"petted" poems
The door that someone opened
The door that someone closed
The chair on which someone sat down
The cat that someone petted
The fruit that someone bit into
The letter that someone read
The chair that someone tipped over
The door that someone opened
The road where someone is still running
The woods that someone crossed running
The river in which someone jumped
The hospital where someone died.
18.6k
This girl came to my party,
And petted my tortoise,
In nineteen sixty four,
When I was eight, and
No-one noticed, not even me.
She still complains today
That she missed out on
Her jelly and ice-cream,
When she was seven, and
No one noticed, not even me.
I think when ten years later this
Beautiful blonde said yes, she
Would be mine, and is today, this
Tortoise slow was still around, and
No one noticed, not even me.
I tell our children now grown-up,
That I have found a tortoise is
The perfect way to find the girl,
Who will be yours forever, when
You are eight and she is seven.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
The clouds he welcomed,
and let them play
While the sun descended
to kiss his rugged make
The winds would rage
yet come to him
as a petted bovine
tamed at whim
Like a ***** giant
stood the mountain tall,
in brooding silence
as he towered above all
Then the rains came, and
brought a stranger home
She was none like them
yet she seemed their own
In her winding bends
the mountain heard
the frenzied beats
of a heart so stirred
As the brook looked up
and the mountain down
she found calm
and him, storms found
The clouds he asked
how he could move
and mustered his will
for a measure of stoop
She looked at him
with a drowning feel
clutching at her banks
and digging in her heels
The bend showed up
like an eternal curse
carrying the aching brook
like a solemn hearse
One last time
she looked back at thee
the one she killed
in setting free
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
did you miss daddy
the hugs
the kiss
being close
being cuddled
skin to skin
the body heat
being petted
feeling pleasure
of being touched
down there.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 10:09 PM UTC
The trouble with writing a
relationship through technology
is that the bygones are never gone.
Why do I pour a drink in your absence
and settle to re-read our old fights, heartbreaks
like *********** lips parted, heart racing?
I shudder through those weeks where you petted me, darling
but could scarcely afford to feed me the same heart
being doggedly masticated in the maw of another
I trace over my retinas the lines where you didn't,
wouldn't, couldn't love me, they scan me
for my identity.
My mug shot, beside
hers.
After how little it meant, how can you possibly love me now?
I could edit these now, you know, you're able to do that.
Everything I wish I had been and said.
The pages left blank, I should've painted red.
In the spaces, hiatuses, I recall your ill-suited suitors
I can't tell whether I feel grief, jealousy, or ecstasy.
At the time, you know, it was like falling upon
The Secret Garden
unbefouled by poison nor passion
to inhale the heady scent of white rose
and discover the brim of someone else's hat beneath the foliage.
The place wasn't secret. Oh, it wasn't mine. Never ever was mine.
I'm ahead of myself. Oh, for want of technology.
We courted on Facebook and Gmail,
it was a convenient torture, given the circumstances.
Now my mate belongs where I do.
Loving, tenderly, wisely true.
I cannot start loading the page for the future
so much as delete our archive,
a prelude to love
written in diminished chords,
sung by the jilted and ghosts.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Romilda was an old lady,
She had no small baby,
So she petted her sisters daughter,
Who only drank milk but not water,
Little baby had a nice name which was Angelina Geolly
But her life was a worry,
She never went for the studio,
Never had Romeo,
She was brought up at a village,
But had a wide knowledge,
Her old aunt was always frank,
But Angelina Geolly use to prank,
One morning Angelina knocked her head on the wall,
And started dialing a call,
It was to none other than the fire brigade,
Hello, Come asap for our gate, Fire! Fear! Fire!
After an hour they reached in,
It was all about a recycle bin
Angeline had only meant, fire at her aunts cooker,
But they responded you little sucker!
The poor Aunt Matilda had to pay,
For their visit all the way
But still the house wasn’t grey!
Some people, few people started to blame Angelina Geolly!
She ran into her trolley,
And Angelina Cried Cried Cried,
But later she was Fried Fried Fried
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
A gentle breeze blows
through your window
the smell of spring fills the air,
I sneeze...
I kiss the nape of your neck
and inhale
your sweet perfume,
I sneeze...
Your cat jumps up on my lap
purring,
begging to be petted,
I sneeze...
We undress and climb into bed
our naked bodies press together;
where the dog usually sleeps,
I sneeze.
