell creeping up my nasal passage
Strangling me
Choking me.
Since that day,
My life has resembled that place.
So much junk to deal with
Such a despicable scent
People wonder how I deal with it.
I don't even know how I stand the stench.
But I find it funny, oh the irony
In how I have come to simulate
The place I detest the most.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Before the dawn's display
Before the rooster calls
And horses neigh
Hot coffee on my breath
Wearing an old hat
that's old as death
I set out in silence
Into the dark
Full of grit/pure providence
Wearing a backpack
Full of life
I cross the faceless row
Feel empty blackness as it weeps
Dark moon has the sun in tow
As the cold icy air
catches on my lungs
Freezing my nasal hair
The frost makes step unsure
I cross the boardwalk
The distance is my lure
I came prepared
I came to my senses
I feel freedom in the cold freezing air
Wearing a backpack
Full of life
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
Aaj achanak hi kyu azadi k din hume apne mulk ki itni yaad aayi
Jb kurbaan hue jawan sarhad pe,tb kyu nhi aankho me nami aayi
Zara dil se b izzat kr lo mere yaaro, kyuki ye zameen h hum sabki
Kuch nahi le jao ge sath apne, milni h ess me hi raakh hum sabki
Koi loot raha h gareeb ki jaeb, koi kr raha h bezuba awaam se faraeb
Umeed h kashmir me aman hoga,toh aur b meethe hoge waha k saeb
Jo saha h dard in kisaano ne, umeed h unka ye dard tumhe b mehsoos **
Daer raat in anderi galliyo se guzrti har beti har maa ki raah mehfooz **
Mazboot kr lo apne rishto ko,inpe h nigah kbhi mazhab ki kbhi siyasat ki
Na rang se pehchan ** na hi adoore ang se,ek si taraki ** har ek riyasat ki
Rishwat gareebi khudgarzi aur na jaane kitne h es mulk ko lge marz
Kbhi fursat hui toh janne ki koshish krna kitne h es maa k tumpe karz
Har bache ko ilm ** es janoon ka,taki ye kamyaabi k kadam ruk na paye
Bss ik ehsaan krna khud pe,ki teri kisi harqat se kehi iska ser juk na jaye
Dhua bss yehi h ki aane wali koi b nasal kabhi na ruksat ** es fitoor se
Chand taaro pe chle b gye agr phir b krte rehna sada salam waha door se
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
She loves him in the way morning air keeps her eyes open
In the way white daisies dancing through the wind
In the way salt water dancing in her hair
Or white sand that breathing under her feet
She loves him in the way fresh berries picked up at 5 am in the morning
Newspaper melted in one hand, chocolate melted in her tongue
And there's a cup of hot tea with smoke billowing
When sun shining bright on the summer morning
And birds keep singing
She loves him in the way tropical jungle that grows in her veins
Wild yellow honeysuckle that keeps her imagination alive
Or a field full of red poppies that blooms in her chest
And a watercourse that flood through her blood
She loves him in the way old songs that keeps her memories walk behind
Or sounds of blue waves that running in her mind
Smells of old library and fragile papers that makes her remind
Of the way sunflowers kissing the sun, smiling to the blue sky
And shooting stars falling down on a dark night
She loves him in the way butterflies bottled in her stomach
While cold night air whispers her name too much
When pale moon light burns the whole city
Ended with condensed vapor that ride into her nasal cavity
But she doesn't love him in the way red roses blossoms in her heart
Thorn of the red roses makes her lung hurt
Because
He doesn't love her back
He never does
That's the truth.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
I am a completely different person than I was seven years ago.
Physically, yes, because my cells have been dying
and renewing so much that
everything is gone and I am new.
Mitosis took care of that in the way that
everyone is a new collection of cells
every seven years.
But we're still the same collection of memories.
I am also different mentally.
I am not a simple eight year old anymore,
but what is a simple eight year old?
I want to be a stem cell,
blank and waiting for instructions.
Either I want to make my own decisions
and take control of my own life
or I can recognize that I don't know what I'm doing
and any control given to me will be lost.
I want to stay blank, ready to be programmed
and have a job
and a purpose.
But maybe I don't want to be a cell
and I want to be the collection.
Maybe I'll find my purpose.
Maybe I'll find my job.
I want these seven years to pass so I can be this
new human.
Maybe they will know what to do.
Am I the stem cell, hidden in the nasal cavity, or am I the human?
Am I really that different from my simple eight year old self?
Am I really different at all?
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
lost in a maze of gazes;
lured
to the pool by the sound; Sondheim
sung badly in a nasal twang;
cught in her lace negligee one more time;
we give the old women the benefit
of the doubtful proposition; if granny
wants to get tied
to on the bedpost - yet again;
the gallant refrain from that old song
is remade the kpop way & tuned in to
the drag subculture; everyone u know;
the prostitution used to be better; maybe
there were once better prostitutes, what
I can see is unpleasantly stink eyed; hos
used to have class before they could
switch genders back & forth; that's some
millennial **** the first celebrity I ever
became aware of was Christine Jorgensen, from the newspaper story about a man who had surgery to turn himself into a woman; a patently impossible task; in the picture in the newspaper he had on a bouffant wig & big sequin ***** working as a showgirl in Vegas in its heyday, so she was already well-known; I always thought that bit of trivial information would come in handy one day: never did
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
If love was something edible
What kind of taste would have?
Would it taste sweet, or sour?
Bitter, or salty?
Would it be an ingredient, or the main dish
Would it be healthy, or unhealthy?
How much would it cost?
If love was something audible
What kind of sound would it have?
Would it sound loud, or soft?
nasal, or boxy?
Would it be a song, or an album?
A speech, or a dialogue?
Where would be the most likely place to hear it?
If love was something tangible
What kind of mass would it be?
Would it feel wet, or dry?
Airy, or moist?
Would it be heavy, or light?
Painful, or pleasurable?
How useful would it be?
If love was something visible
What color, or shape would it have?
Would it look like a rose, or a war ship?
A diamond, or a **********
Would it resemble the day, or the night?
A bunch of stars, or a few roaches?
If it was a person would you trust it?
If love had a smell
It would probably smell fishy.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
Something subliminal
in the way a man smells;
his odor, his pheromones,
his testosterone seeping from under his skin
massaging my nasal passages
making me dreamy and sleepy
and tickly inside.
There's a unique quality
so pure and primitive
in the movement of a muscle
accidental
not for show
so private, the tension in a bicep.
It acts without the knowledge of being watched
and would move if no eye were there to witness,
but sometimes
we do
and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin,
dying to burst through flesh
and reveal masculinity to the sun.
Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face
after a long day outside
building a fence
cutting grass
tackling an opponent;
the liquid rolls down limbs
out of pores
drips
onto ground, nourishing the grass,
enticing
a nectar caused by labor and struggle,
grunts and power
energy.
Something so simple
in the sight of a male,
sturdy, like a house
a home to be enveloped in,
protected from the elements trying to rust our joints.
The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts,
and desires.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
she sneezesas the breezes
carry the pollen to her nostrils
she is small
and somewhat frail
but when she sneezes
she creates more than breezes
she makes a gale
and the noise is like thunder
as her lungs do the rumba
all in order to expell
the pollen from her being
her eyes cross
and fixate
on an ephemeral state
in order to calibrate
the legnth of the ah
in her ah-choo
sometimes it is
large and elongated
sometimes small delicate statacco
and then again it may be somewhere
in between the two
and after she sneezes and gales
and wheezes...she seems stunned
by the fuss and disharmony
she created by nasal cacophony
and in her daze, the taps
her nose and says quite clearly
good old faithful....
.....thar she blows
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 8:04 AM UTC
Almost every time I ***** I cry. It’s like a habit, a song. Puke, tears. The first time I remember it happening -when I was 9- I sat up straight in bed and vomited all over myself. It stained the mattress and got all over the wall and my bedsheets- projectile stuff. Real nasty. I got out of bed, took off my clothes, went to my mom’s room, and started sobbing. Even at seventeen, I still almost always cry when my stomach betrays me, when the bile mixes with spit and I’m running to the bathroom and seeing stars as I feel pain erupt through my body and out of my mouth and nasal cavity. There’s nothing I can ever do to stop it. And afterwards, I always cry.
Maybe that’s why, when I could tell the friendship was ending, I cried so much that first time. When I could tell we were growing apart and my soul was rejecting you. You were rotten steak and I hadn’t eaten meat in five years. I couldn’t handle you anymore.
Do you ***** when you panic? Is that why there was such an explosion in the middle, bile mixing with bile? You didn’t want me to be mad at you, so you puked on me and gave me a reason to be angry. Yours wasn’t so rotten though, nothing your body couldn’t keep down. Are you bulimic or an emetophobiac? Did it scare you when you couldn’t breathe and you rejected me from your body? Or did you do it on purpose? Afterward, did you cry?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
The smell of mint and clorox steaming across the face,
Under the epidermis,
Flying in the room like swarming mad no-see-ums,
Shooting up the nose and around the nasal hairs in blasts.
A distant garble, advantage one.
Pulling from limb and lattice of the mind, scavenging, advantage two.
The prediction and observation, advantage three.
Assertively convinced, advantage four.
Being rooted, advantage five.
The smell of mint and clorox,
So patternless,
So striving and belligerent.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Café
tantalizing aroma
evicts every other scent from my nasal cavity
remedy for self-diagnosed cranial narcolepsy
eyelid suspenders
bittersweet paramour
empty mug,
stirs my core
caramel and dark chocolate
micro-foam, group heads and caffeine
velvet layered cappuccino
espresso parts my thoughts
come sip with me
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Metal softly clinks on ceramic.
Fingers joggle embossed grip,
elevate blades toward moistened hide.
Darkness covers the corner
opposite antique coaster bed
disheveled by fitful sleepers.
Her hair, twirled into tangles
flows on the pillow, nasal noises
mask the music of his movements.
Any light might arouse her,
awakening her to revive
last night's squabble.
Their endless feud
over contentions long forgotten
encircles their days.
Blades glide over chin and cheeks.
Shaving quietly in darkness
avoids anger in the morning.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
why spend time observing wretched things
when apartments bloom like sandcastles
in every trench - in all the concrete?
why languish in wretched things like
phantom-busting;
tail-chasing,
grape-avoiding,
ball-breaking the black box
or even ROYAL DECREES?
Oct 14, 2022
Oct 14, 2022 at 4:19 PM UTC
I've been at the spa
Tear facials, puffy eyes and nasal
Sighs in the steam.
I've been at the spa
Naked and wasted
Slowly rehabilitating myself.
Been so long
Since I've had a fix
Forgot what it's like
To be in your eclipse.
Been too long
Since I've had a kiss
Scared what it's like
To be saturated in bliss.
I've been at the spa
Suffocating and pruning,
To stop myself from swooning.
I've been at the spa
Dehydrated, not elated.
(Am I supposed to be relaxing?)
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
I fear the bass and treble.
The Stuka's nasal voice ringing out.
The tremulous earth beneath two treads.
The planet itself was set to tremble.
I fear the detonation.
A whistle in the darkness.
Harmonizing bass and treble.
Imminent inflammation.
I fear the bass and treble.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Under flu attack
Nasal congestion combats
My tissue's defence
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC