"playdough" poems
Oh my little piece of poo,
How much that I do cherish you.
A texture like that of sticky clay.
With an aromatic, stiff bouquet.
I can roll you into little *****
And stick you to the bathroom walls.
I can shape you any way I want.
And get some more with a little grunt.
If I want you a little runny,
I use prunes to fill my tummy.
"Add some color." did you say?
I'll just eat corn and peanuts. Yay!
Want some green, some red, some blue?
A box of fruitloops, that'll do!
If I want you a little lumpy,
I'll eat raw carrots, their kinda chunky!
Playdough can't come out of my ****
And I can't make playdough with my gut.
Most people flush you far away.
But I recycle! With you I'll play!
So here's to you, my piece of poo.
Thank you so much for just being you!
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
Toking on a cloud with ******* Jesus and his family
Lame folks ask me how,
its cause I ******* smoke
religiously
No God I smoke religious tree,
I get ****** in the name of heresy
You angry penguin ****** preach acceptance
So praise the Lord and ******* shame on me
My guise is Satan *****
and my swag is undisguisible
heartless and no conscience,
sicksicksix most recognizable
-that statement may surprise a little but since we all surmise a little
Why deny me as the devil when
When I clearly play a golden fiddle. . .
From Hell I made a deal
and there is no repeal
nothing you see is real,
I will invade and pervade your mind
So wait in anticipation,
life's a figment of your own imagination
I'll watch you dissipate into oblivion
Pound for pound,
I'm a cenobite at heart,
I just haven't a heart to be found
It's not hard for me
its profound,
the sound of suffering
your soul is ours now
and I will tear it apart
Here's a toast to our orchestral
Symphony of the flesh
My swag's so ******* flawless
100 carrot diamonds,
******* love me cause I'm gorgeous
can't stag no more, fat stacks galore
embrace the force it opens doors
Is there a source, but of course -
it just lies dormant/
What's a ***** to a floor except a doormat
And you know that I'm no diplomat
It's just a fact I ******* hate those stinky ratchets
And I sharply lack tact
tell that ***** her ***** smells like Magikarp
Body language, that of Snorlax
someone once asked
why don't have an open mind
brains would spill out
if my ******* snapback
weren't so tight
Its the season to seize C's
and hallucinations be dazzlin em
don't believe your eyes son,
its only a phantasm but
Words are like playdough,
fun to play with not to eat
So clap your ******* trap and get lost to the beat
I can't be defeat
So suckle my teet
My verses are perverse
I'm high as **** words: failing
Get low
ill as **** so ******* sick,
blowed half past belligerent,
tweaking off my nasal drips,
There's serenity in debauchery -
***** I ******* bask in it
have a taste
basketcase,
I drink red bull it gives me ******* wings
"Memento quod sumus lascivio venatus"
Remember that you are playing the Game
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
.
Playdough
Playdough Play
dough Playdough
Playdough Playdou
Playdough Play
dough Playdough
Playdough Play
dough Playdough
Playdough Play
Dough Playdough
Playdough Play
Dough Playdough
Playdough Play
Dough Playdough
Playdough Play
Dough Playdough
Playdough Play
Dough Playdough
Playdough Playdough
Playdough Play dough Playdough
Playdough Play Playdough Play
Dough Playdough Playdough Play
Dough Play Playdough
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
I.
I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--
pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now
beating,
pulsing
lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.
What a sadistic word,
oxygen.
II.
After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,
symbols of luck,
symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.
III.
And my seams are
!slowly!
pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.
I want to think these body parts are mine:
A tentative nose,
very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,
These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.
Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin
can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,
what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****
it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -
such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
Phone ringing with the cord cut
That's the way we like to f*ck
When we know they know
And the walls are just play dough
And the heat we make turns this shelter to clay
It makes it so intense we forget what to say
But it's okay they'd listen anyway
I'm trying to take the time to see just what makes you tick
And I was never looking for smoke and mirrors or obvious tricks
Just your essence and your presence made me question what I know
What they know
Walls made of playdough
Dusk turns to night with the lights off
So silent
You could hear a pin drop
Deep breaths slowly fill the air
Rattling these walls made of playdough
So in sync we don't even care
That they know we know
Taking the time to take it slow
In your eyes I see that raging fire
Of these feelings I will never tire
And your skin embedded in my memories
Makes me realize what I've always known
Just your touch and your existence erase the tragedies
What do they know
Through these walls made of playdough
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
flesh is nothing but a plastic cover
and if you s t r e t c h it far enough
the seams begin to rip, hovering
a guideline instead of a fence
a tongue is nothing but a stretchy strawberry
and if you cut it clean in half
the seeds disperse, swearing
to rearrange the words into normal speech
the brain is nothing but playdough
and if you let it mold
the pink uncoils, forgetting Plato
remembering nothing
the smile is nothing but a bunch of ugly mirrors
and if you rip them out by the roots
the spotlights reverse, it only gets worse
and you stare at your self-destruction for eternity.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
What is a world without being judged?
