"overstuffed" poems
We want to see ourselves
see ourselves
because we're afraid that nobody else will
ever want to capture us
in a camera flash- so we take our own pictures.
Click. Our front camera becomes
the one minute we had hoped our fathers had for us
when he wasn't busy on that same phone, speaking,
not clicking. Without us.
Or it becomes the one minute we had hoped
that our lovers would hold us
before they settled on to someone
with more likes,
more comments,
more friends,
more happiness...
than we could ever wait for.
We are impatient
like the frequency of data on our profiles:
here are our feelings now... here
are our feelings again, five minutes later,
performing for social algorithms
in place of photographers
besides ourselves who
see ourselves.
But our ignited pixels,
and overstuffed inboxes,
and masturbatory statuses,
and glittering timelines,
and social everything-
are popularity contests
that all of us are losing.
Yet still we want to see ourselves
see ourselves
even though we are afraid
of what we know is true...
...Because what difference
is a poem to a tweet
besides the number of characters
that we wish we had to populate our own stories?
Please let us be different,
just like everyone else.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
17.9k
The art of the geniuses
is packed like overstuffed crayons
in the alleyways of my city.
That one is picking his nose.
There is the bench-sleeper.
Here comes the nomad with the stroller.
I watch them carefully like
a soldier on an ambush,
bayonet at the ready,
a little drunk on
self-worth.
They approach and I pause.
I put the camera to my face
and press the shutter.
Turning to me their eyes
beam sorrow.
The nose picker slept alone last night,
the nomad is still lost.
In black and white they
will forever navigate the crawl spaces
of my mainframe.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.
Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.
They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.
Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.
He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.
With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.
Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.
The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.
An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.
If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?
Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
12 inches
Maybe more
And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
They smile.
And he bites their hands.
Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.
They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.
He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!
Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Fate!
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.
He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.
Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.
And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 9:45 PM UTC
tickling tape worms living in ape arms
squiggly shapes getting fat like grapes and
traveling in veins like a gutter swallows rain
like an utter in pain painting pitchers so milky white
tight like an overstuffed mite
bee or egg infested
ceiling unappealing
but
crack is revealing my
inner thoughts
statutory holocaust
saturated oil spots
aggravated foil plots
plotting for a battle
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
The air in this room is heavier at night,
it inflates my lungs like water balloons.
I think about what loneliness is,
learning that I'm the only breathing body here.
A twin sized bed is plenty of room for me;
I can't sleep in a crowded blanket
pushing two sets of shoulders together,
like a suitcase slipping overstuffed clothes
through gaping zipper teeth.
I only have one chair in here,
barley enough comfort for one.
But this room needs another life,
two more lungs to share the air.
There won't be enough seating,
or a place for your clothes.
But I won't mind stretching this blanket
to cover four shoulders.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
Orange peels,
an overstuffed ash-tray,
empty wrappers,
for those capsules
that wake & then
those that hypnotise.
Swallow smoke.
That bitter black drink,
keeps me confident,
that I’m alive.
My heart rattles
in its calcium cage.
Despite the voice
that beckons
“Why go on?”
The looking glass lies
I feel like holding my breath
until I burst…
I feel like wasting away.
Let me shrink
Let me fade away.
Or pass in some
spectacular manner
Orange peels,
Cigarette butts,
Missed phone calls.
***** sheets.
Trembling up to my fingertips.
A seamless motion-
hand to mouth
Always hand to mouth
These are my props,
this is my performance
in permenance.
Oh how I grow tired
Of singing the same old song.
Oh how I grow tired
of singing
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
As the happy hour crowd
walks down Redwood Street
in its ***** lamp lit haze
they pass by dozens of
cart pushing men in
old bomber jackets
fading into the
unwashed stone beneath
windows newly washed
by minimum wagers.
These men and their
overstuffed suitcases,
their ***** fingernails
and aging shoes,
their cold noses
and heavy breath
seep into the shadows
like long forgotten artifacts
on an antique store’s shelf.
They droop, collecting dust,
begging to be lifted or even
touched.
Some smile and sing
with an overturned hat
patiently expecting
on the street curb.
Some sit, slumped
and seem like
a misshapen lump of clay
in the dark
with plastic cup extended.
The happy hour crowd
coming from UMMC
clad in multicolored
scrubs and pressed
business suits with
golf club cluttered ties
and black silk button down
blouses that block the cool wind
passes them by with the same
glance they give to
lamp posts.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
How can one pick up the seams
of a long forgotten past?
How can restoration ever begin
when the heart and soul
has departed from the rest?
Falling leaves
and dying trees,
shattered glass
resounding screams.