You are beautiful and I want you
but I fear my dear
I am allergic to your world,
AH...AH...ACHOO!
Apr 13, 2010
Apr 13, 2010 at 8:43 AM UTC
royals mistake the tears cried over animals, esp. those wild and not petted, as if they were man’s added 1 to a million ‘ stones in minature form of the sandy: see that singleton quotation mark? it’s different pause from comma semi-colon or hyphen, it’s the ironic pause - almost compounding the two words.
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead, i,
no more a body than a maxim,
i the tomb in stone
but in body a bone,
i skullhead i,
i the skullhead,
no more a body than a maxim -
why will not death wilt
before engaging in the lives or mortals?
why will death meddle in mortal amorousness
when it will not meddle in a death of a god?
**** you death!
meddle elsewhere! who are prone
to breathe the same air as you;
interesting lives make less
of a library than libraries readily mothering
the lives hardly lived but nonetheless written...
eager ***** in section 1,
less eager ***** in section 1.5
mature ***** in sectiont 2 of being crazed
by crosswords and those dumb books
written by young men who "diverged from living"
given horse was replaced by motorcycle...
and feet were replaced by horse later replaced by
ferrari... vroom vroom...
and affordable life in london by saudi arabia investments;
let's wave to our mothers...
we'll be the ones on the premier red carpet
for sure...
it doesn't matter... i prefer opera to cinematic raqqa...
and i prefer theatre to conversation.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
My chest feels heavy,
my breathing is so tight
that I am almost running out of oxygen
leading me to a hypoxic state.
I’ve been punching
this pulsing sensation inside.
Cursing it to stop beating,
for all it ever pounds
is the most excruciating pain
I have ever felt my whole life.
Running deeply from my skin,
to every nerve and to every tiny
fiber of my being.
I wanted to scream
from the peak of Mount Thor,
from there I’ll jump
only to submerge myself
in the Mariana Trench
to slough every tear,
repel every hatred, and
to relinquish every throe
that there is inside me.
Where no one would have
to witness me at my weakest,
where nothing would hear me
as inconsolable,
somewhere I know I will not see you.
How could you?
You grabbed my heart,
petted it, then throw it away
and have it smashed
to the ground.
How could I?
Prospered by your sole existence,
and dreaded by
the wrath of tomorrow, by
the pang of longing, and
by the ache of defeat.
Bizarre, that’s what my faith is now.
As for my prayers, they’re perfidious.
I am finally unarmed.
Am no longer the warrior
I once used to be.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
It was night time when we met them,
The Punks awaiting Pizza,
Outside of Domino's on the main street of town.
Myself, and two friends were walking home
On the lamp lit streets.
One called out
"Want a game of skate?"
And Josh, who carried a skate board, agreed.
Indie and I sat down beside their leader as we watched their game.
"How are you guys tonight?" He asked us,
"Good thanks" we replied,
And heard a little moan
The lead punk moved,
And from inside his denim jacket a puppy poked out his head.
We crooned;
"Oh he's gorgeous, what's his name?"
"Chaos."
The punk replied.
Of course.
We petted chaos on the head.
A girl punk came out from round the corner,
"It's still not out." She told him.
"What are you waiting for?" We asked.
"We ordered pizza," He said
"We're just waiting for them to stop waiting for someone to pay.
When they throw it out, we get free pizza."
We laughed, we'd never heard such a plan before.
The girl held three avocados in her hands
I asked if she'd got them from New World,
I'd been excited that they were on special this week
"No," She replied,
"I got them for free. Out of a dumpster."
"Oh."
"So, are you guys like real punks then?"
"Yeah guess you could say that." The leader said.
"We don't respect society, and they don't respect us."
"We've been crashing in abandoned houses.
Some landlord found us the other day,
But he didn't really care,
Cause we hadn't broken any windows."
Josh won the game of skate.
And we got up to leave,
"Nice to meet you guys." We said,
"Good to meet you too." They replied
"Keep safe."
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
The hair that fell to my waist
Heavy like a curtain
And blonde
And parted on the side
That covered my bare *******
and got in the way of kissing
And It got stares
And It got petted
Like some fine horse
With some fine mane
A rare prize
And the drunk boy
Sitting next to me
That I didn't notice
Who was twirling it around his ***** finger
And that other man
That I didn't notice
Who became obsessed with It
His ***** fetish
And in the middle of the night
He did Those Things
So one day
I just cut It off
Above my shoulders
And everyone was sad
Why WHY why
Did you cut your hair?
But we still like It
So I just cut it off
Until it was above my ears
And I can see the disappointment
Of Everyone Else
Who doesn't understand
So sad
about It
And I smile.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
morning
the city is gruffly petted with heat
buildings quiver in the primeval whither
wide mouthed and whiskered
the catfish thrive in the sewers
taking aggression to the air and fixing to the trees
the insects speed into vigorous breeding
in the populated afternoon city is sternly scored
pressed down on its wilted fur pushed from back to front
each itchy person is its own greasy hair
salt beads from brows and stinging eyes are blinded
scolded and bonded the witless humans slow
natures patient pace is not kin to their will
antsy
ticking noises and electric whines whittle the air
discomfort makes life immediate
a deal to be flustered with
every enduring breath is consciously felt
alive and in suffering
i crouch my form in shelter
a jilted couch to lean against bordering a grown over lot
watching the foxes patrol in sweltering sun
what expected prey brought them into the light ?
i release my hurt understanding (it patrols also)
my hurt snakes through the long tough grass and tacky broken glass
it moves further raised in a mirage hover
over welting heat from the melting tarmac
this way i please my way into nurture
this way i ease my suffering
hum with the wires
and smile at a good day putrefying
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 6:24 PM UTC
Spinning on a top of color;
The balloons are inflated in the desk,
and the rainbow streamers gave me a paper-cut.
I thought the red make-up was blood.
Running and jumping up and down
on a box of inflatable candy,
that turned my lips purple and blue.
My dad thought it was lipstick,
so he gave me an old ***** magazine.
When the animals morphed into balloons,
I petted them with grass stuck to my hand.
And POP! – goes the poodle,
in the parking lot next to the splattered juice cups.
My friend cried and wiped his eyes with icing
as a clown grinned, showing his orange teeth
that was the same color of the cheese-curls in the bowl,
that the three year-old just poured into the kiddy pool.
I got lost in the ball-pit.
I remember every color, then nothing;
Gray had became the fun
to a depressed clown wishing he’d got the hang
of life’s circus.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
The elevator opened on the 46th floor, to a small foyer and one plain, grey door
The door opened and a young girl, 10ish, in a blue, polo, tennis dress, said, “Hi! I’m Karen, you must be Anais. Will is around here somewhere. Aren’t you pretty, though? You go to school with Lisa? No wonder Will likes you.”
She skippingly ushered me from a bright, windowed, off-white, staircase entryway, into a deep-red, mahogany paneled library. A persian cat was soon underfoot, purring and winding around my legs.”That’s Misha,” Karen said, “just shoo her away if you don’t like cats.”
I stooped down to pet Misha who eagerly offered herself to be petted and admired. As I stroked her charcoal fur, Karen said, “Let me get Will,” as she scampered off.
A gold framed, impressionistic painting, pin-lit in bright crystalline light, hung over a fireplace. In the painting, two girls, in summer hats bright with startling red bows and yellow flowers, were sharing a book. The colors were rich, deep and swirling - it looked very much like a Renoir (I know my French artists). He’d done a whole “two girls” series. I drew closer - it wasn’t a print.
Though dazed by the opulence, I hadn’t missed what Karen had said. Will liked me. I longed to interrogate her about how exactly she knew Will liked me, and what form, exactly, Will’s liking took.
I know Will and Lisa (who would be joining us in a minute) are just friends. Not that it matters, we’re heading back to New Haven later - but Karen’s statements were capable of activating a girl's guy-dar.
Karen, wearing socks but no shoes, came to a sliding halt, on the wooden floor, by grabbing the door frame to stop an otherwise complete slide into the library. “You guys are going to the Ritz for lunch?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, in a way that indicated that she knew the answer quite well.
The Ritz Carlton is a block away and our mission was to grab the food and bring it back here to eat. “Mind if I join?” she said, before I could answer her first question, all wide-eyed, blinking impatience.
“I don’t mind at ALL.” I said, Karen whooped and was off again down the hall. “I’M COMING TOO!” she yelled. I chuckled, knowingly - I’ve been there - I’m a little sister too.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 12:41 PM UTC
She knew not what she did that day.
The day she let bunny out to play.
His hutch lay vacant, her bunny was gone.
Tear trickled down her rosy cheek, missing her bunny.
She left for the party at the end of the week.
Put on her gear which was somewhat perverse.
Short skirt and sharp black patent heels.
Through the graveyard on this bright moonlit night,
Carefree and happy, would be meeting her chappy.
Her heel got caught in the muddy clay.
Fell to her knees.
From a cavity in the ground, appeared menacing bunny.
In his best huntsman’s jacket, he was out to find prey
In a bit of a panic, she realised she was trapped.
Caught in chains.
She petted him every day.
Tonight was bunny’s time to play.
She was his bunny girl.
© Livvi
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
She reminds me of Lady Di.
I think it's her elegance.
She's not indifferent.
She demands to be petted.
She has no worries.
She has no regrets.
She sleeps all day.
She's up all night.
Apr 29, 2011
Apr 29, 2011 at 10:08 AM UTC
*The camel she rode was doddering, on its last legs,
the way she petted it, all along the caravan's route
made them think that she wouldn't bear its inevitable fate.
Not loosing her cool, she gets down, views the looming desert,
others are puzzled, unfathomable is her mind,
alacritous she is, draws her sabre, cuts open the camel, with her deft hands
water in the desert is more precious than love,
that exceeds the prescribed time limit, her act speaks aloud,
no one moves, stunned not even knowing what they feel,
then realize, in a desert tender feelings are short-lived, like new blooms.
What a desert human life has become of late
in silence they contemplate as they leave behind the camel's carcass*
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised
orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't,
Chopin and Liszt is all piano
so never mind the punk renegade violinist...
how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated
a population of a billion is staggering,
western powers ********** blanks by comparison,
it's like a body and a virus, translated
with optometry the way we say things,
Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it
is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea
or alternatively lysergia -
it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue
given the history of celebrated colonialism -
proof of the Hackney populace being solely
Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with,
maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot,
on the word of honour dynamic pledging
conveniences with the Vatican - look
no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches
and the sickbed eventualists rather than
evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists...
so they preached their Darwinism exactly against
the theologically roundabout of the pyramids
and the celestial intervention - but expected
nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least
the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism
you'll hardly convene on kindness as
the standard norm of expression -
track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music,
i'll be honest... pop music drama of
the band... you never hear of it with orchestras;
the point of genius: you're not really there,
absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others
make the dough for the bread that's a house and
a family of four, e.g; and just by petting
cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild,
are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
as soon you as you walked through the door
i could see you were not feeling well
you rushed into my arms
buried your head in my chest
and started to cry
i wrapped my arms around you
hugged you tight
pressed you near
your cries turned to sobs
i kissed your temple, your hair
“what’s wrong,” i asked
“i not feeling well, i’m coming down with the flu,” you replied
“i’ll take care of you Minou,” i whispered softly in your ear
i took your hand
lead you to the couch
laid you down
i removed your shoes
covered you
gently stroked your hair
“i’ll make you some peppermint tea with honey,” i said
i turned on the tv
flipped to your favorite netflix show
started the tea
the water boiled
i steeped the bag
brought you the cup
laid it on the table
you were falling asleep
i snuggled up along side of you
warm and cozy under the covers
you cuddled up
a leg across my hip
your head on my chest
you hair tickled my nose
i patted it down
slightly away
i petted
caressed your hair
savoring your scent
your smell
i held you in my arms
sensing your breath
feeling your heartbeat
slowly, you drifted asleep
muscles relaxing
inhaling, exhaling deeply, gently
i held you dear
protecting, providing, nurturing, nursing you
you are my partner
my lover
my wife
but tonight you are my child
you mumbled in your sleep
wiped your nose on my shirt
drooled a tad
you were congested
your breath wheezed
you snored a bit
i loved you more
i never felt like a man
this intensely
caring, tending, loving his wife, his Minou
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
I like my poems medium rare
I like my clothes to look like couches
I like my thoughts to be deep, even though they make me scream.
I like my music meaningful
I like my dancing naked
I like my people whether they hate me or love me.
I like my romance movies
I like my speeches to move me
I like my infomercials even though I don't buy anything.
I like my flowers petted
I like my animals kissed
I like my coffee strong even though my thoughts make me crazy.
I like my boys sappy
I like my girls happy
I like myself, because I am the things I like.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
Look through the fence, you see that beast there?
That tense lump of muscle and mange-ridden hair?
That's old Scrapyard Spike, and this is his lair;
Don't tread in his yard on adventure nor dare.
Old Scrapyard Spike, he's been a-weathered for years;
In his chain-link domain, rain-soaked despair.
Unfed in the morning, watered only with tears;
Unsheltered from squalls, corroded by glare.
Now poor Scrapyard Spike wasn't always so old,
When he was a puppy, they told him they loved him;
But when he grew up, he had to make friends with the cold,
For with the clink of a fence, he was thrown out on a whim
So Spike spent his days alone with his chain;
He sweltered at noon and slept wet with the rain;
And all those who passed him discounted his pain:
"He's just an old cur" was the daily refrain
And then one cold day, a girl found her way in;
Her flesh on her bones, blood coursing unspilled.
Old Spike smelled her first, his chain went a-slitherin'
And the lost child stood rooted, her every nerve chilled.
The silence of metal, broken plastic and glass,
The beast came a-running, his chain length a ploy;
And jaws opened wide as he lunged for the lass;
But when his head pressed her thigh, he whimpered with joy.
Old Spike raised the call with a manticore's thunder;
A summoning cast with his lungs' every strain.
She petted him gently, whose care she was under,
Though his poor heart convulsed as he looked back at his chain.
The clangor succeeded, a blue-clad protector
Saw the beast at her heel, and he drew as he lept;
An ounce of hot metal found Scrapyard Spike's skull,
And the last thing he heard was his friend as she wept.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
/ you sure that there's an actual vinyl
revival?
it's stirr-frying my testicles
back in england
and vinyl is on the comeback?!
**** yeah!
i tried interpreting an ancient egyptian
concept of a fanning / ***** police
for days on end...
newspaper? no...
saturday nespaper magazine?
no...
c.d.?!
no...
impromptu napkin
"loophole"?
nope...
vinyl?!
oh **** me!
i own a vinyl sgt. peppers'...
don't really want to listen to it...
but, vinyl, within
the framework of a revival?!
july sunday pants...
you can fan me back and
forth, back and forth that
elongated into circular *******
liquorice...
finally! vinayl has a secondary,
degenerate purpose...
fanning equippment!
spread the air...
unless you're me
lodging a ******** imitation of
a ******** with
ice-cubes dangling in front of a fan:
spreading nothing,
but hot air...
honest to god, in this weather:
the beatles' vinyl?
means as much crock-shit
as i'd really love for a
nefertiti:
"woof"...
or a...
wave of air...
a bellowing bull
with rotten breath...
but at least we found out that
vinyl is useful afterall...
way past the newspaper...
or a pigeon flapping,
or the comment section
that's coorporate...
vinyl?
perfect flapping equipment!
disperses the air...
like sinatra disperses
bad singers...
drunk and...
'opely 'opefully on to "it".
is that like: the dead come (back)...
and then we hit karma redemption
with reincarnation?!
limited contra dough-dough-deep
state affairs?!
new delhi ***
new york?!
no wonder i can't stop laughing
as if that could even be translated into
slavic languages!
you pompous
anglican-integrated-inbred...
****** english women...
you?! you?! you?! you want
to dictate, rules for me?!
****** now i want
to fight your side's resemblance of goliath!
i've petted an alsatian and a dobberman
up to the age of 8...
i think i'll manage...
shit-fisting your granny's egotism
rooting for: ahmed no. 1.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
Her skin reeked of chlorine
and yours of cigarettes
She lay in the car, unconscious and unknowing
and you panted and petted and groped
and, sweating, you stole her sanity
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 4:16 PM UTC
I fell asleep after "Good Morning, Vietnam":
I can feel it all, in your hair.
Under trees.
Flying above the stratosphere.
My arms extended.
The skin burning off my torso-
struggling to breathe,
with a smile on my face.
(Canned laughter)
You're in a living room.
You are me.
I dug into my chest and petted my heart.
Groaning, the blood swam around my hands
and ate it's way up my forearm,
to my elbow,
to my neck,
to my chin,
to my lips.
"I can taste my blood,"
an internal piece of dialogue.
She whispers in your ear,
"I know who you are."
I am you.
I cut my voice on the air, calling out for her.
Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so ******* much.
Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so ******* much.
(Canned laughter)
Why'd you abandon me?
I love you so *******
You are in my room.
I am you.
We are everything,
and we are nothing.
That's my mirror.
It's shattered.
Hey, there I am on the ground.
There's a brunette, mediocre poet.
It's shattered.
And on my hand are specs of heated sand,
sleeping in my skin-
a glass garden.
How can one find schizophrenic kisses
in a reflection.
(Canned laughter)
I said, "How can one find-"
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC