"plumps" poems
oh... so now i know where my
"st. vitus'" take on sporadic,
uncontrollable dance routines
took place:
drunk, i attempted to
whistle...
each and every time i attempted
to whistle...
i burst into a fire and fury
of laughter, as if i waa hearing
political satire!
every single time i'd try to whistle:
giggles...
a bit like watching
the laws surrounding marihuana,
on a friday evening
lodged in amsterdam...
asking myself:
am i here for the ****
or the puerto rican plumps
of pork chops still breathing
with a 17th century fetish
for excesses?
perhaps neither...
perhaps both...
i'll have heiny ec-ken
(bite of a buttocks)
nekken -
(bite of the neck):
huh!?
i really expected
matthew mcconaughey
to be much taller, in real life,
let alone the oscars' ceremony.
i.e. is that a ******
or a ******* leprechaun?
no good trying to whistle,
when all you can do
in "return" is to giggle at the attempt, to.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
“reminding me to remember what has yet to occur”
~for Jean Fisher~
*this poem title lay fallow now near four months;
the poem title, a riddle in and of itself,
my inability/reluctance to bring it to a
spoiled fruition is simply and sumptuously explained,
no idea what it meant and
cause I got an F in future-telling in 8th grade,
when we still believed anything,
even hap-hap-happy was a possibility
all day long fits and spurts;
a sad poem rattles around in every part of my overcast Saturn day,
this last eked out September pretend summer weekend,
bereftness so powerful,
that the weather is slapping me down, hard, for begging,
gray grey sadness in the windless stillness
asking,
why,
do you deserve it?
the death of summer is a tree ring completed, a marker of
nearer-my-death that I dare only utter to my pillow,
hoping it won’t betray my statelessness to whomever makes the bed and plumps up them pillows up into squealing my hidden
truths and trust
birthing the past is easy and not what the title,
words I wrote somewhere, is asking for;
no so more straying and to the
scribbling and pecking
do I attend
that title commenced ironically at the end of May
when the summer man feathered his mental nest once more
and now my blindness clarified.
now when summer commences, was I not secretly reminding myself of what was sure to occur -
that troubles will come in cold and snow,
and no longer will the little house by the sun bathed bay be an available antidote to the real toxins that grow stronger*
this then
was the clarion self-hint to prepare,
reminder to self
for the summery summation-end inevitable,
for the perfect ending of this poem
now that I have accurately
predicted my future
the title has borne its
bittersweet fruits
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Well, what now, hey?
I threw the dog overboard yesterday.
The day before, the day?
Where will you go, hey?
I heard the orchestra-man play
The same way,
Sanctum, requiem, asylum
All Latin in his French dog-eared play.
Hear the monkey, playing accordion play
To the whirling whirly-whirly-ghig
Tre dramatique, no? Today
I understand you're just as "tramatig."
I want to hear your Frenchmen play
Play ***** pipes play play
In his dog-eared French organ-man
Play
But I cannot, cannot say
Tears of joy, in hydrant spray
The Hyades triumphant rainbow stay
Cough your little fears away;
Hear the Star Spangled Francis Key play
Frenchmen play, play,
Little piggies counted play
Black white keys with little piggle-plumps play
Atone-al, A-tonal---atonal tonal sounds as if to say
"Getting married here to stay"
All alone and all today
Settle down if for a day
And who will hear the trumpet play
When organ-man Frenchman say
"Where? Home of the free" and stay
Keep your hands away
Never want to let you say
"Hear me, hear ye, all you weary, weary dreamers
But never left your confidence like Russell-rustle leaf-blown willow-white
You fill them up with seventy two pay
Make a kite, to(k)night, allRight
Thank god for the fleas in the right
Hairless creatures for to sway
I threw the dog overboard yesterday
The day before, the day
And if you'd wanted it to stay
You should've say, you should've say
But never let my hand betray
The vein, the line, the artery
Of arterial shells bombastically
Loquacious to a fault, this day
They say "You want another day"
They say "You never wanted say"
They say "You wasted every day"
They say "They say, they say, they say"
But e'er forget, ne'er forget
I'll despise you abandon heaven for earth to get
And leave your money, your millions behind
For mansions with my Lord to find
But in the ceiling never was a god to pray
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 10:16 PM UTC
down the Valley
where the river flows
flocks of graves
swarmed with crows
ashes to ashes
turn dust to dust
where their metals lei
and turned to rust
stenches of blood
screams and decay
where wasted sheds
are left astray
down the Valley
where the river flows
are plumps of graves
where flowers grow
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
The scent of wild garlic plumps the air
in the narrow, deep valley of the brook.
The oak trees either side
reach across, clasping hands,
trapping the heat and the smell.
A trout ***** up stream,
jumping the shallow current.
Crouching on the pebble beach,
two children watch it land,
plunk,
in the depths further up.
'Fish! That's what we need, fish!'
He blunders up the river,
hands outstretched,
as though to catch the trout in his palms.
Deepening the rock pool,
scuds scurrying out of sight,
the girl notices the thin, black water slug
stretched out on her chalky forearm.
Pincering it off with her fingers,
she doesn't scream until
spotting the ****** mark,
as the leech reaches up
to wrap itself round her finger.
With a flick of her wrist,
it splacks onto a dry, flat rock.
She crushes its body with a pebble,
and the smell of iron mingles with the garlic.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
I am sick of all the adverts
that promise this and that
lady's rub this on your skin
it plumps up the fats
takes out all the wrinkle's
and yes you *** looks big in that
but with a bit of liepposucktion
we can get rid of that.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
I thought they said the beautiful ones are not yet born?
But here is one I've met and she makes heads turn
Melting mortals mountains like wax with just a smile
Her acquistion of this exquisite charm is vague
once upon a time she must have been a priestess
The sculptor sculpted out this idyllic sculpture
From legs that were carved out of the finest wood
Hips tucked in like the wings of an eagle
To a belly which spreads out like the plains of the Serengeti
Up to that soft round breast and clipped ******* that plumps the depth of feminine charms.
Along with a neck that boast of the only head
Having hairs that cascade down like zillions of waterfalls
With molten eyes and succulent lips that leads to rapid volcano
Mother nature presents her utmost treasure
The enchantress!!
Yes! That's what I call her
At the sight of her,I disguise my feelings with a blank page
But my heart don't fail to complain about its encumbrance by the rib cage
Every idea branded to prove this feeling is lust
Shows a clean pair of heels leaving the air with dust
Like every mortal mountains I've always had a deep crater inside of me
Cause by the eruption of molten magma the first day she was beside me
But I can't let her know;Not now that my valley are filled with settlers
Caves filled with beast and I've become a dung site for birds
Probably when my coast is clear and I have a clean free flowing tributary
Then she can come and make me her place of sanctuary
Adorn me with her idols and fill me with echoes of her enchantment.
The enchantress!!
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
There will be a soft rain and the smell of the ground and swallow circling with the shining sound and frogs in the pools singing at right and wild plumps trees in quivering white Robins will were there feathery fire. Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; and not one will know of the war, no one will care at lost when it’s done no one will mind, neither birds or trees will be making perished uteri; and spring herself when she awakes at down would secretly now that were done.
-DB
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
made me sour,
not flower. Once, a rose
garden, but like the ground
in winter I hardened.
Your love
made me curdle,
not fertile. Cut
to a stump,
a place a man
plumps down
his **** a farce!
Your love
made me whittle. I turned
brittle and cracked. Now I'm
half of a woman. Not silky,
but woolen.
Your love
turned me spastic. Stretched me out
as an elastic I lost all my shape. I stand flat
as a crepe.
Aug 2, 2022
Aug 2, 2022 at 9:19 AM UTC