I open my eyes and see a city of gray
a collection of broken people.
The product of a broken past.
I look upon the waste that lies before me
I view the rubble with despair.
This was once a golden dynasty,
a land of abundance,
a city of white.
Now decayed,
fallen into rot and ruin.
Distraught and dying
of intellectual thirst.
The haunted look I see on the faces
the frail cry echoing in the night,
the silent torment
the unheard agony.
Children lie in the street
mothers weep.
Powerful men
keep their power to themselves
They hoard and keep
they watch as their city falls
they gaze on upon the gray.
Oblivious to the torment
untouched by the tears
the heartache and the hurt.
Mountains of ruin
rivers of blood
oceans of tears
growing like a mighty flood.
The dying and the sick,
the weak and the poor,
the famous and the rich,
those wicked lords.
I see them all,
all alike,
I open my eyes and see them.
Somehow, someway
they are the same.
Behind the hollowed eyes
and the overstuffed bellies
the thick fur coats
and the naked flesh.
They are so alike
so similar
these creatures.
They are as one being
one soul,
one flesh.
Shivers coursing
through my veins,
slivers of fear
falling like rain.
Tired and sore
wretched and poor,
weak and frail
I open my minds door.
I enter into a land
A land where no hurt,
nor wrong can ever touch
A place where what is,
is really not,
and what was thought to be remembered
is truly forgot.
I walk through the streets
with new eyes
And gaze upon the ruins
and all their lies.
How things,
then seem so changed
how things that were,
really are not.
The rich were truly poor.
Their souls filthy
***** and wretched,
their hearts blackened
broken and ruined.
Yet those the poor,
and the wretched.
The ones that I had so surely thought
were worthless.
Were truly lords
and conquers
For they controlled their destiny
they governed their hearts.
Kept the undying
innocent and free of all wrong.
And now with this new found vision
A hope arose inside of me
For I then saw
what there truly was to be seen,
a land beyond the physical
a nominal realm.
Wretched and distraught
broken and forgot,
they are beautiful
these ruins.
They are the glorious ruins
of a long lost past.
Through the eye of the father
by the grace of love.
The miracle of salvation
the glory of these shattered ruins is revealed.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Old houses whistling in memories
Screen doors flapping in the wind
White sheets wrapped in furniture
Echos of children playing
Cool breezes blowing through curtains
Overstuffed bookshelves
Mothers standing in doorways
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
oho!
look at you
NOW you want me
to come dance with you
act silly
sing along
to all our songs
impeccable timing...
really,
watson.
i finally shove past you
and all your overstuffed luggage
but you grab onto my shirttails
yank me back
right before
i land in someone else's lap
can't i
catch a break?
**** off,
homewrecker
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
When graphite meets the silky threads of paper
Or when ink drips upon the golden sheet
A beautiful artist is born.
There are many kinds of artists in this world
Although today I shall speak of only one..
A neglected kind that does not wish to
Gain fame or to capture the spotlight
But rather to share to listening ears.
There be people
Who see the world through the eyes of a painter
But are capable of stealing the elegance
Of a dancer, a fighter, royal blood, and much more
And condensing what they feel and see
Into a narcotic thread of words.
There be people
With broken and shining hearts alike
That run on wheels of ideas and epiphanies
And feed on overstuffed buffets of salty tears and sugary kindness.
Idealists and realists,
The poor and the rich,
The hungry and the fed,
The broken and the salvaged,
The logical and the emotional,
This beautiful art is not limited to anyone.
It is the echoing voice of the heart
It is the pleading cries of the soul
And the smile of our childhood innocence.
This art we call "poetry"
It is the life itself whispering ideas into ears.
And if that isn't beautiful.. I don't know what is.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
The caramel corn has taken on a subtle hint of hand sanitizer.
It is enough to **** all the germs.
A kernel escapes and the search party is unsuccessful.
The tile in the bathroom reminds me of other jobs.
Janitorial work,
cleaning up after others.
The tiles in my store were larger and dirtier.
I can't think,
this headache is raging a war.
Aided by my cube neighbors fan.
I snore at night and dream of helicopters.
Things usually come back around to bite you,
like a snake
or NASCAR.
America,
the Land of the Free.
I have lied so much that
it comes out as the truth.
A rusty swing set sits in the backyard,
choked by weeds and broken furniture.
The overstuffed purple couch
has seen better days.
Tonight,
it will sleep alone.
When I am feeling down I count the ceiling tiles,
getting lost at fourteen.
Fifteen is a liar.
What would happen if the stars did re-align?
Just for one day,
the cost of beer wouldn't be so high.
Then again,
the liquor store on Jefferson sells Tallies for $1.19.
Let's not be greedy.
I will buy two of them to make sure that when I sleep tonight,
it is soundly.
The phone keeps ringing with complaints.
People are more interested in their neighbors
than the fire.
Forget about this poem.
It is better if you just skim this literary travesty.
There is no substance.
This new day is failing
and it will soon be cleansed.
Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned.
Please,
watch over those I care most about.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Presents wrapped colorfully out on the sand
the gulf shore waves test the knots and bows
fabric triangles and strings leave just enough
to the imagination, while curves show
A stunning visual display on water and land
Bouncing like the volleyballs, part of the show
small, medium, large, some overstuffed
rogue wave washes it off and now we know
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
And she reads Chekhov in the bathtub
thinking that 19th century Russia
must have been visually interesting, but literarily dull,
writing overstuffed with description and repetition.
It's pungent perfume pleasant at first, but soon overbearing.
She never made it through Anna K. either,
and only conquered Ilyich for academics sake.
Swimming in the long winded, emotional descriptions,
all she could think, was of what Northern ancestor
decided all Russians should go by three names
and what cunning linguist adored 'V' and 'Y' to such extent
that he proclaimed they should be used as much as humanly possible.
A popularized, sadistic joke
for a younger brother with a speech impediment.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
Some days I can’t decide whether to be a modern day poet or not. Sometimes I wake up thinking “butterflies.”, And I decide that maybe I’d like to be an accountant instead, forcing number after number into some poor overstuffed calculator all day. I’d be the talk of the office, “Have you seen that ****** over in cell #2?”, “The one who just sits there looking at her calculator all day?”, “Yes! She just sits around muttering ‘When’s it going to explode? When’s it going to explode’?”
Then some other poor sucker’s calculator would explode and he’d be horribly scarred, and they’d all realize that I was sane after all. But of course by then I’d be off in some horrible asylum by then, having my frontal lobe chopped off. So maybe I wouldn’t make a good accountant. There’s no money in poetry though, that’s my problem, you see? If I could sit around typing lyrical nonsense all day and actually be paid for it, well that’d be cool. However if that ever did happen, chances are I’d be off in some distance land universe writing the holy bible for a bunch of seven fingered goats or something. I don’t like goats. Back to butterflies? No… I have nothing to say about those either. The truth is, although I’d love to be one of the inspiring people who goes around raving about the evils of money, im more liky to be the one chasing after the guy giving that lecture yelling, “WELL IF YOU DON’T WANT IT, THEN GIVE IT TO ME!”
And then I’d store it in some dark corner in my bedroom as I lay on my bed and wrote until I passed out from some disease called life that you can’t put off living just to write in that little hidey-hole in your mind.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
Down
the streets that whisper names,
through lace curtains
people play their parlour games
twitching
sneaking looks from behind Gothic scripted leather bound books and overstuffed chairs
where ***** is taken and sherry drunk
and tea biscuits dunked in warm Earl Grey
and another day begins in mill house town.
Locomotives sweating steel feel their way
across the bridge
to Morecambe bay
where there's a different class of folk
used to smoke and steaming coal
to steam the fish within the bowl.
And the bowl is either empty or it is not
never in between,
Like the life we live a lot is never seen
but talked in murmurs on street corners
by former miners
agitators
free creative thinking men who know to use the pen and not the sword but they're starving all the same
all in the name
democracy.
We see it differently
a heresy that's being perpetrated to dislocate and disengage and put poor people in a cage.
In the zoo you'll come to see
democracy through iron bars
Tsars that's what these suited tyrants are
well suited to the task in hand
to strip the land of all its wealth
and let's not forget the National health which is good enough for me and you
they'll feed us anything here in the zoo.
Bupa now that is super for the supermen and ladies too who come to visit on Saturdays at the zoo.
I don't know what to do
should I laugh or cry or demonstrate
or have I left it all too late?
What a God **** awful state we're in
It's one for all or ****** all and then we'll fall
into the straw
strewn ******** across the floor in cage 3b
I see but can't decide
have I died and gone to hell?
well
only time will tell.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
Bullets have no feelings
No use in kneeling
Nobody cares that matters.
They never count
The bones that shatter,
The blood that splatters
The lives they ruin.
They don’t know what they’re doing.
They’re thinking with their wallets.
Lining their overstuffed pockets,
They reward their own efforts
Then get together and do the same
For others with too much fame
And too little conscience;
No pity to share,
They don’t care.
We are not there
To them.
Their anthem
Is gouge, overcharge
Fill up a barge with gold.
This graft never grows old
When you are on the receiving end.
Millions to donate? You are a friend.
No riches to date? You are forgotten,
A loser, a user, misbegotten
And no concern of those
With a spoon in their nose
And riches to spend
On a war that never ends
And makes them more and more.
And secret bank accounts don’t score
With the IRS or with the detectives;
As long as our county is defective
They will continue to win.
Again and again.
If you object to this
You need to at least kiss
The ***** of some politicians
Who won’t see their petitions
Ignored, as always before
When someone denounced
The smallest ounce
Of corruption and payoffs
Paid to overpaid jerkoffs
Who are turning our leadership
Into a high-priced sinking ship
Of fools and criminals
Claiming to be intellectuals
When really they are crooks
Cooking the books.
Again and again.
And we never win.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
If I could go into my mind
Walk around
It would look like
A cute little bookshop
Old and rustic
Books overflowing on shelves
All containing the knowledge my mind holds
A few cobwebs
In high up places
Overstuffed chairs
Made for comfort
When I need it
I imagine an older lady
In charge of the store
Wise for my age
The thoughts of
An 80 year old
In a 14 year old's body
When I was younger
It was probably like the children's section
Pictures filled my mind
Giving me the imagination
To keep my innocence
For as long as I did
My mom would say
That a 36 year old
Ran the shop then
And I, the 7 year old
Was a common costumer
I wish I could
Just live in my mind
And not have to interact
With the outside world
Sometimes I like to think
The boys that I get infatuated with
Will visit my little bookstore
And search the shelves
While I hide in an overstuffed chair
And admire them from the distance
I could go on forever
With this metaphor
Of my mind
So I won’t
While those who read this
Get a quick glimpse
Into my bookshop
And if they look hard enough
They can see the dark haired girl
With a smattering of freckles
Sunk into a chair
With a book in hand
And a pen in the other
As she expands her knowledge
She finishes a book
And adds it to the shelf
Another day
Another adventure
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
her dress was blue gauze
because there wasn't much there,
for hair, or makeup
after her breakup, she went to the mall and used
yes uses, the outdoor steps for a changeroom, putting on her polka dot pjamas, once that
could be used, for the game of twister.
Poor sister.
She took it all off in the downpour,
she chose not shower, the water was too cold and refreshing,
make her catch her breath while wretching,
no one walking by found her fetching,
they all turned away as they walked by,
so did my wife and I but she checked
and confirmed, the stairs were her change room, she was putting on dry clothes
she had three overstuffed bags, her feet were cold and wet, her socks were wet,
we did not see any shoes,
sadly her angry looks at
the invisible people she
muttered too
uttered curses loudly
kept anyone wanting
to help far away, as far away as Oz,
whoever wanted to be a bridge for her troubled water,
and all she needed and all she wanted was a dry place
to lay herself down,
sail on, silver girl
sail on by,
there will be serious prayers for you tonight, because God does not
make life trivial, we do,
take your bags, He will cover you with wings
and your baggage, in your hands, He is sufficient, to provide for your needs
is all that you own in those purses and bags, but you are not alone,
even if you have been given up for lonely.
Will someone be sent to help her?
©DWE012014
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I’d have left off loving you long back
If not for the glory of our local greasy spoon.
Your long fingertips
Curled over the red plastic borders
Framing the menu’s backside, showing me lunch specials, the Hungryman plate.
In this scene we are the couple caught up in a picture-book love
And so shy of speaking it that affection
Becomes a game of concealment versus concession.
We are good at the game, and our strategies evolved
Complex techniques of deceptive chitter chatter.
We made greasy spoon small talk, talk like artificial sweetener;
Because talk of substance would be to take account of the closing in of reality and my
Impending departure to tropical countries, names unpronounceable.
How much simpler to order soggy hash browns.
How much simpler to butter white bread toast
With white butter wrapped in gold packets.
Map spread on the linoleum tabletop,
I pointed out places with names full of P’s and K’s,
Overstuffed with consonants and gathering
Crumbs from our buttery palms.
Our fingers touched so often,
These hands might as well have been holding;
But then, days before my flight into the hot tropics,
These hands won’t touch, they’ll let their fingerprints drown in finger food grease.
Those days it was summer, when the weather was a mystery—
Ceaseless weeks overcast, when grey skies hanging above
Pondered pouring rain on us; it was a very indecisive summer.
We walked from the diner, both tucked under one umbrella,
Felt the unpleasant humidity and
Our own hesitance before saying goodbye.
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 8:11 PM UTC