"pinnochio" poems
The geosynchronous
Geppetto One
With us orbits
Round our sun;
Blinking down,
Ringing up,
We're on lines
Like marionettes;
Transmitting selfies,
Receiving otheries.
Time to be Pinnochio,
Cut some ties,
Get up and go,
See eye to eye
When toe to toe,
Watch how small
Our noses grow.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
1
I don’t know
about you
but my fingernails
they keep growing
like Pinnochio’s nose;
I pare them
and keep them neat and short
and when I look again a week later
they’ve grown and seem to say:
So what you’re going to do about it?
It’d be alright if you were a woman,
but as a man
everyone expects you to keep us short and neat.
Oh, I just can’t bear
these decades of nail-taunting
and my computer calculations show
a quarter of my life is wasted trimming my fingernails
and with a quarter in sleep
half my life is gone between nails and snores
Well now -
I’m never again cutting my fingernails
I’ll just let them grow
and grow;
and as far as I care
they can grow like Jack’s beanstalk
2
Sure, the concerned
amongst you might say:
Oh, that’s not a good idea
to let your fingernails grow
But to you, I say:
Have you even considered
the advantages if I had long fingernails?
I could literally reach out to you
wherever you are
and not just through the internet
but with the help of GPS technology
and google maps
I could locate you precisely
and give you a tickle!
Now, wouldn’t you love that!
3
And when I’m famous
a fingernail celebrity
and people come to meet me
and want to shake my hands
I’d say: Hey, shake my nails instead!
And if I’m walking in the streets
and anyone wants my help, I’d say:
Yeah – you scratch my back
and I scratch yours!
4
And of course you might say
(Oh how so concerned you are):
But how will you use your keyboard
to type your awful nail-biting poems?
And so I say to you:
Hey, where do you live?
In a cave in Siberia or what?
Haven’t you heard of speech to voice technology?
And so, dear friends,
I don’t know about you
but it’s long nails for me
and if somewhere in the world
as you are driving or reading a book
or while at a picnic
if you see nails reaching out to you
from across the oceans and skies
and giving you a tickle,
you know it’s me, your nail-some friend….
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
The moon’s luminous lighting replaced the sun’s piercing gleam
Flickering stars appear that remind me of strobe lights in a ballroom dream
Where everyone has a partner; all dashing knights and princesses
Adorned in armor, family crests, and pretty dazzling dresses.
A kiss and a bow a knight would gladly court his lady with
The pair is invincible as long as they are together
from this spark of love, they live happily ever after
Enchanted castles that promise to fulfill your deepest desire
Love’s iridescent reflections of beauty to admire
Lasting as long as forever in souls entwined
By say, magic, or enlightenment, or both combined.
Maybe love carries from life to life sowing
the seeds of dreams that yearned to be real
and so sparked the light that grew between two people, conceiving a deal
Of binding heart and soul
Thereby forever needing the other to make one whole.
But what about the lost souls that set out to find this other half?
Those that loved and lost it all and now they read about fairytales and laugh.
Ship these make-believe fantasies back to the sender
Or leave them with the offender that said to her,
“Things will be different, I promise.”
How many promises will be broken before her heart is?
In the end fairytales don’t really exist
Even the princess doesn’t always get the prince
Spells and eternal sleep can’t be cured with a kiss
Beauty isn’t locked in a tower with an evil mistress
Hardly anyone wears lace and frilly dresses
Happily ever after is ******* by impending death
Wishing upon a star takes a lot of breath
And for all that hope and relinquished control
It never granted a wish for a single soul
Jimminy Cricket never really stuck with it
Pinnochio got trapped in a fire and burned in its pit
All the tales are true, it doesn’t mean Disney’s sadistic
But he had a dream that the world neglected
When his spirit passed on from Earth, so went the gleam
Of a million heartfelt stories that once enchanted our childhood dreams.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:00 AM UTC
what am I supposed to do?
I’m high on ativan
but that’s a secret
and it’s not the kind of person
I am anyway;
I promise, sometimes in life, there are acceptable exceptions --
a big fat scary monster has swallowed me up
whole
and I feel like Pinocchio
in the musky dark,
in the stomach of terror;
did you know
I bought 3 books today,
they’re classics
and were on sale,
"how perfect," I thought, "something to read on the plane; something to read over and over again for a whole year abroad."
but my suitcase is empty
apart from the three paperbacks,
intimidating me
and I’d honestly rather die and never hear anyone talk ever again than pack for a whole year
this is a poem of fear
but that’s a secret, though I’m sure
the consumed ativan
clearly gave that away;
— I’m moving
to the complete opposite end of
the world —
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)
Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their steel knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.
Always, though, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In a dance surreal's reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.
Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.
And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood
Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
The joy I felt was full to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.
Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
I have seen both and can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Give the suckers what they want. PT Barnum
Vibrating condoms that stay hard when you can't.
Pigeons that don't **** Invisibility cloaks.
Parents with a mute button. Happy nightmares.
Politicians with Pinnochio noses. A blow job app.
Self-repairing cars. Seduction lie detector.
A time machine. Mind reading headset. Hope.
****** pills. Portable STD scanner. Edible cups.
Gourmet cook robot. Sincerity meter. Honesty.
Gun gloves. X-ray specs, Teleporter. Laughter.
Anti-loneliness inhaler. Broken heart tape.
Complete do it yourself dental care kit.
Many other brightly colored useless objects.
Find an Angel. Do a start-up. Go public.
The American Dream: have more money than god.
~mce
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
i kept a calendar when i was younger. i filled the columns with big round handwriting and coloured them with markers. the page for 7th - 13th november looked like this:
SUNDAY: -
MONDAY: doctor's appointment
TUESDAY: -
WEDNESDAY: english exam
THURSDAY: -
FRIDAY: -
SATURDAY: i'm going to **** myself today
i chose a green marker for the background.
that morning i got up early. i brushed my teeth. i put on a warm jacket. i went to the pond to feed ducks.
the body is 60% water. i learned that in school.
the body is 60% water, 30% sorrow and 10% coal dust and i never learned that anywhere until it had already spread inside of me, turned all my organs brittle and grey.
the body is not meant for this. i learned that the hard way.
there is a point, eventually, after the hundredth doctor's appointment, after the fifteenth conversation where you bare your teeth like a snarl instead of a smile and you say you're fine and they say they're fine and you-
there was a point, but i lost it.
i spent two hours feeding those ducks. my face was burning from the cold and i couldn't feel my hands. it felt like they belonged to another person. it always felt like that these days.
i wondered whether other people could see the puppeteer's string they were all tangled up in like the world's most morbid arts and crafts project. sometimes it felt like a ****** up retelling of pinnochio, only i don't turn into a real boy at the end.
it's not that i wanted to die. it's just that i kept dreaming of drowning. the body is 60% water and i wanted to wade into it until the world around me had disappeared and my lungs were filled with the same stuff i had been swallowing in my sleep for years.
i was submerged halfway up to my stomach when my phone rang. i still don't know why i picked up. maybe it was the person my hands now belonged to who did. my mum's voice was far away like the world on foggy winter mornings. she wanted to know where i was. she made pancakes. she wanted to know when i was coming home. she loves me.
the leaves were tumbling around me like falling bodies.
the sun was hidden behind clouds.
my hands were shaking and the sky was howling at me:
live; live;
live.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)
Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.
Always, tough, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In surreal dance, a lifeless reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.
Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.
And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood
Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
Full joy I felt, to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.
Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
Seeing both, I can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
I have danced on the strings
Of another's desires;
I have pirouetted gracefully
To the swaying pull,
To the sudden release
From above,
But never from love.
I have stumbled and bumbled
In another's uncertainty;
Then, behind a painted smile,
Straightened and bowed,
On invisible strings
To an admiring crowd.
I have hung on the back
Of a dressing room door,
Strings looped carefully
Up on a hook, waiting alone
In suspense...
In the dark.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Step up on stage
And undress for a second
As I exsanguinate your flesh
Just to let you know that you're rejected
Then I'll bend you over
Slit you open
And let your entrails leave
Like a funfetti stream
That you try to chase
But just can't reach
The only problem that I've got with you
Is that you're not dead
When I've beaten the side
Of your head with this hammer
Until it turned red (you know)
From all the bloodshed
Shattered your skull to open a hole
So wide you could reach inside
With chopsticks like a ramen bowl
Removed all the lies like Pinnochio's nose Then I got my real vice
You could call it the main course
As you slumped over
And heard my footsteps retreating
I'd be more focused on checking
If your heart's still beating
It's not deceiving
That you were begging for your life
But you knew I had a surprise in store
When you opted for the knife
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 8:58 PM UTC
Harris and Trump hit the stage
At stake is the next US president
The debate was filled with rage
The debate was filled with torment
It was like watching a tennis match
With each participant taking shots
Back and forth we watched the barbs hatch
Back and forth each tried to connect the dots
Harris let her racket do the talking
While Trump defended the ball in his courts
The participants were mocking and rocking
The participants built word forts and false reports
Harris wasn't perfect and neither was Trump
But you can see clearly which one looked the part
Both party's stars are looking to triumph
Both party's stars are pledging a fresh start
Time and time again we hear campaign dreams
So it comes down to which candidate you believe in
Which candidate has less Pinnochio inseams
Which candidate you want to win
On November 5th the votes will be cast
And of importance, our American welfare is at stake
So think it over and be true and steadfast
So think it over and make ... no mistake
Logan Robertson
9/11/24
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
he sold his house of cards and joined a band wagon caravan marching carolers streaming down the Nile River playing sad songs better
searching for Jesus and the Pharaoh and Cleopatra and Madonna
pop culture religion
he kissed ferris wheels
I never forgot the clouds
We stole the timelines from trees
Fractal fairytale disease
Symptoms of make believe
Falling in love life
Wonderland lust
Teaching kites how to fly
Graceful ugly ducklings sailing the moon to peterplan
So little princes and Indians can plant sunflowers
While the aliens are on vacation
Like surprise Christmas gifts of sparklers on new years the color of Atlantis books hidden in scrolls in marketplace buddhas
The world travels around us
As we play sad songs better
We build homes for those without
Feed our flesh to the Earth
Death blooming circles Mary go round ring round the rosey sunset kind of apocalypse called bliss
Wisdom streamlined by the old fisherman drowning in the fresh air as pinnochio waves from the whale saved by hopeful generation bred with care compassion
Playing our sad songs better
Christening the weather
Baptising ourselves in the rain
Calling the universe our church
Truth seeds in our hearts and membranes
Hummingbirds living in beehives
Hybrid hope of tomorrow
Letting lions and lambs play with mice
Aesop playing banjo out of tune
Poets turning into to fireflies
Lighting our way home
Through crop circles and ghost stories
Not being anchored by our past
We are no generation Titanic
We just play sad songs better
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
Pinnochio and The Queen
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
Life!
Nothing but a walking shadow
partial and wicked with irregularities like the meadows
Pains like a needle in wounds
And non soothing like sounds of no consolation
What is pain other than our lives
What is wound rather than the tears we shed
We may live like this for long
But There's a pause called victory
Like an oasis is differentiate desert from farmland
Hunger from satisfaction
Fruitful from barren
Lack from surplus
A cheap consolation satisfying our expired need and unchanging greed and desire
Life! It is full of miseries like a pack of card with only aces
It takes trillion years to understand the prelude
Another billion years to comprehend the interlude
Years and years roaming on the crossroad of mind
Can't solve the deep puzzle in the drama of life
Is it crossword of our aspirations or destiny?
Or jigsaws of our thoughts,ideas,concept and prospects?
The things we shall never know that is within us
Our strengths and weaknesses
Our ups and downs
Our victories and failures
Our inabilities and abilities
Our losts and profits
Our tears and laughter
Our frown and smiles
Even actions and things we portray
we are ignorant of these in the game of life, defeat may be a consolation
Success may be a Greek gift
Flaws we never create
Dreams we never create
Still revolve around us
Like we are casts in a movie
And the script already written
Ours is to act
'Not minding if it's tragedy or comedy'
Like pinnochio and the host of the Disney
Our mind have been trained to forecast for seasons
But if we try to live other than it
that's treason
That's why people suffer
others feasting
@holythugbaba
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Those Malibu
Smarties
The kick
in her
Picky
ways
Being Nosy
Days in
or out
Too
long
((Pinnochio))
Sipping
Italian
Cappuccino
The cozy
Vineyard
Calvin Klein
Wild horses
couldn't
stop you
or keep
Time 4-U
Only you* *
2 B pushed
Far in
Wait_---
The Star wins
What about the ____?
I hope the
first choice
My pick
The picket fence
His Polo-top
his
pants
banged
into something
In her way
He knows
He must
redo it
over
The lover
of the
picket fence
He
walked
into her
White website
Starry
moon
Over Yonder
Lake picnic
lagoon
White lights
She wonders?
Wise white painted
footstool
Owl-prowl
Right -Time
traveler fool
He sent you
his drink
Hi and wink
mystical glance
Those block parties
food for the soul
No control
Clogged your
arteries
White
picket
fence
You went
in France Wee we
Small regrets bites
White jacket websites
Journal Police
There was no
picket fence
Wed rice
Became long_____
hallway
Hallucination
more visualizing
He picked you
To be reborn
reincarnation_____
Like death do us
New birth so fuss
Like many
Dying
You lived
deeply
in his
trance
He Loves your eyes
to his doorway
How he
leads you
there is
no denying
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
Bo Boggs sat on a Pappy Crush Soda crate, smokin' a roach in a graveyard. The headstone read " Here lies Pinnochio Earle... Face Up. Take Care Where You Sit. " . Bo could see the Landry hog farm, over the tombstone and his mind was fishing for some cosmic corollary as he stared into Space grippin' a cold one. The summer breeze came at Summer's End, bringing with it, a hint of Fall, and far off barbeque. Bo Boggs sat on a Pappy Crush Soda crate in the bossom of a garden of stone. listening to Bluebirds forget the music they had never rehearsed in the first place. And he almost laughed.
Then he wrote that down.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC