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Irma Cerrutti Mar 2010
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you

Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, *******, *******, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand

This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays

Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with

With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...

From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
Another enchanting "Barry Hodges Memory" poem for you all!

O glorious Art Deco edifice, tucked away behind the 'Dilly!
In your near century of hospitality, how many millions of visitors
Must have thronged your rooms, meeting, greeting, eating, sleeping
And (need I specify the obvious?) ******* away the fleeting hours?
How sad it is to think that the dear Regent Palace has fallen victim
To the money-grabbing developers' philistine wrecking *****.

Rumour came to me in the Seventies that the ground floor cocktail bar
Had gained a somewhat , shall we say, *louche
reputation,
Being frequented by ladies of the night and part-time gigolos;
And that the hustle and bustle of the reception area meant that
Staff would hardly notice if guests invited a newly made friend upstairs
For some horizontal entertainment, be it on a cash or ex gratia basis.

Several evenings, perhaps after a night at the theatre, I paid a brief visit
To the dimly lit bar, with its sophisticated black pianist tinkling out a tune
In the very best Casablanca tradition, perhaps even crooning a little ditty.
One summer night I recall I dropped in, probably post-prandially
More in hope than serious expectation, ordered an over-priced G&T;
And settled down to assess the odds on some casual leg-over action.

Much to my surprise I was soon joined by a large middle-aged blonde
(to a naive young chappie, any woman over 35 is no spring chicken);
She was Icelandic and big with it in the mammary department,
But not fat I hasten to add, just sturdy, like a splendid Wagnerian Valkyrie;
Yea, I knew she was gagging for it when she confided that, only last week,
She had shared l'amour with a young stranger in the Wienerwald al fresco.

I cannot recall much of our no doubt fascinating intellectual conversation
And I certainly can't remember her name, but I do know I readily acquiesced
To her generous invitation to participate in a glug of her duty free allowance
Within the intimate privacy of her spartan little bedroom on the seventh floor.
Delightfully, to my mild pleasure, our upwards journey in the crowded lift
Enticed her to caress my eager testicles in a heart-warmingly experienced way.

Over a malt whisky and, following an extended exchange of warm saliva,
We ended up stark ******* naked in the rather narrow single bed;
Sadly, my recollections of our coupling have gone the way of all flesh
(but my well-preserved diary for that year notes I gave her the works thrice)
And I do vividly remember wondering what time the Underground started
on Sunday mornings as I was no longer enamoured of her tobacco breath.

Now, dear reader, we come to the ****** of my night of Nordic nookie:
Just as the dawn's early light was filtering through the ill-fitting curtains,
My partner in lust informed me that she desperately needed a squirt
(I fear I omitted to mention that the RPH didn't run to en suite facilities)
And that, rather than struggle down the corridor to the communal bogs,
She intended to void her bloated bladder in the waiting washbasin.

She enjoined me to be a gentleman and to refrain from watching her
As she performed her toilette and I assured her, with a covert smile,
That I would not breach her urinary modesty. Thus I slyly observed her
Waltz over to the window and, with the assistance of a handy little chair,
Hoist her ample buttocks up on the basin and let fly her steaming ****;
O, what a romantic sound it made as it splashed onto the porcelain!

As I lay there, entranced by the sight of my piddling blonde Brünnhilde,
An unexpected sound intruded over the splatter of her seething waters:
O Jesu! Suddenly, in the veritable twinkling of an eye, the basin's supports,
Unequal to the unscheduled weight of the female Goliath squatting thereon,
Gave way and what's-her-name fell to the economically carpeted floor,
Screaming in fear, spread-eagled in ****-drenched shattered chinaware.

To say I was beside myself with mirth would be an understatement but,
Gentlemanly as always, I managed to pass off my gargled giggles
As evidence of gallant concern. As soon as common decency permitted,
I made my excuses and left the disconcerted dear to tidy up a bit.
But I will confess to emitting a huge howl of uncontrolled laughter
As I raced off to the nearest toilet (I too was bursting for a huge slash).
Chris Aug 2015
~

There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent

To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on

My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads

She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The **** interrupted,
“Didn’t, don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort  

This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,

“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”

Perplexed she climbed upon its back,
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…

Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray

She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up

When it appeared hopping happily,
jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy

Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me

*And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…..
Just letting my mind wander...I know, that's a scary thing.  :)
Actually saw bits and pieces of Alice in Wonderland last night with Depp and the **** snippets wouldn't leave me alone.
My heart is a squishy stone
I toss out
across this green-gray gloss
mosquitoes skim
but the odds were always slim
it would skip with any vim given
its mix of bulges
and irregular beats
Let’s not mention that
surprising lack of heft
currently keeping it afloat
There it lies not quite flat
a maroon lily pad
I’ll lay piddling wagers
some nomadic creature
can make a home
Maybe the crawdad whose squeak
nothing like a fog-horn warns,
“Frog dress is on the marsh”
I swear I can hear
her bull groaning,
“The slippery *****
can’t stay clothed”
Newly hitched
this bogged-down daddy’s got
a passel of polliwogs to feed
and he needs
the lean of her tender
slimy legs for support
The crickets and I
might inwardly snigger
but from such
small giggles bred
is the manly laugh of strife
and that’s when
my heart slinks slowly back
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
irinia Mar 2014
In a room among newspapers from far-away climes
like a tame animal like a marvelous man you love yourself
                                                        ­ and sit on the edge
     of the bed with your palms on your knees
or absolved of birth and death you stroke your pumice-stone
                                                    ­                                              cheek
until the sun crosses the other side
next to the photograph of the happy child who is piddling on
                                                              ­                           a blue shore
Then every thing returns regroups
as though in a boiling fog in which things are mended
among the obscure plantations of chance And alongside
a woman carefully hangs out the clothes of the drowned lover and
                                                             ­                             speaks to them
the one who still seeks you in the black bones of the
                                                             ­                                   butterflies
And while you wander lost through the mists of a powerful
                                                        ­                                         manhood
past the spades left on the fresh molehill
or gaze at the swaying of the two stakes ****** into the shore
or lie down on the ground and the wind covers your face with
                                            thistles brought who knows whence
a great sadness brings back the lunar landscape of her tired
                                                                ­                            shoulders
and there are no more words but her whisper are things which
                                                                ­                                        settle
everywhere filling the ripped silence of the train's screech
her whispers are the water gathered over the prints of her
                                                                ­                  soles after the last rain
but a simple turn of the key is enough for you to be able to hear
the slow flowing of time by your dampened socks
or the heavy breathing of the roots
and again you dream the blue shore  at the end of the river
on which we ruminate our enchanted abandonment

Gellu Naum, Vasco da Gama and other pohems, Humanitas Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007
Gellu Naum (1915-2001) was a Romanian Surrealist poet
Ethan Healy Sep 2012
A now lighter hand bears garish gifts;
piddling to say the least.
So blind to the crawling raze
of its rueful guile, so blind, so blind

Go for a night on the town!
One escapade to rule them all
marked by an acrid, wary romp
known to drive impressions south
and abandon them witless of their journey home -
a rampant stroll
Felicity Smoak Jun 2015
is it wrong to plan everything out
so that the stars don't collide when they align?

is it wrong to be terrified of the road ahead, even if I trust the driver?

is wrong to seize everything and make sure I am where I am supposed to be?

no matter what
i find myself
piddling through all my thoughts
my hopes and dreams
my wishes and desires
trying to find the one that paralyses me the least
but they all petrify me
just the same.

this next year is my last.
my last band camp.
my last marching band season.
my last first day of school.
my last new set of classes.
my last time meeting new teachers.
my last time sitting in those classrooms with those stupid desks that creak too much.
my last time walking through the halls of my high school.

it's coming. soon.
graduation.
i can taste the freedom it's taunting me with.
and yet here I am, begging it to procrastinate.

i want to be free, away from high school,
and home,
and this state.

but I've made a life here.
but I've made friends here.
but I've grown roots here.

maybe
eventually
i'll be okay
with
ripping

off

the

bandaid.


but not right now.
not right now.
not right now.
not right now.
I've never been so scared for the future in my life.
C A Feb 2014
There is a delusion of perfection blocking the gates between us
Your self destructive outlook underlines  the inadeqacies I tried so desperately to deflect
With humor or sarcasm or impulsive unecessary habits
Hindering me
Entangling me into another dysfunctional abyss I cannot deny
These shattered hearts heal with unsolicited *** scandals whispered by the tounges of cowards
Piddling their intoxicated paddles with reruns of last years season highlights
It's all the same and we became complacent
Unmotivated by the unmet expectations of our nemesis
Our image isn't mirrored by that of what we strive we are lost in a maze of who is good, better, richer glory
Success is based on luck and come ups meanwhile
We are drained with greed and jealousy and entitlements holding one another in a ship wreck
dangling by a measly line off our last second chance
I knew you'd take me back
Even if we sink together
Mike Adam May 2016
anyhow
that was the day I gave up everything

one thousand hotel mirrors
well travelled.

train Milan, cheek-kissed Maria.

cognac. A man. Unconsumed.

Guylove dance, marketplace Castries.
Lord Jackson, Victor
Calypso kinging.

Anyhow
that was the day I gave up dancing

Jack lighthouse, broken glass,
spilled Guinness never forgiven.
Named my son for him.

Anyhow
that was the day I gave up talking

crew cut Poughkeepsie, émigré fashion
boarding cockle boat, Dunkirking
Queen Mary.
Nero sunsetting on piddling empire
wallmap fading red to wilted pink

scouring the bottom of titanic bucket,
glorious lido summer, dear Liza,
got a hole in it(torn piece of rubber
mnemonic for a mother)

anyhow
that was the day I gave up ***

now come the restoration of the king.

London shall rise again,
borne on tide of flying,
infinite darkness,
osmosis of light.

whisper saint Paulus,
de-clocked, unthroning,
myriad swimmers swarm
canal cut channel,
(furry animals cluster, cuddle
in unlikely couplings).

quavering timbers
blowing and swaying,
queen lay dying, long live the king.

anyhow
that was the day I gave up my mind
Chris Jul 2015
~

What is it that always brings
my thoughts back to you,
which seems a strange thing to ask
because they never seem to leave
regardless of what I might see
during the many hours
of my day

Open or closed eyes,
heat of the moment
or laid back and relaxed,
it is you that I am always
thinking about

Traffic jams stacked
with blowing horns,
exhaust fumes
and frustrated fist shakes
or slow drives on country roads,
windows down
on a cool spring day
with the radio playing

Long check out lines
at the super market
corralling crying children
(close to the candy)
fighting over the best seat
in the shopping cart
or a quick in and out
at a convenience store
for a cold six pack
and a bag of chips

Work, (need I say more)
which requires a certain
amount of concentration,
attending meetings and
going over spread sheets
or a day off piddling
around the workshop
building or fixing something
that doesn't really need to be
built or fixed

No matter what occupies my day
it is always you who occupies my mind
So, what is it that always brings
my thoughts back to you…
well, I guess my thoughts of you
would have to leave once in a while
for me to figure that one out
Always thinking about you Holly
Stephan Sep 2018
.

Nothing more than a pretty smile

There she was chasing a rabbit
with 1 am coffeecakes and weak tea
She didn’t notice I was watching
from the branches of an olive tree
A lone smile hidden amongst
swirling smoke rings in a foreign accent

To the gazebo she ran
with its straw grass tables
and pleated cushions in hibiscus
print fabric no one would sit on

My eyes followed her as she
darted around manicured boxwoods
and cherub statues spitting water
onto sleeping lily pads,
following the same schedule
as the other…identical

She came upon a dandelion
and asked politely, “Pardon me,
but have you seen a…”
The **** interrupted,
“Didn’t…don’t do drama dreams
dancing deliriously down
donut distracted ditches”
“That’s dumb” she replied
with a giggle and a snort

This must be her fun, I think,
trying to catch a white ball of fur,
big, then small,
then smaller still like a
thimble seeking a thread,
when now she is stopped
in her ziggy zagging tracks
by a June bug singing,

“I see, I see, in front of me
Dessert, dessert, set out for free
A chocolate pie, a chocolate pie
in menus written on the sky”

Perplexed she climbed upon its back
and flew, holding onto
red leather shoulder pads
with black dots changing shapes,
ducking winged arches that
covered the vestibule they
soared through when a sharp turn
pitched her to the opposite side…

Landing with a thud,
her new dress now soiled
between the wrinkles in time
that had ticked away
on a clock faced sun named Ray

She cried carrot tears,
orange sherbet streams
on peach tone cheeks,
marmalade miseries
and mango miscues
piddling on her patent leather shoes,
ready to give up

When it appeared, hopping happily
Jumping into her lap
and licking her face
She caressed its fur, removing
sticker burs and scratching
just the right spot, as its right rear leg
thumped with joy

Then lifting the bundled bunny
to her face, she kissed it tenderly
with wild cherry gloss lips,
or should I say…kissed me
for you see, all along, it was me

And you thought I was nothing more than a pretty smile…..
Patrick Kennon Jul 2019
Antipsychotic licks, lyme disease ticks, pick up sticks
Cutting wicks, playing tricks, flicking BICs
Just another hick, way you look at me, like you got whole books of me
Come cook with me, write a hook with me, become a crook like me
Static backpeddle, piddling on the ant pile, been lost awhile
Cross-cut file creasing cuticles comfortably, clutter-free
Oh say can you see, why did they lie to me, why did we go to war?
Was it Junior settling Seniors' score, or something more?
We sit and snore gently, herbivores, wonder why the carnivores are hungry
Love me, if you can, I'm as temporary as sand spilling sideways
Fresh rays of sun, this photon was the one to finally find me
Chain reactions and Lurasidone interactions gives sanity in fractions
Join your faction and justify that violence, my two cents
Begging for pence and pennies, eating garbage behind Denny's
A whole scrap book devoted to ladybugs
Dishes Nov 2016
I cant articulate my thoughts the way I used to be able to.
My brains connections have swapped from word obsessions to ambience and aesthetic obsession,
Certain patterns and flowers and shades and tiny parts of really large scale beautiful things.
My brain is no longer the same wordsmith,
Forge raging night and day as with each disruptive bang he straightens red hot words into sentences with which to turn to blades to rend his foes and cut his binds,
Now he is a word weaver,
One who sits silently at times, piddling with the different threads in frustration,
And at times feeling the path the words would like to be drawn down and around each other, forming pictures from the fragments with the dreamlike ease similar that of a stingray gliding across a glittering moonlit seabed in search of treasure he dropped while chasing the moon.
But words,
No matter the arrangement arranger or arrangement process,
Can fall short of the pure raw power to make someone feel the way a sunset can or the glistening blur of running water.
need to finish this
LJW Nov 2015
Today I am thankful for the silent moments
covering the morning hours,
minutes prolonged inside hushed walls,
absent the pressures of what I must provide.
I am serene.

The oakwood blazes hissing out snowfall's moisture,
kittens frolic, fluffily bouncing, pattering in holiday fluster.
The wintertide's sheepish wool in flight,
drifting upon the up-country's chilled breeze,
let's out a flaked trail towards our summit
crystallizing our land into a brilliant Wonderscape.

No toiling for me this day,
I am at rest, as is my whole house.
Thankfully piddling about
at their most cherished past times.
Allowed to delicately gaze at snowflakes
for hours.
Alice Lovey Aug 2018
Piddling drip drops lightly on the dew drops,
Never ceasing, never stops.
A love that never rots.
Love you now, loved you then,
Thanks for being my inspiration when
Nothing else takes the place of you.

If I had it my way, I’d spend my life with you.

If I had it my way, I’d marry you.
But to everyone, it’s “too soon.”

Guess I’ll be a lonely sick loon.
Drink away the hours in a rainy warm room.
Trash. Will probably be deleted later.
Tammy Boehm Oct 2014
".Nothing is what it seems, what we see is just a mirage, what lies underneath, is the truth."

What do you see when you look at me
Harmless dog that I am
Fawning at your feet
Piddling all over myself to please you
This shabby mongrel you shoo from your table
Haughty in your pedigreed inclinations
Wipe my spit and dander from your petaled hands
I am nothing but a casual diversion
Banished from your hearth
Steward the beautiful things that catch your eye
Chain me up out of sight
I will always adore you

You cast this sadness
whips of words against my hide
I bleed out in the shadows
You've made me crazy
When all I wanted was your love
Curled up next to you
But you were too ashamed to let me in
Now here we are
My teeth in your throat
Your personal henchman
A killing machine calibrated
By your hatred
Surprise in your failing eyes
I would have rather died for you
But you left me to my own devices
I cannot stop myself
From survival
behind the mask of civility
Perhaps I've always been
A monster of your own creation
I can taste your poison
Beauty only the cast
Shadow on your surface
Tear the mask from your face
I cannot bear to see
Another monster staring back at me...

TLBoehm
05/21/10
taylor Dec 2019
that ramshackled wax house situated in the lonely ‘Sticks,
where flocks of muddle-minded sheep would whimper,
this obscure grove you attempted escaping to for it only to retreat infinitely further,
birds shrill that knee-knocking prayers were not to heal your sickness,
leaden dirt kicked up in the driveway by his stuttering pick-up truck,
    his hefty-booted footsteps cracking warnings,
two folks roosting there,
    they skimp along on scanty paychecks,
    when’s the last time you spruced up?
hushed deeds done behind doors, back porches, piddling sheep ranching, 9-to-5 waitressing,
a domestic trophy, coaxing you to product with a simper or an act on her knees,
a bride of winsome nineteen
from a limited nuclear family yet disowned as an unfaithful *****  for hobnobbing with the riff raff,
traded names to be a ‘Cherry’, unbecoming displays of skin, hootin’-hollerin’, shake her fist to the Heavens and toss her mane, sneering and bad-mouthing, rebellious attitudes of subsisting on the ‘wild’ aspect of life,
did you think you could your persist youthful life negligently forever?
psychotically ‘steadfast’ to her brutish man,
RIDE OR DIE!                    hard whiskey, cigarettes, and phone calls,
he narrates her stories, she sings delusioned hymns,
their day comprising of blackberry kisses and black coffee grippings,
of bitten bottom lips and benign bruises,
    violet caressing her inner thighs, unbuckled passion to the eye,
                        pose on his knee, crooked grins
dancing for him in wiry linen lingeries, to strut her lithe yielding legs,
                          straddle her in-between those hush sheets,
                                    one hot breath,
does he flinch when she first handles him unexpectedly? does he gaze into distances far and mumbles abstractedly?
       “No one will love you like I do.”
    spoiled excess wool in wicker baskets,
                         does she stash a packed suitcase beneath the bed?
                         red lipstick,
                                        polished pistol,
                                       hotdishes,
to you, the lamb of which she stalked,
    what transfixed you? was it her beggar puppy eyes or the muscled haunches? some boyish fantasy for a mature woman who you observed sunbathing on her lawnside?
                he had that lean meat where his sighings exhibiting his ribs,
                that fond, innocent sense desiring a mother-figure,
you met her under the hollowing light of the street lamp,
what meager knowledge of each other did they know? she cannot fulfill her promise to whisk you away to coasts free,
        soaking the laid-towels in fields, a rhythmic guidance for the inexperienced,
did she think of him instead, preferred? and a warm bed?                                         preoccupied,
caught! in the act of entanglement,
did they hear the din? his baleful bark? your blanched bleat?
springing in defense, muddied soles as tangible sins,
his flash-fire eyes, pulsing veins with an envious rage,
a preaching of her ****, his fractured heart, love so sacred one can NEVER betray the boundaries,
did he clench his hands around her throat? oh!
his demands that he pronounced! **** you with the pistol he brandished zealously,
MANDATORY!
          Moon as my witness,
                            who was your Savior in that moment? where was your merited divine intervention?
but slow of action, faint of heart, grasping her hands he forced the weapon, he plyed her finger to pull the trigger,
             the lamb’s final shallow breath, the hounds smacking their ****** gums,
one cold breath,
The snow must have felt blistering,
how frightened she became, alter her standpoint,
but she could flee as she thirsted! the yank! the ******! to the ground,
                    the punishing baseball bat to ******* her legs,
dousing, saltish tears, rouge lips gasping, sporadically whimpering between bitter laughter,
his hand on her neck skimming gradually, gracefully, between her blades, warm,
gingerly cradling her, splintering voice, apologies like flurries,
            that day summer’s day when they first married in front of the grove,
         she remembers her billowing linen dress, the way they waltzed in lush grass,
                                would the world chasm off beyond?
        he would kiss her again in precisely the same manner as once before,
fall desperately in love with him, firm, truely steadfast, unpacking her suitcase,  
mosey back towards that lit house of wax, that far-flung street lamp and the dispersed sheep,
“Take me home.”        
                                “No one will love you like I do.”
The Poet Tree Oct 2018
I love being alone, I just hate waking up alone,
I'm looking at my phone, Hello, I've been home,
I miss the morning bustle, piddling, paddling, what's for breakfast, where's my comb,
I hate being alone, feeling bored, restless, feeling lazy,
Almost feel guilty for the amount that they pay me,
Yeah, money is great, but it's not the be all to end all,
It's not the ice cream truck in summer, or scraped knees in the fall,
It's not hot cocoa by the fireplace in winter, or baseball in the spring ,
I'm chuckling to myself, I sound like Julie Andrews, these are a few of my favorite things,
I love waking up alone with the house to myself, I can have donuts for breakfast and not have to share with anyone else,
I miss sharing my donuts, or giving just one bite,
Pretty please,They know if they keep asking I just might,
I will, I would always relent, how could I say no,
How quickly they grow, and they were happy to go,
To live on their own, they don't know what their doing,
Now if you need any help, it's okay dad, I'm fine,
But I'm not, can't tell them that though, I'm fine too, I'm lying,
I hate being alone, and not fixing what breaks,
Like besties promises, young hearts, and rules that I'd make,
I loved waking up with a start, with three sets of feet,
Three tiny toes like ice cubes, freezing me under the sheets,
Taking up all the room, now it seems there is so much space,
In my place, in the closets, in the driveway, and their accounts in the bank,
Eventually, my phone is gonna ring, how much? You need it when?
I love this, I hate that, but I love loving them.
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Relief is a rare
All too scarce
Food source here
When it’s clear
I can simply say no
And refrain
From more deigning
To bend over
Backwards
In vain
All I gain
Is a thankless
And bankless crusade
And as much as it shames me,
Still going unpaid
Is becoming each zero sum
Dollar a day
An astray-
Course diverting
Me back to the grave
Like a masterless slave,
An unbidden submissive,
An outspoken critic
With no one to listen
To facts and statistics
Concise explications
Disowning the system
Excoriations
I can’t wait
To be free of this place
And be rid
Of the service
I still think
I owe to these kids
Who don’t give
Half a shred
Of the ****
That they live in
If I live or die
Or reply to the piddling
Remarks as I try
To remember alive
Not just how to survive
On this sustenance pittance
Somehow they can thrive
I just work
At this no-purpose
Circus deprived
Of a ring leader,
Just a few teachers
And creatures
All acting like
Shows must go on
When the bleachers
Devoid
Of a care or concern
Like the clown
Who can’t seem
To turn frowns
Upside down,
Is in town
Michael Marchese Jul 2020
Think i bother with the silly
Piddling triflings of the self?
I’m just the you and I alone
Forgotten anyone
Whose else
I know tomorrow when I run
I’ll move as hard as I can go
And write you stronger
Than I’ve ever
Thought about the undertow
You know I’m thinking of you now
The conscious mind can not contain
And I was thinking of you
Down
Below the rotting in my brain
I was insane to think
Beyond you in the distance
I could sink
And not return to walk the shores
Of all the oceans that I drink
Think about it, but obviously of you
Robert Guerrero Jun 2021
Drifting so slowly
Letting the world rotate
For once without me
I'll sit on cloud 9
Bounce back and forth
From dark ones
To seemingly transparent
My head's a thunderstorm
Of calm winds and rolling thunder
It's confusion yet serenity
A paradise within chaos
You won't find too often
That rabbit hole
Alice was never meant to find
Yet here we are
Slaying Jabowakis
And pondering Hatters riddles
Why is a Raven like a writing desk
The freedom to go
Wherever it is you fathom
The blank stare
Before the ball
Pointing you to creativity
Perhaps it's the ability
To get lost in the clouds
Filling your head
With the idea
One day you won't return
And your left trying
To outrun the darkest cloud
Just for a moment of clarity
I'm piddling again
And I've lost my train of thought
Hatter
Why is a Raven
Like a writing desk
Simple answer my dear
I don't know
We're just body's
Attached to heads
Full of Clouds
That either fill us with amusement
Or crash down on us
With the upmost hostility
Getting puddled
Whilst piddling
In a paddling pool
Purposeful Poodles
Poo
In a private pond
Whilst picky Pekinese
Prefer
A pretty privy
Perchance
A plain parallelogram
Has a poetic ****
As for Peter Piper
Got pickled,
And ******!
by Jemia
for the trumpeting don
spells loss for democracy
after inauguration day
witnesses his swearing-in
nepotism will run rampant
lawlessness the name of the game
of thrones breaking apart ramparts
of inalienable rightful
freedoms rent sunder, whereby nothin
can stop formidable has-been
former forty fifth commander in chief
to wreak havoc giving boogeymen
run for his money.

I cannot vote for that coiffed ogre - tough
luck such as imprisonment
doled out to "losers" -
dragging them by scruff
of their neck
delegating his henchmen
charged analogous
to applying assault, battery and ****
ever ready and rough
each likened as assigned kapo
spewing ala blow torch dragon

puffing out following
remaining poetic lines
dashed off in a huff -
based on the scary political fracas -
that a looming presidential nightmare
doth not become reality show -
apprenticing "Three Billy Goats Gruff"
(Norwegian: De tre bukkene Bruse),
a Norwegian fairy tale collected
by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen

and Jørgen Moe
in their Norske Folkeeventyr,
first published between 1841 and 1844
requiring dye hard adherents to fluff
up their orange hair
and douse body courtesy sunlamps
or other tanning equipment
to affect getting more than enough
emitted rays of ultraviolet (UV) radiation
(courtesy booth installed

in every congressional seat)
sycophants forever believing
unhealthy glow (viz Rudolph) never enough
while spending taxpayers money
sitting on her/his respective duff
meanwhile United States in general,
and Washington District
of Columbia in particular
(the epitome western civilization)
exemplifying City on a Hill,

a phrase derived from the teaching
of salt and light in Jesus's Sermon
on the Mount incorporated
in political rhetoric
in United States politics
that of a declaration
of American exceptionalism
to refer to America acting
as a "beacon of hope" for the world,
when suddenly such grandeur
precariously perched atop figurative bluff.

Airing thoughts - no matter aye ham
juiced one twenty first century
piddling, noodling, and muddling ape
poetic license serves
as genuine esse cape
to fly (during pitch black hours of night)
on his witch a ma call it...
to escape temporarily
the cares and concerns
of an uncertain world,
where as an outlier

from the madding crowd I gape
at forecasting sheer insanity,
where vetted trumpeting drag queens
dolled up as pansexual strumpets
while they seductively eat crumpets
soulfully bellow chilling hate
innate prejudice and senselessness purr
blind faith toward self avowed demigod –
seize ***** viz Cesar
wind blown kickstarting mobs stir
twittering paypal purchased

Monty Python's Flying Circus
pretenders smelling of musk
crowdsourcing Amazon sized
nasty and brutish bodyguards
to evict ruckus-causing murmur
oh...how the controlling fiends
will let this country
go to hell in handbasket,
and rack up stratospheric global debt
cause zing at least one
measly mortal male to fret

totalitarian rule will force every
man, woman and child to march....het
two...three...four, while the billionaire
turns a third blind eye
speeds away in his foo fighter jet
argh...heavens to Betsy,
how did fickle finger of fate let
pompous *** vacuum up majority votes
across world wide net
to finagle vox populi,

and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs
delivering smashed face
upon those deemed peevish pet
Long story short -
pondering my rental circumstance
will be upended if this ret
chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,
narcissistic bullish don will set
the spark for world war three -
unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman
or the Sabrina can oust him yet.
Arlene Corwin Oct 2020
Confession To A Body

Body, you’ve been kind to me.
I’m not sure I’ve been kind back,
Complex the weaknesses which don’t perplex
Because of ignorance and vanity
And all those failings we abhor,
But still ignore.

When skin & bones, the organs, cells
Rebel because they don’t feel well…
Poor body!. While we are busy messing round,
You carry on by blessing all we do and more.
You’ve been a store of energy,
Instinct, tuition in each cell.
And now you do not feel too well:

Pains in the back, the sides, the middle.
Pains a riddle, piddling round, a joke that’s not a joke;
That pokes around in secret parts,
Yokes deficits to circulating heart
Which pumps its longing to survive
Because it knows the price, how nice to live,
The drive primeval.

Partnering with brain, it thinks,
“There’s so much left to do…”
And we, rewarded in abundance,
Know it’s true.

Confessions To A Body 10.7.2020 Pure Nakedness II; Circling Round Ageing; Circling Round Experience;

— The End —