"plops" poems
oh honey ****
pen and ink **** star warrior
pretty little manga girl
twinkle wisp
with kung fu throwing stars
and triple steel samurai sword
that tear through others
made of pink taffy
and cherry juice fizz blood
moving like lightening
a flying gladiator
with dripping sweet rice
and tapioca milk shake *******
oh
you would taste so good to drink
out of a swirling sherbet punch bowl
with big blow job star goldfish
and hungry pink ***** lips octopus
drooling
sit on your face suckers
oh, fighter of one-legged midgets
the best part after a fresh ****
victory ****
to go down on them
their loli pop *****
butter ***** beautiful
springing through the top of your skull
cause you can't get enough
oh wow
happy hello kitty
***** plump plops
viscous
before the coup de grâce
as she twirls their chewing gum gizzards
with her little swizzle tongue
goo ga licious
before placing
what's left of their hose like glistening entrails
around her throat like a pearl necklace
only to get strangled with it
by double **** UFO boy
solar ******* hero of the universe
so hard
she spurts pineapple juice and *** donuts
out of pucker pie ****
**** banged cross eyed
like little girl manga never felt so good
addicted to cruel
whipped with a hella wet noodle
yes no yes no yes no
yes pleazzz
her big blue marble glass eyes
binocular kaleidoscopes
spring out on the floor
and roll around
turning into all seeing
anti-gravity magnetized
silver pin stripped spaceships
peopled by
evil omni ****** **** *****
screaming through eternity
in search of cosmic
tushi sushi
ogling wiggling ballerina butts
bubble gum for the eyeballs
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
I love chocolate chip cookies
Be they soft or be they crunchy
They are my favorite munchie.
I love them by the pound.
The best snack around.
My love for these cookies
Surpasses my love of ice cream.
They are more than what they seem.
They make my day and then more so.
Even though they make my **** grow.
Chocolate chip cookies
They are my very best friends.
I am sure these cookies
With stick with me to the end.
I can count on them to please me.
Cookies never ever tease me.
I love chocolate chip cookies
Whether they are baked at home
Or just purchased on the roam.
If they are professionally made,
Gifted to me or I have paid.
Nothing else tickles me so much.
I start giggling when I first touch
Those delightful little sweet plops.
Don’t bother calling the calorie cops.
Chocolate chip cookies
They are my very best friends.
I am sure these cookies
With stick with me to the end.
I can count on them to please me.
Cookies never ever tease me.
I love chocolate chip cookies
I know it started when I was a kid;
What those rolls of dough did
To me was transform me instantly
Almost to carbohydrate insanity.
I could eat as many as I touched;
I loved them just exactly that much
And it continued on into adulthood.
Chocolate chip cookies are that good.
Chocolate chip cookies
They are my very best friends.
I am sure these cookies
With stick with me to the end.
I can count on them to please me.
Cookies never ever tease me.
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
When I discern a goal I want to meet,
I must fully commit to the process.
3 steps forward, 1 step back.
While it may not be perfect,
I am moving forward with resolve.
A slip is not a fall
Unless I put my hands down
And a fall is not a failure
Unless I accept defeat.
Because I was born with the power and strength
To stand up against gravity
And anything else that tries
To bring me to my knees.
But it is determination that gives me
The courage to keep going
When burdened by fear of failure
And the unknown.
When a tornado picks me up
And violently plops me down
In the land of insanity,
It is determination that returns me home,
Even when I thought it impossible
Because crazy had become my new norm.
And it is my determination to discover
My place in this world, my value
That keeps me present in my body
When all I want to do is run away.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 10:42 AM UTC
innuendo sushi is usher asking Sienese disowns shown plops aside ask dud
NCOs debs downwind UBS mayo Iowa. Laos Nissan seis *** so enemies Sandusky snails used iOS somehow Owen haikus eye owl ensues diss worsens skinned unique.
ushers witted hub woman's newish naval cavity sis wish lend USB
[rage typing doesn't work with auto correct]
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:54 PM UTC
*did i tell you about that orca (killer whale)
that killed a killer white (shark)?
yeah, flipped him on the stomach
inducing a conscious sleeping position
of the shark, belly up... the ****** orca
drowned the shark.*
dear daffodils counting to only sixteen
springs, why blossom why bloom so soon?
lemmy was part of something better
than his solo project... no one really talks
'bout his solo crazy train antics,
so why talk lemmy why talk ozzy os' burn
and simply dismiss hawkwind & black sabbath?
oh -
*na kraju nocy i u progu dnia
kogut na dachu pieje
w głowie sie kręci
da na da na da
gorączka znów szaleje.*
given all that, imagine a seal on a drift of ice,
a stowaway of a berg,
then imagine why, it's seeking a monastery,
there are four orcas beneath the mirror surface
of the water, in formation, like horses
to the gallop of a wind's flute eolides,
and they're moving in, dipping with tail
fin exertion of some reflex spasm -
and the mini tsunami created suddenly
tilts the seal's monastery and the seal plops
into the depths... where it's only an old
cloth rag soon to be mince.
p.s. i denounce the polish diacritical mark
over o to make u (ó) as not diacritical at all...
it's an aesthetic mark, and yes, it does look pretty.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
A raindrop plops onto your lashes
and you blink it away,
it slides down your face
like the tears you should be shedding.
The sky is crying for you,
you have no tears of your own.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
Sad salty water trickles down your face,
it plops down on the ground, and your head droops down.
Your heart is slowing down, you feel blue.
You feel as if you were in a world of sadness,
alone in the world.
It would have trees without leaves,
and the ground as cold as Antarctica.
Breathing slowly, soundlessly,
as the wind goes whistling by.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Uninvited Guest* Annexed
We are seated on opposite sides of ottoman,
Brother and sister,
long history of knowledge tenderness contention attachment,
sharing glances psychological plotting.
The uninvited guest plops down between us
large foreign hand touches both our thighs
We look beyond to each other
The intruder senses our bond
knows where we belong
but must go separately
Far away from the other
Curled fingers tell us we are
Strangers on infinite journey
And all we know is nothing
The air turns chilly
I am fraught with fear
My sister is the braver one
She makes a move to stand
The uninvited guest breathes deeper
Weight she cannot oppose
Our eyes search frantically for each other
But it is too late
* http://oursalon.ning.com/profiles/blogs/the-uninvited-guest
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
~
Translucent bubbles
***Bounce on river's green surface. . .
Rainbow drowns in curls.***
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Whenever people see that dog,
they think of drooling,
hunger
and
boredom,
that dog
bit a few people
so they castrated him,
and he lays in the corner
all day,
licking at fur,
nuzzling out his pink ****
with his tongue,
and he's bored of being a dog,
he's just bored
of being alive.
That dog
comes to his bowl
like a ward of the state,
like he has to
and doesn't want to.
That dog
plops down at the back door
staring at himself in the glass
and the world outside
all day,
and sometimes they
rub his head,
most times
they just let him lie.
That dog
won't bark
for anything,
even when
he sees that *****
across the street,
he doesn't have it any more.
That dog
wants something now
more than anything else.
That dog
with his ability
to make you think
of ropes of saliva,
belly's bloated with malnutrition,
and watching tv all day;
that dog
wants to love something
the way he used to love
everything.
What'll happen
when they finally give that dog
a bone?
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
In the hard and cold city
There were no
Two a.m. train whistles…
Sometimes
Window rattling hip-hop woofers…
The occasional
Tequila soaked domestic dispute… and the like…
Leaving me now
Laying in the darkened silence feeling
Vintage…
Imaginary whispers of Brook Benton
“…feel like it’s rainin all ova the world”
Subliminal theme music
Setting the ambiance for
Trying to think of something
Not cliché to say about the
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance...
Cuz I still
Often wake to the
Absences of
Warbling sirens of high speed chases … and
Fusion of passing dialects beneath my window
That I never really heard…until I didn’t hear them …
Replaced with
Fat plops
Of nocturnal rain drops…
Far away clack-a-lack of iron wheel on rail…
Silence…
...and that lonely
Two a.m. train whistle in the distance…
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
There are still
people in the
World
With
Clean eyes
The people
Who have
A pleasant
Profile
Their pure
Scent is
Another simile
For goodness
I've lost my
Bronze shiny
Anchor
Therefore
Anaforas in
Before spring
Blossoms do
Afloat
Me and you
Are a rolling
Records
Cosily unbound
Wraped around
The ancient aquamarine
Amphoras
As the numinous, dire
Paragraphs of our lifes
Know also of the succulent
Sweetness. Inspiration.
And everything.
I am. You.
Omnipresent
We collide with marvels.
Rainbowy bubble plops.
The world is back again.
Trickeling over tenderly
Undulated membranes.
Also the eyelid seas.
United in the ephemeral,
Ever changing images.
Desire and goodness.
The day and those nights.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
Outside in the cold dark
The first snow begins to fall,
Another sign of Winter’s mark.
Starting slowly, gathering speed
As the crescent moon rises
The dark-white storm will not recede.
Silently
Falling
Single-file
Ensuring
The descent
Is worthwhile.
Wave after cold wave
The onslaught of these sub-zero flakes
Sends warmth to the grave.
Or, rather, it is the lack of love,
That warmth, which causes snow
To fall so great from up above.
Then the gusty winds rush in
Launching the powder with a howling whine,
Cutting through coats, right to the skin.
Hours later, as the falling stops
And the wind dies down
Snow sloughs off in audible plops.
Off rooftops, trees
And fences, too,
A radiant white hue.
Woe is the day
When that fallen snow melts
Turning January into May.
For despite all the signs
Of new beginnings, my soul
Remains dark while all else shines.
And I wish, with the snow,
The memories of her would melt away
Along with
The pain she caused
So long ago.
Such a shame
Something so beautiful
Plays such a dangerous game.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
I won't confirm or deny that I'm in a league of my own. Trapping these thoughts and neatly arranging them on the paper....or screen. Regardless you know what I mean.
I won't confirm or deny that this is something I love to do.....it's better than keeping track of all those kids that live in a shoe. The mother she used to be fine.....until her husband introduced her that bottle of wine.
I won't confirm or deny that she came down to my place. She was mumbling some jibberish and I kindly asked her to step out of my face. Her eyes were bloodshot red....she began mumbling about wanting someone dead.
I asked her nervously "Who?" She momentarily stepped out of her stupor and said "you know who!" Now I had no clue ....just like you......I'm looking at her strangely......not knowing what to do.
She begins to cry and plops on the chair.....she utters these words and heartbreak fills the air. Jack be nimble ...Jack be quick....Jack left me with all these kids.....He makes me sick.
I have struggled for years to raise these babies...and did all I could do. Do you really think a mother wants their children to grow up in a shoe? I talked to my girl Ms. Muffet ....and spider is still trying to scare her away.....she said she saw Jack trying to talk to Jill.
He doesn't want to be a father.....he wants to go up the hill. Plus, her brother Jack broke his crown....cause he was creeping with little Bo Peep. She lost her sheep the other day. Jack came by and wanted to play.
She lost her focus and lost her sheep....because after Jack left she fell fast asleep. I won't confirm or deny anything I wrote here.....Hey Jack B. Nimble you better sleep with one eye open.....your wife is near.
Just a little mental exercise......
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
Bloodshot eyes greet me
when I look into the mirror.
I shuffle my way into the
kitchen, where I smell bacon.
The sizzling popping noise
soothes my half awake mind.
A plate appears in front of me
and two eggs with a side of
bacon peer up at me,
begging to be eaten.
He plops into a chair
beside me with a plate
of his own and we
dig into our breakfast.
I watch him chomp his
greasy bacon and
I smile widely.
Another day
has begun
and I am thankful.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
a tiny droplet of dream plops
from the lips of overhanging creeper
leaning on my placid lake
and circles of emotions emanate
to burst into bloom
in the dead of night
its solemn note reverberates
in the whole ambiance
though illusive in its effect
staying- and- shifting at the same moment
I try to grasp
the ripples eddying out
and go adrift
counting the cascades in my mind....
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.
A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an erotic-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.
And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.
A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC
Please feel Free to Rut among my Poetry
Snouts to the Job Curled tail Swings free
Your Ire Plops in small hard Turds
All because you Hate my words.....
When views of life escape your own
Its almost like your Bacon on the Bone
It seems your views Land in your Sty
But all pigs need a Place to lie.....
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
HOPE
Gushing stickily out of heart
Dripping from the dagger stabbed
Flooding on the floor is my blood.
I sense the deadness of death.
Numerous skulls round his neck
Monstrous foot over my head,
Grim reaper thwarts my throat
Life Sap tastes briny on ground.
Facebook is not what it it is.
Single post can stab to death,
Oozing out of the holy wounds
Blood and water plops but flops.
I can see the Sun setting in zenith
Gleaming rays fall on my eyes
I padlock them to the world
Far-sighted a dawn dawning o'er.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
My grandpa who eats steamed sweet potatoes on foothills textured in green rice patties
dreamt up a tall brick house with a black iron gate
barbwires sprung around the tips of the entrance to keep out thieves
right now he wonders how long he can keep fibbing to my mother—
their rotten hut at the end of the massive foothill, not fleeting
monsoons come early, swells the ground till it gave
a landslide takes four people and a child
that day, red stars hung above Tiananmen square gates
grounded bones came in sacks, white cement hauled by green skin trucks
My grandpa who loves sweet potatoes constructs an ivory wall.
after the revolution, the sun peeks out in montages
peering through the smoke
gunpowder stuck to the tank tire roads
black heads roll off yellow tar dirt into a pit
My grandpa gives his best friend one thousand yuan—
visas for my mother and grandma,
His best friend disappears,
writes my grandpa
an apology and, leaves him a large white sack of uncooked sweet potatoes
light tan, severs in half and plops down on the lumpy cutting board,
dusty orange inners, grandpa tosses them in the boiling water
and later, while gnawing down,
he pretends they are oranges for once
Grandpa, who’s kneeling on our dried front yard with a worn out copper pail
waters the salty earth slowly until it sprouts sugar canes
chops one down, breaks it in half, the sun beats
peering through palm leaves
a viridescent river of silk and pale honey
my small three year arms grab a hand full
sliced by grandpa into pieces neatly placed
in a blue flowered ceramic bowl
years later, I chop a stalk down and chew until
English becomes a second language again
and in my twenties, I grab a hand full
sliced my mom into pieces, places them in a weaved basket
made of reinforced bamboo
I put it in front of my grandpa’s grave
in Fujian on the foggy mountainside of a small retirement town.
The edge of the South China coast covered in a thick plastic smog,
I sit on a stone eating sweet cold potatoes with my grandpa facing outland,
a red kneeing sun, barely visible past the trees
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
Mother worked the ten hour shift
Tonight
To put a plastic chicken
And a string bean
On the dinner table
I poked it with a fork and
Steam came out. When I threw it
On the ground, I will swear
It made a sound
I haven't had meat since Christmas
Mother
Remember?
She looked at me
Red eyed
These weak ten hour shift
Eyes.
On second thought,
I can't even call them eyes
They were in sockets and beady
Black and red, broke and
Needy
Mother shoulders Colossus
With a full life shift
She comes home blind and
Plops a plastic chicken
And a string bean
On the dinner table
We'll stay halfway broke
With these life time shifts
I'm ******* hungry
I haven't had meat
Since Christmas
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
as you pull back
for yet another swing
I see the blood of your knuckles
on my heart
my very being seeping out
flowing down the sidewalk
melting with the rain
forming deep crimson-black puddles
staining the already tainted cement.
you have torn out my aorta
bits of right ventricle go flying
the AV node plops to the ground
the complete annihilation
of an already damaged *****
excuse me...
but where do they sell new hearts?
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
*i never write poetry for a prize...
i write poetry for the next poem,
as in life... good or bad.*
i'm writing about a suicide,
a top chef kind, chef
benoît violer.... committed suicide,
there were awards, there
where the paparazzi,
but when reading the article
i was sitting at the other dinner table,
i read the article taking a ****
and i thought: god it feels good,
taking a **** giving birth to something
so worthwhile disposing off...
god i love taking a ****
ought i hash-tag that?
these nights when my boss gives me
no thought juggle and knot into writing
i take the easiest route: what's great about my life?
the same **** that everyone does but isn't clued in...
the pleasure of excavating a ****
will hardly match up with archaeology...
but still... taking a ****
does all the bollocks' funfair injustice
when it's dangling like a slur
before it plops into the stinking pond...
taking a **** never felt better...
it's the little or the belittling that counts...
never write poetry for a trophy or a prize of some sort...
the essence of poetry will die otherwise...
you'll get what you want, sure...
but poetry will turn around and bitch-slap you
back into your place when you don't write
for the next poem... i.e. 7 children, 28 grand-children...
or a homophilic chinese uno, with a surrogate mother,
5 poems that make up the helium of an ego
ballooned to excess with others laughing.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Sometimes I think maybe the world needs more empathy. So I buy some
ice cream, try to imagine what it’d be like to be so cool
I’m dripping sweet, so sugary that I make people’s teeth hurt when they smile.
At first I want to be a big sundae with hot fudge
arteries and the candied-cherry heart no one really chews up.
Then I decide I’d better get two scoops of fat-free bubblegum,
because nobody likes that junk and it must get awful freezer burnt
waiting for someone to notice it behind the chocolate chip. I dress it up nice
in a waffle-cone exoskeleton so I can get a good hold on it, but it looks strange:
two violent colored plops like a flamingo and a blue parrot are mushed
in a khaki tuxedo, snazzed with ice crystals and sprinkle bling. Tastes weird
too, fluorescent and sour because someone made it that way
by using artificial sweetener instead of the real stuff. My lips pucker
like a drawstring bag tugging shut: I've had a taste
but it's too hard to swallow. Just as I begin my bubblegum death
march to the garbage some kid whizzes by, abstract blob
of bone-dry hands and sharp teeth glinting: whiter than a deep freezer frost and dentist-approved, spiraling my cone into a lethal nose dive.
Wafer tip fractures on asphalt and splatters: open-cone
surgery. I watch sidewalk cracks ooze neon blood
as I try to wipe my fingers clean on denim pockets.
But even when the ice cream is gone my hands are still sticky.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC