"oozy" poems
Before long the summer sun will rise in London
Like the half of the Ge meets the other half.
Like a magic by the Lamp of Aladdin
The love flame hidden in the chest lights up!
Like a blooming rose in a glowing beam of light,
Like a smiling face speaks a gentle word,
Like a beautiful sunrise colour in the first light!
The summer in London will pop and sizzle
We will see a threshold in our land.
The rose for a while is tucked away
Off the winter and is given to the sun
Winter is not forever spring is on the corner
Come back in the sun with the early bird
Before Cinderella takes on the primrose path.
Keeping an eye on a thriller is in the winter’s field
Oozy ozone misty land gets a gingerly seasoning
What on earth will it strike, will it dish out?
Ah, the sun will pop out like a river breeze.
Like a southern song singing on a dream scene.
a smooth fairy dance facing the Moon
a thrill of exposing Stonehenge once and for all
a melodious raindrop in the serene pond
a butterfly dance on the rose
a turned on tall tale of the blue peacock
Like a pure belief in heaven without a pinch of salt!
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Jellyfish stew,
I'm loony for you,
I dearly adore you,
Oh,truly I do,
You are creepy to see,
Revolting to chew,
You slide down inside
With. Hullabaloo.
You're soggy,you're smelly,
Ou taste like shampoo,
You bog own my belly
With oodles of goo,
Yet I would glue noodles
And punes to m shoe,
For one oozy spoonful
Of jellyfish stew
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Across the oozy leaden sky
A seagull with a battle cry
Hurried to his ultimate task
Before the sky puts on his mask.
Nobody knew what his task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hurry because
From the open he had to retreat.
The bird knew that but he was wayward
Swimming in the airy wave beak forward
Skating flying but always eastward
Heedless of the dark like a poet.
LazharBouazzi, January 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
A turquoise fly battered on a red laptop
on whose twenty-inch pane glowed a green apple.
A poet, some distance away from the backdrop,
with the fly and the apple sought to grapple:
What stories? What parables would a laptop
offer Hermes - about an oozy apple
and a fly who understood not that the fruit
on the red laptop is only the image of a copy?
(c) LazharBouazzi
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
I was cleaning out the fridge today
And in the back I found this "thing"
It was furry, soft and squishy
From the mind of Stephen King
I didn't want to touch it
It looked like a tangerine
But, from all the fur and oozy stuff
I don't know what it had been
I knew I had to move it
But I wasn't sure quite how
I'd seen things much more appealing
Come from the rear end of a cow
I emptied out the other stuff
I put them in the sink
I was left with this small land mine
That really had a stink
I needed some protection
Before I tried to grab this bomb
so, I closed the door real quiet
And I went to get some on
I put on swimming goggles
To protect my eyes in case
It exploded when I grabbed it
And it jelly-fied my face
I then grabbed my old rain coat
And put it on all front to back
So my front was well protected
In case this thing chose to attack
Hockey gloves to save my hands
Work boots were for my feet
All this to dispose of this
Thing that people eat
I opened up the door again
And as I looked inside
I could swear this thing was throbbing
And it had grown to twice it's size
I slammed the door and grabbed a beer
I had some in the sink
I had to get this thing destroyed
I needed time to think
I called up both my neighbors
I said "Evacuate" the street
I told them I was killing
Some thing that people eat
I couldn't tell them what it was
Because I wasn't sure
I must have bought it months ago
But I didn't know what for
If I knew that this would happen
If the expiration passed
If I knew this when I bought it,
I would have eaten it real fast
I went to get the garbage
I put three new bags inside
I would put the thing inside one
And would then get all three tied
I'd run it to the dump myself
But, I'd have to freeze it first
Because, Imagine what would happen
If the plastic bags had burst
One more thing I had to do
was get some stuff to hide the scent
I thought I'd get some vapo rub
So off to search I went
Now, all prepared and goggled up
in raincoat and in gloves
I was set to grab this thing
For push had come to shove
I opened up the door and there
Where the thing had just now been
Was nothing, not a single thing
Where was my thing of green?
It didn't get out on it's own
And no one would eat it up
The only one who'd like it
Was our garbage eating pup
It was at this point I saw my son
Rolling outside like a log
Playing with our whirling dervish
He had fed it to the dog!!
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.9k
Old Italian Ladies walk around in long black dresses
A handkerchief tucked up one sleeve for blowing little noses
They are soft and round, with flappy forearms
And give greasy lipstick kisses as they clutch you to their chests
Old Italian Ladies smell like olive oil and flour
And they give out oozy chocolates with red cherry sauce inside
Their enormous laps are like lumpy old recliners
They sing songs about amore' as they rock you off to sleep
Old Italian Ladies let you go down to the basement
Where the air is cool and shelves are lined with jars of pickled green beans
And wide mouthed bottles bursting with clumpy red tomatoes
They use creaky wooden step stools when they need to reach up high
Old Italian Ladies pierce your ears with just a needle
A bar of soap, a lump of ice
A loop of string to make the earring
And a tiny glass of anisette for the tears after the sting
Old Italian Ladies were the matrons of my childhood
Intoning rosaries, invoking saints
Making garlic studded meatballs
Dispensing love as freely as hard candy from their purses.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
—important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights—
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
1.6k
Itch those ***** player
Itch them red raw
Bleeding?, who cares!
Embrace your oozy pores
Itchy itchy morning rise
Scratchy scratchy nights
Give me a show I'd like to forget
Make me close up tight
Itch those ***** giant manchild
Itch them to completion
Whatever you got to do, do
During itchy and scratchy season
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 7:11 PM UTC
Warm oozy-melted words
over tangy heated
saucy sentences.
Poetry of crunchy
crusted rhythms.
Scattered mushrooms
and pepperoni characters
I eat hearty my poetry in pizza...
RW Dennen ( c) 12/27/09
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
She always wanted to be
as famous as
Shakespeare.
Bawling dramatically in the cornfield.
My flip flops stuck
in the oozy mud
as I followed her for safety.
She sobbed on my shoulder during Titanic because she wasn't as beautiful
as Kate Winslet.
The rest of the cinema
gave me funny looks.
Soggy shoulder,
everyone necks craning to listen
to my therapy phrases.
"Sshhh. It's okay.
You're beautiful in a different way".
I never told her that lipstick didn't suit her.
And she still wears it now
on Facebook.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC
with a billion Chinese and Indians
on the tally... i think it's hardly worth noting
the individuation process the West has adapted...
who needs another Kurt Cobain brain in
spaghetti splatters on the wall? there's a billion of each...
a ******* billion! heath ledger and daniel johns
(i would be a freak having released
something like frog-stomp in my teens,
i would be, playing the mongolian harmonica)...
but there's a ******* billion of each,
Taj Mahal saved them when the western
oozy saw the scalping technique...
so did the curry recipe...
i'm an alcoholic like the rest of them...
Apache eagle feather how how hush
(dog bark interlude)... nonetheless, we're taught
to individuate, to state a difference worthy of an
advert... any other slogan not ending
with -Pepsi and you're ******* Chinese to me...
Hong Kong double-decker buses and Karate! Ha Ya!
chop... or sushi, whichever bruise to add to the skin
of Copernican for the sundown and plum.
no, the point being drummers are wacko,
having to process individuation
would never instil me having a potential to
number a Mongolian horde... i wouldn't have cared...
if only ****** suggested.. if only ****** suggested....
i too would be a bleached Eskimo.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
you're like a warrior entering the slaughter
Only waiting for that last hour
They say Gang life is grand
As you carry your life in your hand
Just ask those that are dead
And with their silence its all said
Pops life was dealing drugs
And hanging out with other thugs
Moms life was on the street
Hooking up her tricks on the beat
Alone and misunderstood
Made me join the hood
You think you are invincible came night fall
Only to wait for death to call
Your new toy oozy in hand
That makes you feel like a man
Brew, bloodshed and tears
And a little **** makes you lose your fears
For me this was my family
And the place for me to be
Drive byes at night
And by day sleeping out the light
Every day I walked a thin line
Within I could feel it was almost my time
To feel that cold concrete upon my face
And go to the cemetery and take my place
But until that day arrives
I would keep taking lives
Getting high to set me free
Making me forget the real monster within me
You're like the a warrior entering the slaughter
Only waiting for that last hour
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
I love you honey
I love you're honey hole,
I love your sweet nectar
It satisfies my soul...
When I taste your honey;
It tastes so sweet,
You're my honey suckle honey
and a sticky tasty treat...
Your my honeysuckle honey,
Your my honeysuckle hole
I like to tease the sugar,
from your sugar bowl...
What I like is oozy, gooey,
finger licking good,
You're pure perfection,
sweet confection,
sent to me with love.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:58 AM UTC
I look down hoping to see
something other than what I already know.
My God will be
oh-so disappointed
if I have actually done it.
Maybe I didn't.
Maybe its just my imagination.
But I feel it.
That
oozy
sticky
runny
warm
thick
trickle
runs down my am in
a beautiful
glossy
flawless
crimson.
I am so ashamed
but yet so relieved.
I feel like relieved is a wrenched thing to say.
It probably is.
But my morals died
the first time
the razor
and my skin
collided.
And as I stand here,
in awe of my art,
I realize that
oh ****
I have left a little pool
on the floor
and oh ****
it might stain.
But I don't want to clean it.
It catches the light in a certain magical way.
Does this make me evil?
Or simply confused?
Maybe my mind is not working
because I'm just in awe
of these
sick and twisted
but revitalizing
cuts.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
lovely ladies bleeding
sad rhythms fast times
on the dance floor
blind
by shakes & strange
oozy
drinks that drip trip slow
& melody
& beats
of bad boys
disko
mama is dead
she died on
the
dance floor
big mama is
dead
she was queen
in her
head
but the drugs
told her that
& now the sirens
buzzard
the fluorescents trash on
people fly from windows
fly home.
to beat
the wrap
until next time
which is already tonight
Jan 6, 2010
Jan 6, 2010 at 7:46 AM UTC
*Rage coiled at the back of my throat
Serpentine with spit of fire
Welling up and sending
Acid down my cheeks and through my
Lips
Clenching teeth
Shivering and shaking
Eyes glowing full of molten dreams
Breath red with green
When I did it I focused
On the color of it all
The silvers
The reds
The way it all reflected and melted in the oozy warm water
Spinning and gliding
Drifting farther and farther
The molecules ripping apart at the zippers
Illustrating with precision and beauty what humans do
Through war and hatred*
The eclipsed moon whispered promises through the tape
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 10:20 PM UTC
Wanna say my score cards full of gold stars
but inside I'm still just healing scars
My brain is leaking this terrible oozy sadness
I used to believe this was just all ******* madness
Now I know its me
Just not the me you see
Magic pastry chef run the bakery!
What's that ETA for desserts on table 3?
I smile and spin
But deep within
My minds on fire
I wanna be higher
or imma scream or maybe cry
part of me wants to die
But bake this proof that
Time to make people fat
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
Lydia walked back
from the baker's shop
through the Square
carrying in her thin hands
the loaf of white bread
and half a dozen bread rolls
the 1/- change
from her mother's money
in her green dress pocket
her arms feeling
the chill of the morning air
the greying sky
the pigeons in flight
and she sensing
her stomach rumble
and her big sister
had just crept home
after a night out
(doing what
Lydia didn't know)
and her mother calling her
a ***** whatever that was)
and her father sleeping off
his beer
his snores vibrated
around the flat
and as she approached
her front door
Benedict came over
his cowboy hat
pushed back
his 6 shooter gun
tucked into the belt
of his blue jeans
been to the shop?
he asked
she stopped and nodded
early bird
catching the worm?
he added
bread not worm
she said smiling
she liked it
when he spoke to her
made her feel
kind of wanted
as if she were
of some worth
she liked it
when his hazel eyes
lit up
at the sight of her
how's your mother?
he asked
ok
she said
Benedict stood
and studied her
taking in
her plain green dress
the grey ankle socks
the black plimsolls
her skinny arms
and frame
are you allowed out later?
he asked
should think so
she said
where are you going?
she asked
thought we could catch a bus
to the West End
she frowned
where's that?
he smiled
up West
he said
you know Piccadilly
and Leicester Square
and such
she clutched
the bag of rolls
and the loaf of bread
tightly to her chest
isn't that far away?
a mere bus ride
he said
she looked doubtful
haven't money
she said
no problem
he said
I've enough for both of us
she looked
at her front door
best go in
or Mum'll wonder
where I've got to
he nodded
she moved towards the door
then stopped
and turned to him
see what they say
she said
Ok he said
look forward
to seeing you
she looked at him
that look
in his hazel eyes
that smile lingering
on his lips
like some show girl
waiting to come
on stage and perform
can I have a drink of cola
when we're out?
she asked
sure
he said
maybe ice cream too
they do that
soft oozy kind
up West
he said
her eyes lit up
and she smiled
Ok
she said
and just as she entered
the front door
he blew her
a young boy kiss
from his palm
and then turned
and rode off
across the Square
on his invisible horse
the coal black one
without saddle of course.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
hum...habit...hic...abbott woozy
celebrating with British Royal Family
and...hub bout red dee
to take a snoozy
sup...par'n...this poet
fur...hib bit..bing a lil oozy.
Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare,
would crush with might
but lo…just then zee spouse
plunked herself
with unconsciousness deep
unable to recapture pleasant dreams
well nigh past day light.
So...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry birds
the idea arose to attempt poem
to express discombobulated state
whereby grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest will clear muddled pate
thick with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis with forming words
that follow rhyming pattern
to convey mood = to a synonym for turds.
respite from a cat nap as tonic no lion here
can spell relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes a berserk manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this scrivener
caught by men in white coats
strait jacketing this maniac
in tattered under wear
whose ***** by the way
oh about the size of an average palm
yet taut for witnessing
deux score plus eighteen mortal year.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
*In a den of black clouds
Scary splattering sounds of raindrops
Oozy noise of waving trees like evil witches nearing me
Home alone with my fear of ghosts
A sudden knock on the door
Evil witches nearing closer and closer
Door bell ringing without interval
A tender voice heard from outside
Dear please open the door
We are back home !*
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Sometimes it's like a drum in this deep deep tummy place
Always rhythm always pulsing away
Like waves rippling out
Over and over
Very very gently rocking
Like an undertone
Drumming through
Sometimes it's like sickly sweet sap deep in my throat
Achy
Coating everything
Oozy
Liquid
Tarry
Burning acid around the edges
Sometimes it's like a huge trampoline
Everything moving
Up and down
In slow motion
Breaking up on impact
In my heart
Disintegrating
A bit at a time
Sometimes it’s like sand
Falling through clenched fists
Slowly caressing them to open
Relax
Just a little bit
Compelling them to yield to the constant motion
To the gentle gentle cascade
So gentle I can’t stand it
So gentle I actually can’t stand
Sometimes it’s like a slap bracelet
A moment of contact
And instantly
Wrapped all around
Totally gripped
Coming to on a bathroom floor
Bells and dishes clanking in the background
Sometimes it’s like nerve endings
A young fern
Unfurling
Cautiously
Recoiling easily
Healing
Raw and delicate
Sometimes it’s like the wind in the swaying trees is whispering
Singing
Howling:
You are loved
You are loved
You are loved
You are forgiven
You are loved
You are a part of us
You belong
You are a beloved child of the wild
Sometimes it’s like confusion
Marshy
Organic
Alive
Decomposing
Dark
Trusting the process
Trusting life
Often it’s like ungraspability
Trying, failing, words
Loving eyes
Comforting faces
Guiding hands
Achy knees
Bright sun
A heart
It’s just like becoming alive
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 9:55 PM UTC
i love the sunshine on my cheeks
the smell of new rain
flowers bursting from the ground
the warmth of the oven as i open it for the oozy, gooey chocolate chip cookies
the color purple
tea and a good book
the sound of a the strings of a guitar floating up to my window
the way you hold me when i'm sad, when i'm happy
pretty dresses and fancy dinners
playing in the mud
jumping into the cold atlantic ocean
feeling alive
smiles
chocolate
friends
me!
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
She felt a warm, wet, oozy lick
A playful effort to wake her quick
She kissed her tiny friend, warm and furry
Embracing her wiry frame
The kitty, Simba being her name
Jumped out of bed in a scurry.
Playmates they were attached emotionally
Without each other, helpless and lonely
None could bear being away for long
Either feeling low was bad news
The other would soon catch the blues
Their bond was exceptionally strong.
Today, they played hide and go seek
Compelling her mom to finally shriek
To make her get done some chores
Reluctant to leave her game incomplete
As it meant parting with her friend sweet
Unwillingly she went outdoors.
She could not wait to meet the little fur ball
Her continuous purring would impress all
At home, instinct pointed at something being out of place
She saw her mother searching for something nervously
The woman would never misplace anything carelessly
Reality struck, Simba's basket was now just an empty space.
Tears streaming down her face the whole house she ransacked
After hours of searching the kitten still could not be tracked
They told the neighbors, they looked in the park
They asked children playing outside on the street
To get away, so many people, how could this little thing cheat?
Soon it started getting dark.
With coaxing and nudging she finally fell asleep.
In the dark under the blankets at least she could weep
Sleep eluded her all night
She could only imagine her kitten, somewhere frightened
Her pulse racing, her senses heightened
How would the little one put up a fight?
At last, weary and sad she dozed away
Her friend however did not betray
Her trust as she got her loving wake up ritual
The cat was all along hiding indoors, continuing their game
Waiting for her to find and call out her name.
Their camaraderie and affection was indeed a beautiful visual
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Aah! look at your Majestic Mind,
The source of your Pride,
The concierge of your Dreams,
Your Mistress since Childhood;
Lo! see its Beauty in Naked,
In all the Material,
In all the Moral,
Yes!!! that's your Marker as a Human;
Bravo!!! of the pure genius in you,
You finally made out your identity,
creating a marker of self;
from the Oozy ****** miracle;
Alas, little did you comprehend,
the Irony underlying all of this,
For the judgement comes from the Ugly ooze,
with the verdict Never to underestimate Humanity's stupidity;
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC