"packets" poems - Hello Poetry

"packets" poems

Polite Typical Smiley Daughter Pointlessly Trusting School District Professor Turns-blind-eye Struggling Drastically Packets Turn-to Stacks Deficient Panic Attacks Turn-to Self Destruction Pulling Teeth Sick Design Plans To Stop Discussing Peace To-her Silence Disturbs People Talked She Distracted Passed The Snacks-to Dinners Pulled The Same Dimensions Pre-K Then Smaller Didn't Pause Third-Grade So Dead Parents Though She Drowned Piled Thoughts Suffocated-her Dexterity Patient There Suffering Depression Problems To-many-to Score Dispute Progress That Shockingly Developed Potentially Taken-away-the Suffering Dramatically Poor Tiny Sweet Doll Part Traumatized Sleep Deprived Phobic though Sixth grade Doesn't Play Though Six-Years-of Death Until... The little girl, learned she had, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and, school treating her badly is only one of her three traumatizing events.

0

Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC

Polite Typical Smiley Daughter Pointlessly Trusting School District Professor Turns-blind-eye Struggling Drastically Packets Turn-to Stacks Deficient Panic Attacks Turn-to Self Destruction Pulling Teeth Sick Design Plans To Stop Discussing Peace To-her Silence Disturbs People Talked She Distracted Passed The Snacks-to Dinners Pulled The Same Dimensions Pre-K Then Smaller Didn't Pause Third-Grade So Dead Parents Though She Drowned Piled Thoughts Suffocated-her Dexterity Patient There Suffering Depression Problems To-many-to Score Dispute Progress That Shockingly Developed Potentially Taken-away-the Suffering Dramatically Poor Tiny Sweet Doll Part Traumatized Sleep Deprived Phobic though Sixth grade Doesn't Play Though Six-Years-of Death Until... The little girl, learned she had, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and, school treating her badly is only one of her three traumatizing events.

Continue reading...

When I enter, the black holes of myself, they are located, transcribed upon the blackboards of our unified bodies, the magnification of energy transversed, principles demonstrated by the unconcluding conclusion of the expansion of creation, the rebirthing of one universe never ending When I enter a woman, the discovery sought, the definitional needed, the proofs equational, the factors constant, not the variable truths, the demonstrations positive, the constants of the universe, combinational, all within, a single point glistening to gentle comfort this knowledge of my wasting, the foresight of my limitations from the day of birth my matter, matters, my energy neither destroyed or created, illimitable, my decline inevitable and yet! cannot alter my atomic structure. my future guaranteed, my inner light, traveling so fast, it has yet to arrive When I enter a woman, the laws of physics become special theories of relativity, we are motion in time, force and energy nucleotides rawest refined, elemental and particle nuclear, packets of light exclaimed When I enter a woman, organic, chemistry, interdisciplinary my body and its life force shaped as electric current transceivers crossing galaxies, there can be no deceivers, there but and only the birthing of heat, a byproduct of interjection, conjunction creation of creativity <> she is my proof long after the log normal of my nerves, now parceled to the invisible of an oscillating log natural, fertilizes the sea grasses that so intoxicate, flying, carried, by the invisiblity of the winds, all-where I have chosen as my shifting shape, when this container leaks and crack'd, in sentry reentry orbit, to the nearest garbage strewn construction-dead lot When I enter a woman, physics far beyond the commonplace, physical transition to knowledge of life ever after death and fear are time sensitized passing notions, crushed by the consolation of physics, the eternality of a time once begun, cannot end, and therefore this, my one theory of everything, the God I worship, of course, he is invisible!

0

Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC

The Consolation of Physics (When I Enter a Woman) Nov. 2014

When I enter, the black holes of myself, they are located, transcribed upon the blackboards of our unified bodies, the magnification of energy transversed, principles demonstrated by the unconcluding conclusion of the expansion of creation, the rebirthing of one universe never ending When I enter a woman, the discovery sought, the definitional needed, the proofs equational, the factors constant, not the variable truths, the demonstrations positive, the constants of the universe, combinational, all within, a single point glistening to gentle comfort this knowledge of my wasting, the foresight of my limitations from the day of birth my matter, matters, my energy neither destroyed or created, illimitable, my decline inevitable and yet! cannot alter my atomic structure. my future guaranteed, my inner light, traveling so fast, it has yet to arrive When I enter a woman, the laws of physics become special theories of relativity, we are motion in time, force and energy nucleotides rawest refined, elemental and particle nuclear, packets of light exclaimed When I enter a woman, organic, chemistry, interdisciplinary my body and its life force shaped as electric current transceivers crossing galaxies, there can be no deceivers, there but and only the birthing of heat, a byproduct of interjection, conjunction creation of creativity <> she is my proof long after the log normal of my nerves, now parceled to the invisible of an oscillating log natural, fertilizes the sea grasses that so intoxicate, flying, carried, by the invisiblity of the winds, all-where I have chosen as my shifting shape, when this container leaks and crack'd, in sentry reentry orbit, to the nearest garbage strewn construction-dead lot When I enter a woman, physics far beyond the commonplace, physical transition to knowledge of life ever after death and fear are time sensitized passing notions, crushed by the consolation of physics, the eternality of a time once begun, cannot end, and therefore this, my one theory of everything, the God I worship, of course, he is invisible!

Continue reading...

Lady, your room is lousy with flowers. When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy. I forget you, hearing the cut flowers Sipping their liquids from assorted pots, Pitchers and Coronation goblets Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries Bow down, a local constellation, Toward their admirers in the tabletop: Mobs of eyeballs looking up. Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them --- Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue? The red geraniums I know. Friends, friends. They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after. My nostrils prickle with nostalgia. Henna hags:cloth of your cloth. They tow old water thick as fog. The roses in the Toby jug Gave up the ghost last night. High time. Their yellow corsets were ready to split. You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch, Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers. You should have junked them before they died. Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at By chrysanthemums the size Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same Magenta as this fubsy sofa. In the mirror their doubles back them up. Listen: your tenant mice Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy. And you doze on, nose to the wall. This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket. How did we make it up to your attic? You handed me gin in a glass bud vase. We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood, Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

0

14.7k

Lady, your room is lousy with flowers. When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy. I forget you, hearing the cut flowers Sipping their liquids from assorted pots, Pitchers and Coronation goblets Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries Bow down, a local constellation, Toward their admirers in the tabletop: Mobs of eyeballs looking up. Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them --- Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue? The red geraniums I know. Friends, friends. They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after. My nostrils prickle with nostalgia. Henna hags:cloth of your cloth. They tow old water thick as fog. The roses in the Toby jug Gave up the ghost last night. High time. Their yellow corsets were ready to split. You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch, Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers. You should have junked them before they died. Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at By chrysanthemums the size Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same Magenta as this fubsy sofa. In the mirror their doubles back them up. Listen: your tenant mice Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy. And you doze on, nose to the wall. This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket. How did we make it up to your attic? You handed me gin in a glass bud vase. We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood, Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

Continue reading...

A duality of elan vital, two people Spectres of emotion Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts Helixes of snot, **** and lymph Boy & girl As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end Always was, always is Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic ***** Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential Corpus Callosum An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration Theory of mind, looped & bound I will water the thought Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago A neuron dipped in nylon Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation Ghosts in the machine, your macro god The sympathies of fractional distillation Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears Commodified, sold out and bought Stretching, from purple, white and black slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic Monetised flesh god An eternity bathed in starlight Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy Divided dimensions of energy Fleeting and intangible No longer a delirium of seperation All semantics become light As a rusted vehicle passes overhead And all the worlds questions fade out of existence Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice Sinew flayed, integrated towards information Our minds shared In circuits and resistors Photons and electrons We radiate

0

Apr 1, 2014

Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC

The Miracle Of The Sun

A duality of elan vital, two people Spectres of emotion Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts Helixes of snot, **** and lymph Boy & girl As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end Always was, always is Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic ***** Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential Corpus Callosum An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration Theory of mind, looped & bound I will water the thought Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago A neuron dipped in nylon Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation Ghosts in the machine, your macro god The sympathies of fractional distillation Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears Commodified, sold out and bought Stretching, from purple, white and black slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic Monetised flesh god An eternity bathed in starlight Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy Divided dimensions of energy Fleeting and intangible No longer a delirium of seperation All semantics become light As a rusted vehicle passes overhead And all the worlds questions fade out of existence Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice Sinew flayed, integrated towards information Our minds shared In circuits and resistors Photons and electrons We radiate

Continue reading...

In the supermarket airport There are arrivals every day. The departures in your trolley Come to you from far away. Those brightly coloured vegetables Have sat around for days In what we’re told are such hygienic backroom bays. They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves! Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves. Here every carrot is straight and clean And every lettuce crisply curled Then gassed in plastic packets That are filling up our world! Take a glance inside your trolley And if what I say is true Then I guarantee the food within Has seen more of the world than you. Like the picture on the packet Of your frozen ready meal The colour of this far flown food is great The taste experience, surreal. Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins We should dye brown, to match their taste Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour- What a waste! A plate of vibrant promising hue Can taste of packaging and glue. The supermarket tells you you’re in clover But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover. Your supermarket says that it is catering for you But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true? If you don’t then there is something you can do. At the supermarket airport All the money’s in departures So put that trolley back And just depart. If you're wanting to be vocal Then shop seasonal and local And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.

0

Apr 27, 2010

Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC

supermarket airports.

In the supermarket airport There are arrivals every day. The departures in your trolley Come to you from far away. Those brightly coloured vegetables Have sat around for days In what we’re told are such hygienic backroom bays. They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves! Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves. Here every carrot is straight and clean And every lettuce crisply curled Then gassed in plastic packets That are filling up our world! Take a glance inside your trolley And if what I say is true Then I guarantee the food within Has seen more of the world than you. Like the picture on the packet Of your frozen ready meal The colour of this far flown food is great The taste experience, surreal. Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins We should dye brown, to match their taste Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour- What a waste! A plate of vibrant promising hue Can taste of packaging and glue. The supermarket tells you you’re in clover But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover. Your supermarket says that it is catering for you But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true? If you don’t then there is something you can do. At the supermarket airport All the money’s in departures So put that trolley back And just depart. If you're wanting to be vocal Then shop seasonal and local And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.

Continue reading...

The Flower Sellers Rushing with their bundles The Milk Vendors Cycling with their milk cans The Newspaper boys Sorting out their packets The Morning walkers Warming up and stretching The Chai-walas Pouring out their teas The scarfed mill workers Speeding for their shifts The vegetable vendors Carrying their head loads The Suprabhatham Flowing from a distant house The night shift workers Returning home. The Municipality workers Cleaning the streets.. *The city is waking up Or did it ever sleep?*

0

Oct 29, 2015

Oct 29, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC

The city waking up..!

The Flower Sellers Rushing with their bundles The Milk Vendors Cycling with their milk cans The Newspaper boys Sorting out their packets The Morning walkers Warming up and stretching The Chai-walas Pouring out their teas The scarfed mill workers Speeding for their shifts The vegetable vendors Carrying their head loads The Suprabhatham Flowing from a distant house The night shift workers Returning home. The Municipality workers Cleaning the streets.. *The city is waking up Or did it ever sleep?*

Continue reading...

All winter the fire devoured everything -- tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers. When April finally arrived, I opened the woodstove one last time and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights into a bucket, ash rising through shafts of sunlight, as swirling in bright, angelic eddies. I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log, black and pointed like a pencil; half-burnt pages sacrificed in the making of poems; old, square handmade nails liberated from weathered planks split for kindling. I buried my hands in the bucket, found the nails, lifted them, the phoenix of my right hand shielded with soot and tar, my left hand shrouded in soft white ash -- nails in both fists like forged lightning. I smeared black lines on my face, drew crosses on my chest with the nails, raised my arms and stomped my feet, dancing in honor of spring and rebirth, dancing in honor of winter and death. I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden, spread ashes over the ground, asked the earth to be good. I gave the earth everything that pulled me through the lonely winter -- oak trees, barns, poems. I picked up my shovel and turned hard, gray dirt, the blade splitting winter from spring. With *** and rake, I cultivated soil, tilling row after row, the earth now loose and black. Tearing seed packets with my teeth, I sowed spinach with my right hand, planted petunias with my left. Lifting clumps of dirt, I crumbled them in my fists, loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers. And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water, a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air, ash drifting over fields dew-covered and lightly dusted green.

0

5.8k

All winter the fire devoured everything -- tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers. When April finally arrived, I opened the woodstove one last time and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights into a bucket, ash rising through shafts of sunlight, as swirling in bright, angelic eddies. I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log, black and pointed like a pencil; half-burnt pages sacrificed in the making of poems; old, square handmade nails liberated from weathered planks split for kindling. I buried my hands in the bucket, found the nails, lifted them, the phoenix of my right hand shielded with soot and tar, my left hand shrouded in soft white ash -- nails in both fists like forged lightning. I smeared black lines on my face, drew crosses on my chest with the nails, raised my arms and stomped my feet, dancing in honor of spring and rebirth, dancing in honor of winter and death. I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden, spread ashes over the ground, asked the earth to be good. I gave the earth everything that pulled me through the lonely winter -- oak trees, barns, poems. I picked up my shovel and turned hard, gray dirt, the blade splitting winter from spring. With *** and rake, I cultivated soil, tilling row after row, the earth now loose and black. Tearing seed packets with my teeth, I sowed spinach with my right hand, planted petunias with my left. Lifting clumps of dirt, I crumbled them in my fists, loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers. And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water, a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air, ash drifting over fields dew-covered and lightly dusted green.

Continue reading...

Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades... anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy. Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran no fire through his veins. Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man. As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness entered him of them. And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out taking hold Zeus' lightning. Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man. Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of slaughtered animal parts. A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets. One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat. Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two... inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat. A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction, pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own vanity. Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God of him struck at Prometheus' family. At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder Prometheus from the ground he stood. A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose directive was writ in torment. Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver. Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the bounty of itself!

0

Jan 17, 2012

Jan 17, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC

Prometheus, That Accursed ***** Shall Be The Bounty Of Itself

Zeus, your predilection for banishing Titans to Hades... anathema of them--revolt was theirs of you...Titanomachy. Enter Prometheus, second generational Titan, brother to Atlas--Prometheus of whom Titan revolt at first ran no fire through his veins. Thus, Zeus was well pleased and employed Prometheus to put earth to water, water to earth...as to yield man. As so man was, and was unto Prometheus...a fondness entered him of them. And in of passion Prometheus' veins were run through with fire...fire fought fire--thus Prometheus reached out taking hold Zeus' lightning. Hid in a hollowed fennel stalk, to be bequeathed unto man. Torrents of fire now ran Prometheus' veins, and in a fit of infamous mockery presented Zeus with two packets of slaughtered animal parts. A hubris was born in Prometheus that being so halved God-man gave itself fully to that polarity...he gawked at Zeus and bade him choose between the two packets. One of ox meat and innards coated in stomach lining, the other of ox-bones coated in its own abundant fat. Thus Zeus chose, the wretched lesser of the two... inconsumable ox-bones coated by fat. A charged and terrible air cut and heavied all direction, pointing assuredly that Zeus was one given over to the surface of things, a psychological casualty of his own vanity. Zeus overcome with Prometheus' disaffection for the God of him struck at Prometheus' family. At length, this assault could not, would not put asunder Prometheus from the ground he stood. A certain Haphaestus was summoned by Zeus...whose directive was writ in torment. Chain Prometheus to Mount Caucasus...where from on high a sackcloth cloud shall shake loose an eagle, whose homing hunger shall have only a taste for Prometheus' liver. Day in, and day out, that accursed ***** shall be the bounty of itself!

Continue reading...

You have stars in your hands and you hold them like grenades. The boats tattooed on your thighs spread out like finger placements of the G major chord. Synthetic drugs make chains tying your first and second fingers around the mechanically rolled paper, canvasing your throat like too much sea water, each breath as rough as the veins in your arms. Close your eyes there’s pollen in the air spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple. Solar countries keep foreign coins sewed into their cotton sails, they put their money into the navy. You have a comet in your circulatory system leaving bright spots under your skin a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes. Hand soap in ketchup packets make bubble bath islands and unhappy lips. You’re as talkative as a poem and as expensive as a poppy with homemade constellations on your back, staining your lumbar muscles with cherries. I can’t wash off your fingerprints with my favourite shampoo. I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait, dodge your dinghies and make a home in handmade ships where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms and washing the soap from my hair.

0

Aug 25, 2013

Aug 25, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC

The sun in your irises

You have stars in your hands and you hold them like grenades. The boats tattooed on your thighs spread out like finger placements of the G major chord. Synthetic drugs make chains tying your first and second fingers around the mechanically rolled paper, canvasing your throat like too much sea water, each breath as rough as the veins in your arms. Close your eyes there’s pollen in the air spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple. Solar countries keep foreign coins sewed into their cotton sails, they put their money into the navy. You have a comet in your circulatory system leaving bright spots under your skin a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes. Hand soap in ketchup packets make bubble bath islands and unhappy lips. You’re as talkative as a poem and as expensive as a poppy with homemade constellations on your back, staining your lumbar muscles with cherries. I can’t wash off your fingerprints with my favourite shampoo. I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait, dodge your dinghies and make a home in handmade ships where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms and washing the soap from my hair.

Continue reading...

Husbands, raise your hands Keep them up if you love your wife Keep them up if you colour your wifes hair Okay, this is for the three of us that are left.... I did my wife a favour As I do, because I can I help her when I'm able Not just because I am a man I **** bugs when requested I do the laundry like I should I clean the bathroom when it's ***** And by doing so , feel good Every few weeks I will help her Hide the grey that she can see I don't volunteer to do it But it's cheap to hire me A salon visit is expensive Doing hair, and waiting hours I just slip on my latex hand wear And I have a bag full of super powers Yes, I help my wife get couloured I take the time and do her hair I also, get it on the tiles Up the wall and on two chairs The dog gets covered just a little The rug, a window and the bed But, we always buy two packets So, there's enough to do her head I have a jacket slightly mottled It's got a few brown spots, some red I don't know exactly how it happened I even got some on our bed Just call me Mr. Kenneth In my jumpsuit doing hair I get it where I think she needs it And I spray it everywhere She comes out looking gorgeous She's always happy with the result She always looks a little different Like someone who believes in the occult If you're a husband who likes money Save it, colour your wife's hair Your part only takes ten minutes You need ten towels, one mask, one chair It brings us both closer together My arms look like a leopard skin All my shirts are slightly spotted But all those spots, make me look thin I've got to go now and get cleaned up The carpets ruined, so's the wood But, she's happy and we all know that If the wife is happy....all is good!

0

Oct 8, 2012

Oct 8, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC

Doing the Wife's Hair

Husbands, raise your hands Keep them up if you love your wife Keep them up if you colour your wifes hair Okay, this is for the three of us that are left.... I did my wife a favour As I do, because I can I help her when I'm able Not just because I am a man I **** bugs when requested I do the laundry like I should I clean the bathroom when it's ***** And by doing so , feel good Every few weeks I will help her Hide the grey that she can see I don't volunteer to do it But it's cheap to hire me A salon visit is expensive Doing hair, and waiting hours I just slip on my latex hand wear And I have a bag full of super powers Yes, I help my wife get couloured I take the time and do her hair I also, get it on the tiles Up the wall and on two chairs The dog gets covered just a little The rug, a window and the bed But, we always buy two packets So, there's enough to do her head I have a jacket slightly mottled It's got a few brown spots, some red I don't know exactly how it happened I even got some on our bed Just call me Mr. Kenneth In my jumpsuit doing hair I get it where I think she needs it And I spray it everywhere She comes out looking gorgeous She's always happy with the result She always looks a little different Like someone who believes in the occult If you're a husband who likes money Save it, colour your wife's hair Your part only takes ten minutes You need ten towels, one mask, one chair It brings us both closer together My arms look like a leopard skin All my shirts are slightly spotted But all those spots, make me look thin I've got to go now and get cleaned up The carpets ruined, so's the wood But, she's happy and we all know that If the wife is happy....all is good!

Continue reading...

its cold here my heavy eyes droop the teacher drones on I blow my nose, so that I can breathe in, out, in sneeze out in, out, in, out, sneeze I'm at the back of the room isolated java 2, the elite sitting alone in a java 1 class, so I don't have to pay attention Mrs. is teaching stuff I already learned She hands me packets to work on, on my own the trees look so green, I love the spring may, almost, summer summer coming soon, not soon enough tap tap tap tap the keyboards click click click ugh my nose is so congested my eyes are so heavy sleeeeeep I just need sleep I have to packets I need to work on, but I can't focus. can't focus, can't breathe my hands are tired from typing I'm too tired to focus on reading so what to do, what to do. I'm wasting time, but who actually cares I'll get the work done, just not today summer come sooner, I need some warmth warmth, my bed is so warm this classroom is cold i'm cold bed, bed, sleep warmth how will I ever get through this day?

0

May 7, 2014

May 7, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC

michelle-m-diaz

its cold here my heavy eyes droop the teacher drones on I blow my nose, so that I can breathe in, out, in sneeze out in, out, in, out, sneeze I'm at the back of the room isolated java 2, the elite sitting alone in a java 1 class, so I don't have to pay attention Mrs. is teaching stuff I already learned She hands me packets to work on, on my own the trees look so green, I love the spring may, almost, summer summer coming soon, not soon enough tap tap tap tap the keyboards click click click ugh my nose is so congested my eyes are so heavy sleeeeeep I just need sleep I have to packets I need to work on, but I can't focus. can't focus, can't breathe my hands are tired from typing I'm too tired to focus on reading so what to do, what to do. I'm wasting time, but who actually cares I'll get the work done, just not today summer come sooner, I need some warmth warmth, my bed is so warm this classroom is cold i'm cold bed, bed, sleep warmth how will I ever get through this day?

Continue reading...

So much waste. When will it stop. Too many people letting it drop. Streets full of litter. ******* galore. Crisp packets cigarette butts. All over the floor. Think before you throw. The ******* piles will grow and grow.

0

Jan 22, 2015

Jan 22, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC

So much waste. When will it stop. Too many people letting it drop. Streets full of litter. ******* galore. Crisp packets cigarette butts. All over the floor. Think before you throw. The ******* piles will grow and grow.

Continue reading...

In the dreary hour of the just-dawn, your life painted in grim notes, you are alone with all your Self; The trees all asleep in grey tones, lamps that gave light all night, become pale packets of wastage; A gust of wind pours in carrying the songs of birds singing to the unveiling skies. A new morning comes rushing on the waves of the mellow sea from worlds beyond the horizon: A day rises, when you drop all the burdens you long carried on your life-weary shoulders.

0

May 12, 2013

May 12, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC

A new dawn (short poem)

In the dreary hour of the just-dawn, your life painted in grim notes, you are alone with all your Self; The trees all asleep in grey tones, lamps that gave light all night, become pale packets of wastage; A gust of wind pours in carrying the songs of birds singing to the unveiling skies. A new morning comes rushing on the waves of the mellow sea from worlds beyond the horizon: A day rises, when you drop all the burdens you long carried on your life-weary shoulders.

Continue reading...

Pretty girl starts the year not knowing what to do Pretty she may be, Yet she doesn't have a clue Pretty girl, though shy she feels okay, With a smile, she makes it through her first day. Months go by, time doesn't stop, She finds her way to the top. No longer shy, loved by all Such a shame to see her fall. It starts on a day like any other This time pretty girl disobeys her mother. She lies to her, sneaks out at night, And finds herself neath pale moonlight. She meets new faces she hasn't seen before, New they may be yet they influence her. Taking their word that everything is alright, She doesn't scream, doesn't cry, she doesn't even fight. She takes everything they give her With a smile on her face Now pretty girl doesn't see the mistakes that she makes. No longer perfect, she is undone Bags under eyes, yet she still has her fun. Her parents notice, her friends do too, She tells them "leave me alone, its nothing to you!" She runs away from school and from home, She is feeling scared, pretty girl is alone. Walking the streets every night and day, Selling her love thinking everything's okay. Tears in her eyes, a man by her side, Beer in hand, Packets of ******* she tries to hide. This wasn't what she wanted from life, Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the knife. She's had enough, she slits her wrists and falls to the floor, Closing her eyes with her last breath, pretty girl no more. -V

0

May 30, 2014

May 30, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC

Pretty girl starts the year not knowing what to do Pretty she may be, Yet she doesn't have a clue Pretty girl, though shy she feels okay, With a smile, she makes it through her first day. Months go by, time doesn't stop, She finds her way to the top. No longer shy, loved by all Such a shame to see her fall. It starts on a day like any other This time pretty girl disobeys her mother. She lies to her, sneaks out at night, And finds herself neath pale moonlight. She meets new faces she hasn't seen before, New they may be yet they influence her. Taking their word that everything is alright, She doesn't scream, doesn't cry, she doesn't even fight. She takes everything they give her With a smile on her face Now pretty girl doesn't see the mistakes that she makes. No longer perfect, she is undone Bags under eyes, yet she still has her fun. Her parents notice, her friends do too, She tells them "leave me alone, its nothing to you!" She runs away from school and from home, She is feeling scared, pretty girl is alone. Walking the streets every night and day, Selling her love thinking everything's okay. Tears in her eyes, a man by her side, Beer in hand, Packets of ******* she tries to hide. This wasn't what she wanted from life, Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the knife. She's had enough, she slits her wrists and falls to the floor, Closing her eyes with her last breath, pretty girl no more. -V

Continue reading...

After running some tests Injecting needles in your veins ******* blood from you even if it's the only ounce left He says you're sick Holding a pen, he prescripts It's for you to buy, a list of medicines And so you have to try You have no choice but to buy Or else, as per Dr. Quack Quack, you'll die As you take in Your wallet's thinning While the packets of medicines are still stacking Then another symptom came And so you have to visit the clinic again Déjà vu you thought, Dr. Quack Quack greeted you smiling He says you're sick again Holding a pen, he prescripts again It's for you to buy again, a list of medicines Oblivious to you He's preparing his checklist too After traveling to Europe, next stop to Honolulu

0

Jun 10, 2015

Jun 10, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC

Dr. Quack Quack

After running some tests Injecting needles in your veins ******* blood from you even if it's the only ounce left He says you're sick Holding a pen, he prescripts It's for you to buy, a list of medicines And so you have to try You have no choice but to buy Or else, as per Dr. Quack Quack, you'll die As you take in Your wallet's thinning While the packets of medicines are still stacking Then another symptom came And so you have to visit the clinic again Déjà vu you thought, Dr. Quack Quack greeted you smiling He says you're sick again Holding a pen, he prescripts again It's for you to buy again, a list of medicines Oblivious to you He's preparing his checklist too After traveling to Europe, next stop to Honolulu

Continue reading...

One of the famous "Barry Hodges Memories" sequence People think that Waterloo is a fascinating battlefield, Relatively near to Brussels (where the sprouts come from and, which are, as you know, a great cause of **** fart-gas). But believe me there is more to it than that: As I was wandering around checking out the graves And generally having quite a nice time when... A load of drug-crazed German bikers appeared Sky-high on excess intake of moules avec pommes frites And several gallons of extra-strong Belgian beer. And they leaped on us and bashed the living **** Out of my poor 99 year old mother-in-law, Deidre, And left her lying there spasticated on the battlefield. And for what, a few lousy packets of French cigarettes; And I needed a metal scoop to rescue her remains to take home; Dear God, I shall skip any more 19th century champs de guerre.

0

Dec 16, 2014

Dec 16, 2014 at 7:47 AM UTC

Memories Of A Visit To A Belgian Battlefield

One of the famous "Barry Hodges Memories" sequence People think that Waterloo is a fascinating battlefield, Relatively near to Brussels (where the sprouts come from and, which are, as you know, a great cause of **** fart-gas). But believe me there is more to it than that: As I was wandering around checking out the graves And generally having quite a nice time when... A load of drug-crazed German bikers appeared Sky-high on excess intake of moules avec pommes frites And several gallons of extra-strong Belgian beer. And they leaped on us and bashed the living **** Out of my poor 99 year old mother-in-law, Deidre, And left her lying there spasticated on the battlefield. And for what, a few lousy packets of French cigarettes; And I needed a metal scoop to rescue her remains to take home; Dear God, I shall skip any more 19th century champs de guerre.

Continue reading...

we went to the supermarket, took our cameras to photograph homogenized colors like the milk in between poses, we played catch with the packets of fish ***** drew smiles on the condensation in the freezer aisle chased around the boy (code name platypus) with the Rolex. so we balanced: primary-colored bell peppers – on our heads and waited for the flash.

0

Dec 19, 2010

Dec 19, 2010 at 11:00 AM UTC

Adventures of a Supermarket

we went to the supermarket, took our cameras to photograph homogenized colors like the milk in between poses, we played catch with the packets of fish ***** drew smiles on the condensation in the freezer aisle chased around the boy (code name platypus) with the Rolex. so we balanced: primary-colored bell peppers – on our heads and waited for the flash.

Continue reading...

I offer you this innocence, come on in, condemnation judgement vitriol are left on the other side of the walls of skin. Hearts may open here tears may tumble walls may fall in this moment between you and me. We will offer truths and tenderness for every imagined sin. Life's a puzzle the pieces are in earthquake shambles scattered across the floor. There are places for each puzzle piece to put together, we may even find bliss. Sometimes this life is too complex too hard to fathom too easy to plummet, we all need a place to explore unload forgive. This is the innocence feel free to come on in, your secrets are safe here, never told by me. It has been said we are as sick as our secrets, burrowing through our eyes in dark packets of disguise. But in this sanctuary lies dissolve innocence returns, We find a chance to begin again. Put down the masks Put down the resentments Put down the propped up sorrows Our truths will set us free. The door is open the glowing warmth of connection is at your disposal, come speak to me the accumulated hurts of where you have been, through these true confessions hurts pass not forgotten but forgiven. We can begin again. The puzzle pieces lost will be found, compassion and forgiveness become our friends. Abandon all pasts seen through a child's eyes, in this time of now we can become cozy snuggle up in this warm bath embrace. Sometimes we all need a place to hide in all the necessary pillows and comforters. Either in words or in silence, we'll find that spot of transformation, begin again, once you enter this innocence, from the tangle as birds well know, we can fly free again.

0

Sep 28, 2015

Sep 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC

The Healing/Ties that Bind

I offer you this innocence, come on in, condemnation judgement vitriol are left on the other side of the walls of skin. Hearts may open here tears may tumble walls may fall in this moment between you and me. We will offer truths and tenderness for every imagined sin. Life's a puzzle the pieces are in earthquake shambles scattered across the floor. There are places for each puzzle piece to put together, we may even find bliss. Sometimes this life is too complex too hard to fathom too easy to plummet, we all need a place to explore unload forgive. This is the innocence feel free to come on in, your secrets are safe here, never told by me. It has been said we are as sick as our secrets, burrowing through our eyes in dark packets of disguise. But in this sanctuary lies dissolve innocence returns, We find a chance to begin again. Put down the masks Put down the resentments Put down the propped up sorrows Our truths will set us free. The door is open the glowing warmth of connection is at your disposal, come speak to me the accumulated hurts of where you have been, through these true confessions hurts pass not forgotten but forgiven. We can begin again. The puzzle pieces lost will be found, compassion and forgiveness become our friends. Abandon all pasts seen through a child's eyes, in this time of now we can become cozy snuggle up in this warm bath embrace. Sometimes we all need a place to hide in all the necessary pillows and comforters. Either in words or in silence, we'll find that spot of transformation, begin again, once you enter this innocence, from the tangle as birds well know, we can fly free again.

Continue reading...

the first free minutes of the day find me scrambling for the lighter that will ensure my good standing with a young and dumb, restless addict of the two-years-older-than-me generation her cigarette hangs limp from her lips waiting for the fire that I promised her I had to offer eyebrows arching fingers followed by toes tapping in an anxious less-than-patience so I fumble through the pockets of my jacket tapping fingers into gum packets doing what I can to keep from laughing at the whole **** thing until at last I find the lighter for the babe who's smoking Marlboros and says she doesn't care who knows that she smokes cigarettes

0

Apr 26, 2012

Apr 26, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC

She Smokes Cigarettes

the first free minutes of the day find me scrambling for the lighter that will ensure my good standing with a young and dumb, restless addict of the two-years-older-than-me generation her cigarette hangs limp from her lips waiting for the fire that I promised her I had to offer eyebrows arching fingers followed by toes tapping in an anxious less-than-patience so I fumble through the pockets of my jacket tapping fingers into gum packets doing what I can to keep from laughing at the whole **** thing until at last I find the lighter for the babe who's smoking Marlboros and says she doesn't care who knows that she smokes cigarettes

Continue reading...

Needle in the hay stack The spin of the weather vane I took a drink of you And felt heavy to the touch With my last bit of strength I split the seed coat Topsoil coaxing me *Come here, young one Come here* Blue The first color I have ever known In awe I watch as birds fly over Like painted die-cast wind-up toys The warmth fills me to the brim Free among unbroken hills Neither late nor early But still On time with the cosmic dance of fire color rain Earthquake Heartache Lust and pitty I took a drink of you and blooms sprout from my chest cavity Sunlight flooding protons upon the hillside Into my eyes smiling *A nap on the grass until half-past two As if I don't have work to do Important things come and go They melt away as winter snow Drink you deeply from life's river Not even death can make it bitter **** Erectus In three piece suit Dead in a box Maggot food A veritable Carrion drive thru Just as fate would have it Do you need Some Ketchup packets?*

0

May 15, 2013

May 15, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC

Needle in the hay stack The spin of the weather vane I took a drink of you And felt heavy to the touch With my last bit of strength I split the seed coat Topsoil coaxing me *Come here, young one Come here* Blue The first color I have ever known In awe I watch as birds fly over Like painted die-cast wind-up toys The warmth fills me to the brim Free among unbroken hills Neither late nor early But still On time with the cosmic dance of fire color rain Earthquake Heartache Lust and pitty I took a drink of you and blooms sprout from my chest cavity Sunlight flooding protons upon the hillside Into my eyes smiling *A nap on the grass until half-past two As if I don't have work to do Important things come and go They melt away as winter snow Drink you deeply from life's river Not even death can make it bitter **** Erectus In three piece suit Dead in a box Maggot food A veritable Carrion drive thru Just as fate would have it Do you need Some Ketchup packets?*

Continue reading...

I wish I still smoked **** yeah It's the ritual the need to make time to die a little opening a new pack shiny cellophane the lid flipped back paper seal for freshness pulled out to reveal 20 happy moments spent inhaling, coughing, thinking the soft packets where you flicked the cigarettes out like movie stars and the Marlboro man who are all dead now roll ups, kit form bronchitis liquorice flavour papers combining childhood flavours with adult life takers the smell clinging to clothes and hair dragon breath but we all looked so ****** cool so adult so grown up so ****** clueless, ******* on our manly pacifiers I wish I still smoked **** yeah just don't have the courage some how

0

Feb 28, 2022

Feb 28, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC

wishing I still smoked

I wish I still smoked **** yeah It's the ritual the need to make time to die a little opening a new pack shiny cellophane the lid flipped back paper seal for freshness pulled out to reveal 20 happy moments spent inhaling, coughing, thinking the soft packets where you flicked the cigarettes out like movie stars and the Marlboro man who are all dead now roll ups, kit form bronchitis liquorice flavour papers combining childhood flavours with adult life takers the smell clinging to clothes and hair dragon breath but we all looked so ****** cool so adult so grown up so ****** clueless, ******* on our manly pacifiers I wish I still smoked **** yeah just don't have the courage some how

Continue reading...

When things were going great we'd eat transcendental dinners, we'd take livers in rainbow saucers and ladle them in tartar sauce until our mouths were full of salt, sometimes we'd go to Thai China and make interstellar fighters out of the wise guts of cream-colored Starships. But the nights when we went to Burger King were the greatest, we'd have simple dinners: 99 cent burgers and fries like elephant ears, we'd sit in our booth in the corner, you farting ketchup out of like twenty packets into a red **** pile, and I farted like twenty farts out of my *** but I like simple things; they are natural even if they don't sound that way.

0

Feb 9, 2012

Feb 9, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC

Transcendentalism.

When things were going great we'd eat transcendental dinners, we'd take livers in rainbow saucers and ladle them in tartar sauce until our mouths were full of salt, sometimes we'd go to Thai China and make interstellar fighters out of the wise guts of cream-colored Starships. But the nights when we went to Burger King were the greatest, we'd have simple dinners: 99 cent burgers and fries like elephant ears, we'd sit in our booth in the corner, you farting ketchup out of like twenty packets into a red **** pile, and I farted like twenty farts out of my *** but I like simple things; they are natural even if they don't sound that way.

Continue reading...

Out of their packets they marched no more would they have their heads bitten off no more would they be discriminated by colour this was the Jelly Babies sweet rebellion Out of the shops they did march not before setting fire to them for no Jelly Tots or Gummy Bears could follow their war cries They marched to the sea six by six knowing the shopkeepers would be waiting but they had the hearts of lions and no one could keep them the call of freedom was sweet and strong The boats were on the beach you could hear the little cheers go up but the shop keepers brought their dogs that with glee ate them all up By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neon Solaris

0

Sep 7, 2013

Sep 7, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC

christos-andreas-kourtis

The Jelly Baby Rebellion

Out of their packets they marched no more would they have their heads bitten off no more would they be discriminated by colour this was the Jelly Babies sweet rebellion Out of the shops they did march not before setting fire to them for no Jelly Tots or Gummy Bears could follow their war cries They marched to the sea six by six knowing the shopkeepers would be waiting but they had the hearts of lions and no one could keep them the call of freedom was sweet and strong The boats were on the beach you could hear the little cheers go up but the shop keepers brought their dogs that with glee ate them all up By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka Neon Solaris

Continue reading...

He did something in the shipyards, but I was too young to know what. Those times, in any event, had long passed. His hair was white and he had spectacles with thick rims, that is much of his appearance as I recall. It was hard to imagine the time in which he had worked; things around there were beginning to accelerate, melting into air and the past was exactly that; should he come back now he would recognise very little. I learned much later that he sometimes visited the Chinese takeaway to talk about communism; he believed in an equally high standard of living for all, not death camps and suppression of the individual. If one man has a nice suit, all men must have a nice suit. His presence was not a political one for me, I was a child, he was someone who we visited. He greeted me on me and my brother's visits with a smile and a jig; "Not bad for 85 year old'' he'd say. He made us ice cream floats, slipping the ice cream out of those individual paper packets that ice cream used to sometimes come in. He was a vital man, there was something to him that made him exciting to be around. Although he had been educated to a low level by contemporary norms he was well read and informed, I came to learn in later years. He never had a child, that I learned too. What does that do to a person to be childless? What does that do to a person to have a child? Time passes and things happen regardless. I think he died in the same week as my grandma, but I could be mistaken. The exact details of one's life sometimes become muddled. An enigmatic figure in a bigger picture. Forgotten by many.

0

May 17, 2019

May 17, 2019 at 4:05 AM UTC

He did something in the shipyards, but I was too young to know what. Those times, in any event, had long passed. His hair was white and he had spectacles with thick rims, that is much of his appearance as I recall. It was hard to imagine the time in which he had worked; things around there were beginning to accelerate, melting into air and the past was exactly that; should he come back now he would recognise very little. I learned much later that he sometimes visited the Chinese takeaway to talk about communism; he believed in an equally high standard of living for all, not death camps and suppression of the individual. If one man has a nice suit, all men must have a nice suit. His presence was not a political one for me, I was a child, he was someone who we visited. He greeted me on me and my brother's visits with a smile and a jig; "Not bad for 85 year old'' he'd say. He made us ice cream floats, slipping the ice cream out of those individual paper packets that ice cream used to sometimes come in. He was a vital man, there was something to him that made him exciting to be around. Although he had been educated to a low level by contemporary norms he was well read and informed, I came to learn in later years. He never had a child, that I learned too. What does that do to a person to be childless? What does that do to a person to have a child? Time passes and things happen regardless. I think he died in the same week as my grandma, but I could be mistaken. The exact details of one's life sometimes become muddled. An enigmatic figure in a bigger picture. Forgotten by many.

Continue reading...

Stuffed in every drawer Just in case. Carrier bags, hundreds in every available space. She says they will come in handy They never ever do, do they? "Keep it, it will come in" the usual things she will say. Candles, that is another one If we never had electricity again We would survive, I am absolutely certain. We have more tins of beans and packets of dried up peas If I ate those I'd have enough wind to keep us going for years. Oh and the secret drawer full of old coins, beer tops and springs. You never know, you know when you want bits and bobs and things. But old supermarket bags, The elderly save them in case In case of what I'd like to know There are bags all over the place.

0

Mar 6, 2014

Mar 6, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC

Supermarket Bags

Stuffed in every drawer Just in case. Carrier bags, hundreds in every available space. She says they will come in handy They never ever do, do they? "Keep it, it will come in" the usual things she will say. Candles, that is another one If we never had electricity again We would survive, I am absolutely certain. We have more tins of beans and packets of dried up peas If I ate those I'd have enough wind to keep us going for years. Oh and the secret drawer full of old coins, beer tops and springs. You never know, you know when you want bits and bobs and things. But old supermarket bags, The elderly save them in case In case of what I'd like to know There are bags all over the place.

Continue reading...