Without competition or criticizing?
A world where there is no room for improvement
Everything is set in stone, not perfect just you take what you get and deal with it
Where there is no place to showcase your true potential?
No rhyme or reason to try
Less amazing things happen, maybe even nothing spectacular going on
A place doomed for rebellion, implosion
A stack of cards with no foundation, just ready to cave in
A world without love, or feelings
It all dwindles down without one another
One thing could be missing and change it all
And our society would be a soso-ciety
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I like my body.
But sometimes I wish
I could remold my fleshy fat body
like playdough.
Of course, this would only work
if I were a sculptor.
I’m not.
Perhaps if we were playdough people
there would be molds one could buy.
Empty negatives that would press
and squeeze until one fit
the manufactured, predetermined shape.
But then
we’d be cookie cutter playdough people,
everyone the same.
Forcing ourselves into bodies that aren’t ours
and wearing faces that
some mold-maker
somewhere
decided was more beautiful
than my real face.
I think I’d rather stick
with my flesh and fat and blood and bone body that,
for the most part,
I like.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
We all start the same,
a ***** and a egg.
Then we are born.
Some are shaped and molded
made to perfection
never to be folded.
But some are like me,
we shape ourselves.
We hate those people,
who get put on shelves.
But deep down inside,
I wish I was molded.
Not folded and turned
I wish I was a trophy
to show on the shelves.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Ironically i wait for time,
to grab me and feed off of me,
taking my youth,innocence,smile,
my memories and people i love ,
so it can create new things out of me
like a playdough, it chushes and takes,
so it can make new things out off the same flesh.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
We are all connected.
The smell of chapstick & playdough.
Pillsbury Dough Boy has to go.
Tomorrow we will make a side trip.
Errands & appointments we can skip.
The right shade of purple & pink for my lips.
Some accessories are necessary.
The right heely shoes of styles so few.
Straight or wavy long hair.
About my appearance I always care.
I want to always look my best.
Hair, makeup, wardrobe, & all the rest.
To age older one day at a time.
Youth & my prime is no longer mine.
Liquid eyeliner to enhance & make finer.
Foundation to even the tone of my ****** skin.
Mascara for my lashes.
Finding clothes that matches.
Some eyeshadow for my lids.
Revealing jewelry where it's hid.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC
Sometimes I get into this lyfe style. A lyfe style of remorse for feeling bad for myself. A lyfe style of projecting my loneliness on others and trying to title a book titled "The times I've broken my heart". And that's just the start of the story.
It seems I was walking home one day and the oncoming traffic of the overhead displayed a sign that read "You've caught feelings today" my love was expressed through the form of tears. Or "white lies" I guess you could say because my tears are invisible to others and they're lies disguised till this day like the dust bunnies you sweep under a rug. And I know I messed up by talking to you so much. Because that was my first mistake. Getting attached is the quickest way to getting heartbreak. But to me its something more.
You see I'm a mold of clay passed around for the whole elementary class to see. Some people jam their fingers in me and others mold me completely differently until no one can even realize I'm playdough so instead I'm just tossed away.
Or an even better one. We'll start with the cliche "I'm a towel put out to dry" but my owner never returned so instead my skin just bleached in the winter and I withered away into a line cloth that eventually floated a stray... Or maybe I was swallowed up by the lies of others who told me I was something more than an eroded piece of ripped line cloth clay.
Whatever the matter I'm an endangered endangerment to myself. I'm not suicidal but my thoughts tell me otherwise. Have you ever looked in a mirror and seen you're two bad sides holding each others hands? Singing lullaby's about how you're lyfes demands are mediocre and no were near ideal. You're a joke to the joker and even worse you're a joke to the ones around you who only see your smile.
Because they don't even know who you truly are. Maybe if you put away the childish dreams of falling in love and picked up an adult magazine to hide forever any sort of horseplay that comes along with being alone, and being so weak to love.
And maybe that's just it. I'm to weak for love but, I'm to weak to be loved. So maybe my fake strength can offer me an attribute to this loneliness. Or maybe I'll just make a new title and call it "Moving on and moving away"
Its just I easily succumb to the idea of love. And it seems everyone around me doesn't feel the same. So I guess I'll just remain here as dried up shriveled line cloth clay.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC
*and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
∞ = a-z....
the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
sell her tomatoes...
and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
pet a rat!*
and will i dicta villager simply,
qualm?!
you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
avocado fat ****
let us bravado a chin!
that double! half-wit quiff!
fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....
you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
i carve my name in lamb limbs...
so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
into basin...
for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to? ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
a warring tide...
there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc. as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
To you to you
what I wants to say to you;
air sea sky blue
clouds fluffy as sleep
with you,
oh with you
My arms never tire
of you inside them
how do I stand the
separation when you
leave me,
when you leave me,
take yourself out of me
Hug you so close
like playdough to smoosh
my blue into your red
swirling, that is how
I smell you smell me
I didn't know this
could be so true,
this swelling, sighing
death defying love
of ours like bears
Animal, I devour you
In ankle deep icy rivers
I paw you, nuzzle you
shed your skin
lie with you naked
dangerously
I come
with you anywhere
you want to go
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
The sand underneath his feet is warm-
the sun shines in an empty sky
with the sea, as blue as the playdough
he had as a child
The sea, now resting was once furious-
the wind tormented it for hours
hours that he would always remember
when the wind laughed in his ears
and possessed the boat
As he looks at the sea tears rain from his eyes
the memory of seeing others like him
grabbed by the wind
tossed, shoved, pulled, pushed, before being thrown
and swallowed by the raging sea
now he stands on the shore on the beach
the view is similar to home- but not quite
he stands in a foreign land, with nothing
except his shoes and rags for clothes-
and he holds a baby, but not his.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
Turning into the face that you turned into before and you find that the face is the face you can't face anymore so you put on another and it's the same as the last and the face you once cast off is the last one you liked.
It's the makeup, the put-down, the smile that you smile or the frown that you make, a mash of a pancake mix, but you fix it and stick to the programme that's set.
But the faces come back and when you don't even know they start to grow on you, alter your features and you become all those creatures you saw in the film shows, always turning into but never remain, it's like your brain has a failsafe, but it fails to make you feel safe so you switch it on auto.
I know.
so many turnings into and out from and back to the basics.
but it is always the faces that turn,
they're like playdough and plasticine rolled into one and each face is the copy of one gone before.
Each face that I am is the face of the man that I was or became and each turn is the turn in the game that we play as we change every second, every hour,
every day.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Yesterday I was home
Eating cereal
No cares
No worries
Watching an airplane
Mix like playdough
With concrete and ignite terror
Yesterday I was picking out a puppy
Little and adorable
Smallest of the bunch
Sparky became his name
Fighting so hard to scale
Two flights of stairs
To our parents room
Yesterday I was opening his present
Surprise it's for me
A guitar saying from him
Yesterday I got in my first fight
Had my first kiss
My first girlfriend
In my first grade
Yesterday I was somewhere else
Doing something I'll remember again
All these memories
Precious as can be
My personal scrapbook
Everything I've done
Failures to victories
Watching my dad cry
As he became overjoyed with pride
When I got third place
In my first pig show
Yesterday I watched my daughter be born
Felt the weight of a human heart
Swell in my desolate chest
Yesterday I met all my friends
Yesterday I got married
Yesterday I was there
Today I'm here
Reminiscing on all those years
Watching a comic on speed pages
Every action a picture
Put in motion
And at the end
Just me with a peace sign and a pen
Drawing the next few pages
Till I think about this again
How time flies and I wasn't even aware
How quick it slipped by
Apr 26, 2022
Apr 26, 2022 at 6:15 AM UTC
they say grief has 5 stages.
but which one am i at?
rewind.
dec. 24, 2014.
the last time i saw you
building little racetracks out of playdough for the younger kids.
i remember the little purple dolphin.
fast forward.
butterflies.
the little yellow monarch butterflies we used to find everywhere.
they remind me of you now.
rewind.
georgia.
making lean-to shelters in the backyard of the cabin.
we would catch tadpoles in little butterfly catching nets.
remember the big one i caught?
because i do.
cullen.
please catch butterflies up there for me, too.
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 6:35 AM UTC