"pliers" poems
good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
on,
but a woman
is changed
by
children
age
diet
conversation
***
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
stronger
by being hated.
I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
and I remember the cows
I once painted in Art class
and they looked good
they looked better than anything
in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
wondering which to love and which
to hate, but the rules are gone:
I love and hate only
myself-
they stand outside me
like an orange dropped from the table
and rolling away; it's what I've got to
decide:
**** myself or
love myself?
which is the treason?
where's the information
coming from?
books...like broken glass:
I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em
yet, it's getting
darker, see?
(we drink here and speak to
each other and
seem knowing.)
buy the cow with the biggest
****
buy the cow with the biggest
****
present arms.
the bartender slides me a beer
it runs down the bar
like an Olympic sprinter
and the pair of pliers that is my hand
stops it, lifts it,
golden **** of dull temptation,
I drink and
stand there
the weather bad for cows
but my brush is ready
to stroke up
the green grass straw eye
sadness takes me all over
and I drink the beer straight down
order a shot
fast
to give me the guts and the love to
go
on.
from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966
126.7k
To all the ************* who don't
Know what is and isn't important
For their own **** good.
A ***** rigid, spiked, smelly
One finger salute for each
And every one of you.
This ************ throws his kids
Out into the streets in November.
Big man of the house who trys so
Desperately to be intimidating,
With a ****** back and a
Horrible stench of alcohol on his breath.
This ************ who thinks she's special.
The stuck up ***** that too closely
Resembles a plump ****** carrot.
Who thinks the perfect guy is a hairless
Fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
With perfect flippy hair and a big ****
This ************ the few, the proud,
The fruity smelling mommy's boy *****
Who wouldn't know a pair of pliers
If they were ripping off his sparkly earrings.
Never having an ounce of dirt on his hands,
But at least she... I mean he has nice teeth.
This ************ that can't tell one honest
Fact about his "hard and lonely" home life.
The one who nods and laughs but just wants to ****
Who beats off to his computer after taking a hit
That he bummed off his rich friends.
Who is confused as to why some people (me) hate him.
This ************ who screws with the emotions
Of one of the best guys ever to glide through her life.
Who throws him on a roller coaster with smiles
And flirtatious giggling while she lets him kiss her.
Then throws him to the side and takes the next in line.
I wish only the very best for you, you ****** *****
Those ************* who abuse, torment
Or play with someone who just wishes the best.
The ones who hurt the vulnerable
To feel better for themselves.
No one deserves the **** you give,
Except each and every one of you.
Honorable mention to those *******
That complain about all men being the same
When in reality they're just searching for
The same type of meat headed ******
Every time they have such a painful terrible
Breakup. Just shut the **** up. For real.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
curled in bed
eyes pinched tight
whole body trembling,
sleep escaped hours ago
this is how it is trying to talk to you.
like pulling teeth with pliers
clenched in a small boy's fist
a wry grin on his determined face,
knotted eyebrows will ache for days
like being pulled by a speedboat
tossing and turning in the wake
skin on my palms already gone
taking a breath, giving up, letting go,
crashing hard onto cold water's surface
like my chest giving out
every breath catching on its way in
hands digging through a too messy bag
inhaler nowhere in sight, help nowhere in sight,
breathing is too hard to handle right now
like a beach beyond the caves
crawling through at low tide,
sand gritty under fingernails, sun stinging on flushed cheeks
lounging on sharp boulders that dig between shoulder blades,
then rushing back home to escape being trapped for the night
toes tickled with goodbye kisses from the dark, growing waves
through missing teeth and breath,
under wrinkled sheets, and sand and water,
I can't hear anything.
I never could.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
My intake took your fuel and ran it threw
to this carburetor and disguised itself as a brain.
It took all the information thrown at it and combined it together, then a little spark caused an explosion, which led me here:
I stood idle and held myself in the ice cold rain,
Water began dripping down on my shivering frame.
Each drop adding a beat like a song’s surrounding pound,
Running thoughts drown out into a long forgotten sound.
Pulling the handle I choose to release this body's soul.
And I strike solid like a nut whose free from the tool,
And land with a force derived from deep set desires.
Finally free from the strong grips of deadly pliers.
My soul is free, therefore it no longer seems to mind
That I drove away and left my lonely nut behind
And there it remains in the heat of the black asphalt
Sinking into the earth because of mine own ****** faults.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cascading
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *********
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
I sat on the dentist’s chair
With an aching tooth, feeling hell
The dentist seemed quite pleased
As he opened my mouth and surveyed
‘There are holes to be filled
And the plaque to be removed
It needs a few sittings
At the end, you’ll have a set of fine teeth’!
His gentle assurance was so comforting
And I thought my jaws no more have to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth!
He then, in a narrow syringe
Injected something into my gum
I knew a numbness creeping in
Until at last I felt a hard rock within
Now, like an expert work man
He began his rigorous craft
Loud machines began to boom
The chair got flattened
From 'verticality'
I got changed into 'horizontality'
And the overhead apparatus came down
Like an eagle swooping down on its prey.
With blaring lights blinding my vision,
I lay torpid as if my body was strapped
The doctor took out his steel and hammer
And started tapping and chipping
Drilling and boring
Though numb, I could still feel the pull and tug
The crooked forceps and pliers
Made all the nerves in my head irk
My mouth was filled with saliva
And I felt a sprout of blood inside
He stuffed some gauze and resumed his work
I wanted to yell, ask him to stop
But being gagged, I couldn’t utter a word
My pupils dilated
My lips quivered
My tongue got parched
I gasped for breath
With a mix of cement and sand (?)
He began filling and plastering
Scrubbing and polishing
Helplessly lying on the dentist’s chair,
I wondered
What whips and stings one has to endure
To end the pain and give the teeth a shine!
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
I smash open my skull and pry apart my frontal lobe ,
so I could forget how your smile made me felt.
I pull my teeth out with a pair of rusty pliers,
to make me forget the taste your tongue left me.
I tear my fingernails off and replace them with sharpened glass between the ripped flesh,
to forget the tender sweet touch from your hands.
I gorge my eyes out,
so I can forget how you used to look as you slept.
I stab my ear canals with scissors,
to forget the sound of you laughing.
I plug my nose up with mothballs,
so I forget how your clothes smelt when I wore them.
I peel off my skin piece by piece
to forget how soft your skin was.
I can’t forget.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
I never drove by that was the ***** way,
half time trying to hit a wet spot blind.
or killing the time of those who were never
meant to fall...
Got honor between the lines, I'll stop the car,
open the door, walk out suited
not you average gangster, look like the others
and no one running till I pulls out your
friend it anit here for a meet and greet.
More like say hello to, goodbye...
you bleeding on the floor, I'm a good shot...
One to the chest, you fell now one to the head,
you aint paid you bills now your blood
stained in the wind.
Casually walking back to the car signing
autographs of his followers.
This meet and greets been productive,
Family signing you off on the morgue...
I aint going to lie the only necktie I be
tightening is yours...
Tied to a chair, if I need information,
asking as politely with a ball hammer
and some pliers...
I had a few mouths shout off,
now they walk the street silently,
never **** disrespect.
Show what silence sounds like,
respect is fear
and I'm the scarecrow in the
field.
And you crows,
you worm eaters ain't seen nothing yet..
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 6:49 PM UTC
~
the smell of timbers,
aging in the sun and daily misting;
neath the shuffling sound,
footsteps of a man,
bucket filled with daily catchings,
the reeling in of memory’s castings,
of creosote's faint lifting,
drifting on the breezes;
of old tackle boxes,
of shrimp and lures;
the gatherings of hands,
ragged and weathered,
the collecting of years;
of hand-me-down hooks,
bobbers and sinkers,
the odd bits of dust,
gathered in corners,
pliers worn by use and rust,
save from drownings
grateful rainbows
one by one,
their too-short lives
extended with each
catch and release.
tired ropes wrapped
’round bent iron ties,
summer-time-baked...
cracked and dried,
by day's too old to count,
the numbers, the flutters,
since this heart began its bleeding,
it's journey beating,
floats of faded red and blue,
recall of a yesteryear
of a grandfather renewed;
the one-time, one-day
he and i walked
hand-in-hand
down a dusty road
to an old, wood fishing dock
on a grassy river bank;
dock and day long gone,
but love-scribed now,
deeply in this memory.
a day with rod and reel
when on a river long ago
a boy and a man,
an afternoon of fishing
to his heart listening.
a wistful day
of boyhood’s dreams
now in wishful haze;
forgotten midst
the growing years,
tumbling out in verse,
those smells, the sounds,
now reel out words
between the tears,
now catch-releasing,
a heart's docking...
and memory’s rebirth.
~
*post script.
funny, this memory thing... how we can be so not conscious of what lies ’neath its surface, but then is reclaimed in vivid, YouTube vision by the smallest sight, sound, or smell. with a childhood spent 8,000 miles and an ocean away from my home country, i have scarce few memories of my grandfather. today i am grateful to reclaim this one, a tearfully joyous recall of a six-year old's wonder-filled afternoon,
caught and released so long ago.*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Its timeto yoke the joker
yo to the emcees that think they could get with me
i wet em like an ocean tide personality like jekyll and hide
which means im a killa slash for short drama no comma imma
brutal emcee eatin' 'em up the best of em im the lyrical cannibal
flesh rent devil sent no need for repent
comin' with wickedness born with 8 flows if ya only knew
******* come in the sets of three im givin' wishes for free
the rap genie aint' comin' to be a hero the black zorro thorrough
shoot up the barrio dead eye hawkin' assassin' blastin'
with the greatest tech mouth shots or physical shots it don't matter
whatever it takes to get the job done
my posse cocked d slapped you *******
you can smoke all the spinach you want and you leave like popeyes
get it naw forget sensitive ******* i knit it
write in graffiti love hoes shape like Nefertiti queen b goddess
never a ***** **** in my encore **** with me and ill bring the war along with gore
******** never been a softie
daddy had to be a gangsta **** hustler drug dealer all summed in one
so i had no choice but to pack a gun
but meanwhile im onto bigger and better things like rappin' on the mic i cling
flows tighter rhan pliers leave emcees wrapped up like cable wires
the sire embraced higher learning spurning over obstacles
turn complexity into miracles
how could i ever fall if i never fall failure not an acceptation
id rather sells drugs and extortion and get caught wit 25 big ones
fed time **** the state time im on the grind one time
always wanna see me fall black man finna rise planet of the apes style
hot and wild j ceasar with these skills i spills sendin' chills
its an ice age all over just say its over when big yosef grab the mic
prepare for fright when i ignite blast through hearts like a cannon
i just smoke ya ya mediocre its time to yoke these jokers
yea
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
it broke while i was sleeping.
tangled around my wrist
the sheets
my heart.
i had no right
to sleep
with so much at stake.
i could fix it
with a knife
a pair of pliers
(and no real skill at all)
but is that really what it takes
to salvage a relationship
these days?
what it means to me
is not what it meant to her
but what it means to us
is greater than us both.
is it meant to be broken?
am i meant to fix it?
should i have even worn it
day in
day out
for all of these trying years?
creeping up on a decade
since i have seen her face
i still wear the ********* thing
as if nothing ever changed
and even i
don't know what that means.
it broke while i was sleeping.
i should have stayed awake.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 3:12 AM UTC
I asked you not to phone
I asked you to forget
grievous to hear a voice so beset
by lamenting longing for me
The pills don't really help much
melancholy as intransigent as the scorching sun
They call it therapy resistant
a homeostasis of neurotic persistence
I wish I could be like you
I really do
so normal, so gay, so ebullient
so eager, so joyful, so light,
so God-awful ready to meet each new day
I can only harm myself dear
that's why we're apart
I asked you not to phone
I asked you to forget
the suffering of seriousness
realism of immutable truths
the pinching pliers of precision
pathos of colliding decisions
I asked you to forget
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
I let you slip through my fingers
As every day yours began to slim
And the puzzle pieces that fit perfectly began to float away like melting ice caps under the Alaskan sun
And I wanted to hold you a little longer
But all the while I felt you absorbing into death like spilt coffee in a washcloth
And bit by bit I watched the sand of your hourglass slide to its end
You always told me you couldn't be scared because heaven was real and you kicked the devil sideways years ago
And for your sake I hope he stayed down, and for your sake I hope you were right
But these days it feels like he's standing up, holding his side, coming back for revenge
He's got his pliers out and he's coming for my soul and I'm kicking I'm fighting I'm screaming
But I'll never be as strong as you and I never learned how to keep afloat of my own sin
So now I'm sinking
And I sit and listen to them speak in artificial intelligence
And wonder how they've kept the devil down
Do they stand on his back and scream "You can't have me now"
Or has he just lost interest like I have?
When all sounds are lost and I've made enough tissue paper thin excuses to stay alone for a few hours, I picture your smile, cloaking me like warm candlelight
But you know the wind came years ago and now it's a flickering warmth
I remember your fingers, skeletal now
And I hope you were right
I hope our slender fingers meet one day
But for now I will feign strength and grind my fears to dust with a mortar and pestle
And for the time being
I cannot look at my own hands
For fear that they be bloodstained
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
His nose was Cairo’s Bent Pyramid or a pair of ergonomic pliers
And his loyalty was a slumped tower of Jenga pieces
And his skin was a film of thick oatmeal or cream of mushroom soup, coating the bottom of an untouched ***
His teeth, little tombstones sinking into the earth.
His logic was a pair of safety scissors chewing through corrugated fiberboard
And his insults were sharp staccatos
And his humor was a steeped tea bag or curdled milk
And his laughter was a Singer sewing machine choking on tangled thread.
His eyebrows were gargoyle wings
And his hair, a bushel of dry bear grass
He sang, and it was cough syrup
And his beard was a soiled litter box.
His fingers, dried seaweed
And the palms of his hands were month old dish sponges.
His spine was a curved dipper gourd rotting in the sun
His grin was a snagged zipper
And his temperament pad-less brakes or a wasp in September
And his kisses were apple cider vinegar and radishes
And his eyes were two bottomless stone wells, foaming with moss.
His gait was a vulture scrutinizing its prey.
His chest was the backside of a dung beetle.
His insight was a cataract ridden car headlight lost in a curtain of fog
And his knees were skulls
And his touch was a snug pressure cuff
And his compassion was a guillotine
And the last time we spoke, it was crucifixion.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
It is so very dark in the ark.
Forgive me Lord for I am afraid.
This lack of light has begun to burn
and I am suffocating, crushed
between pineapples and pigs.
Forty days and the flasks are all empty,
I drank every last drop of your blood.
Forgive me, for I was hungry and afraid.
Your Word was no longer enough.
Such stench and sway.
Such darkness, water and sick.
You promised me rainbows, white doves
and a rose bush when I die.
Bring pails and pliers, you said.
Gather corks, crayons, and screws.
Unwind the rhyme, you said.
Listen carefully: live.
But I am no sage.
I know nothing of verse,
even less of curses.
So I built it
and waited for wind.
You told me that I was your chosen.
That I was to carry the wine.
I believed you.
I should have eaten the pigs.
They're beginning to rot.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
I was always the kind of kid who liked to fix things
I bought myself a pink hammer when I was 8 years old
and I liked to “fix” things with it.
turns out I wasn’t all that good at fixing and I
mostly just broke things.
nobody really had a problem with it until
I broke myself and then
fix yourself!
they scream
go! nail yourself back together!
but all I really feel like doing is sawing myself in half.
I could see myself failing to fix anything,
watching helplessly with my pink hammer while they
screamed loudly, endlessly
fix yourself fix yourself fix yourself fixyourselffixyourselffixyourselffixyourself
they tried everything.
they took pliers and pried open my brain they
measured and remeasured my sanity with tape and pills
that looked suspiciously like
the bubble in those bars you use to make sure something is even
my mother and father wore safety glasses as i took an axe
to my sense of self and buried it with
a shovel bigger than the three of us
“she’s a bit of a fixer-upper” they say
as if they’re selling a house
they try to fix me up, gorilla glue me together but
it’s too little, too late
I sawed myself in half and there’s
no fixing this one.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Not sure if this would be consider taboo
To even mention the view
Did I just hear her say the word touche
When the doctor proceeded to do what she had to do
With stage crew and camara in hand
Filming what little dignity I have left
Are the tapes rolling, I may need consoling
When this crazy trip finds somewhere to land
Do I even need to mention the day before
Pills and laxatives by the score
To clean out my innards must be least 10 pounds thinner
Need I say anything anymore
Back to the uncomfortable crowd
You can hear a pin drop at the sound
For them it's routine, for me a dastardly deed
Could someone please send in the clowns
Adding a touch of savoir faire
Excuse me, is there enough room in there
If things get a bit tight make sure the pliers are sanitize
Anyone up for a game of truth or dare
Doesn't get anymore personal than this
Best friends now without even a kiss
Operation at 7 film at 11
To be viewed YouTube via Internet
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
.
When you’re not here
nothing seems real
I’m lost and alone
this is how I feel
Broken and twisted
like barbed wire candy
Pinched like the pliers
I used to keep handy
Scratched on the surface
with sandpaper swinging
Cursing a hornet
my arms it is stinging
Caught in a nightmare
with someone named Freddy
Dreaming of Turtles,
of Flo and of Eddie
Stuck in the past,
well maybe tomorrow
Calling a neighbor
in hopes I can borrow
Something of value
they’re no longer needing
Maybe a band aid
to help with this bleeding
Unable to rock
to a song by Van Halen
Hot for (the) teacher
and spellin I’m failen
Hung out to dry
with a shirt on the line
Writing a poem
I just cannot rhyme
But so soon I know
Everything will be right
When you return home
later tonight
Then we will dance
neath the moon up above
Happy together, (Imagine me and you and you and me)
forever in love
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
The first taste of Fall , with a slight nip in the air , reminds me of a five year old in his Astronaut gear ! Football helmet , pliers and hammer from Dads tool case ! Yellow raincoat and cowboy boots , outside the Eagle on Tranquility Base , Neil Armstrong exploring the creek beside the Mothership ...Home ..Crawdad matches , tadpoles , mud puppies , mantids , a few June Bugs with kite string tied to one leg ..Aggies , Immies , shooters and swirls , GI Joes , jack stones and wood gliders ....
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
I live for two hours, five hours, bite to bleed.
A cryogenic coma until we begin.
Arguing in vain with the town around me,
over nothing able to be justified, and he and I don't care;
reveling in the confusion of the tri-city area—
drowning our egos and taking our time
until we truce with razor smiles; shift
to removing tongues with pliers in our words.
(living amputation and too much diet coke)
Shouted disclaimers spread to the rest of the state,
in case they never wondered how it feels
to watch a living heart exposed.
He gleamed gold with self-confidence as he cracked his knuckles.
"I'd like someone to hit me, y'know?"
Next to him, Tallahassee rolls her eyes, Tampa looks away.
(I catch his stare. Deo gratias. Deo gratias. Father, Son, and Violent Thoughts.)
Thank God, I whisper, and I am yelling.
He is split from throat to hip and I drain his open truth.
Speaker static shifts the room,
podium to floor.
This isn't over, he says, and we laugh
because nothing we ever say can be proven,
and we intend to prove it all.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Guess I should have this:
your tool kit
one you'll truly miss.
To you I'm very ******
I just had it!
Now you'll be sorely missed...
A pliers for thee, my *dip ****
to pluck out your teeth
let your blood flow and drown in it.
I'll screwdriver your cavities
take 'em all away for you.
Farewell, to all of vanities!
No anesthesia for you, my loss.
Pain is my love for you, dear,
which you truly deserved, no love lost.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
I hold right here in my grimy little hands
The tiniest of vials
A magic elixir to cure all your ills
Guaranteed to bring you a smile
It has the finest of all ingredients
Ever concocted poured into it
From Himalayan Buddhist Monks finger nail dust
To pure Indian cobra snake spit
It'll clean you out of whatever ails you
It'll make you want to join the circus so you can eat fire
It'll burn the hair out of your ears and put them on your chest
Then want to pull them out with industrial pliers
It'll cause the old to do somersaults
And toddlers to sing gospel hymns
This magic elixir I now hold in my hands
So step right up my gullible friends
......And Let The Biding Begin
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 7:11 AM UTC