"poky" poems
Joe of to the poky.
Joe off to the pen.
Joe of the ***** wagon again and again.
Joe fit shased and sailing, three sheets to the wind.
Joe swearing and cussing.
Joe in the back seat.
Joe sits on wrists. fingers all numb.
Joe tossin his cookies. Joe real no count ***
Joe know all the coppers
And breaks in the rookies.
"Hey rook" asks Joe " "can you loosen these up"
My hands been asleep since Henry was a pup.
Joe Bangles they call him and erbody knows.
That Joey cant get lit up and keep on his clothes.
Institutional homeboy.
Going back to the house.
Three hots and a cot.
and wild stories to tell.
slippers and tooth brush in an eight by ten cell.
Mr. Joe Bangles Dance.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
I walk among the
too-tall pines,
lonely sentinels who
alone still bare their green.
They are
unashamed
in the colors they show,
natural exhibitionists
in a world of barren arms
and almost-snow.
I squeeze around their
stuck-out branches,
sometimes stabbed
and sometimes poked.
That’s the thing with trees—
there is no tenderness,
there is no intimacy because
it's all a joke.
Their pines and their needles
stick to your warmth,
cling to the heat that
rolls off your body in
thick
moist
heavy puffs.
How I hate them
and their everlastingness,
how I despise their
infinity.
One by one
I have cut down their branches,
have snipped off the green
in thick, poky batches.
Carefully and
quietly I
arrange them
in the slush,
build them into
a body that I can
slip into when
there is green abound
and the Earth
is lush.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 5:28 AM UTC
Beauty is not flowers, given by a lover.
Nor is it meadows and birdsong.
And definitely not the pantomime of Weddings, with their
Hyperbolic declarations and parodies of tailoring on
Bodies too well-fed to house them.
Instead, it is the soft curl of cigarette smoke, blue
And graceful against the grime of a steamed window.
Or in a poky kitchen, the remains of our meal crusting on
Our plates, too absorbed were we in conversation
To even remember the taste.
It is the chuntered breath, just after,
When we are both trying to ignore how bad
We smell, and getting slightly annoyed that our heartbeats are out of sync
And thinking how nice a drink or a shower would be.
It is seagulls beside a river, in a military line, with
White trails of **** Jackson Pollocking down the wall
On which they stood, and how they all took flight one by one
Like dominoes as I approached.
It is certainly not sunsets. After all, they occur every day
And can be captured in a photogaph. It’s the accompanying silence
That makes sunsets special, and that is better found in libraries anyway.
It is somehow more impressive to silence human tongues than watch
The suns tired routine once again.
On a bus full of rowdy, starched schoolboys with filmy faces,
Posturing about experience, Beauty is the one boy reading.
Beauty is not safety. It is daring and bold. Or perhaps it is quiet and
Trying to be ignored, I don’t know. Perhaps we shouldn’t care a jot.
Beauty is that thing that should be ugly,
But is not.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 2:32 PM UTC
Early morning
before the sun,
I lay my head
no longer young.
Pushing for sleep,
but it is lost.
Cold *** weather
cookies been tossed.
Water glass
next to my head.
Yawning slowly,
the living dead
Sleep is distant
can barely see,
thinking of you
here next to me
Scratchy sheets
and lumpy bed.
Springs are poky
clothes been shed.
Take a pill,
take two more.
Go out to town
find a *****
On the corner,
there she stands.
On broken glass,
and dented cans.
**** her once,
and then again.
Lay back down,
find sleep my friend...
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
The water dances
silently under the
moonlight,
streetlights
reflecting onto
the river
in hues of gold and cerulean,
fish fluttering to the
surface
in arhythmic,
unpredictable
time sequences.
I sit
near the metallic railing
that guards
the liquid edges;
I inhale slowly
as my eyes
absorb all the hidden
color in the darkness
of the blackened
summer night.
The bushes arch toward me,
extending their leafy green fingers
in a hushed reassurance.
The mulch under my
lower body
is slightly poky
but weirdly soothing,
and I seem to melt
into the ground
as I lounge in a silent Indian style.
The back of my head
occasionally
grazes against the tree
behind me
as the sprinklers
just miss
my relaxed frame.
In long waves and splashes
of confusion,
self-doubt,
and loneliness,
I manage to retreat
to some, if only temporarily,
state of serenity
as I perch on the shoreline.
It's as if I lose myself
below the water,
all the heaviness drowning
& sinking to the bottom,
and my much lighter
outer shell
waits, wading on the
nearby soil.
Sometimes I have
this fear
that I'll always be
alone,
one of those people
who just
"isn't destined to be
in a (loving) relationship,"
and in the meantime
all I get
are half-genuine,
wholly-awkward
"it's just not your time" 's.
Will there ever be a time
that is mine,
where I can let
my inner hurricane
fizzle out,
waves of infinite
heart to extend to
another, crashing down
onto a sandy white beach?
My spine suddenly
tingles,
existential crisis
swimming up and down
my icy veins,
clogging my
arteries;
shortly before fainting
from the crushing
weight of it all,
the sound of an airplane
flying overhead
snaps me out of my
analytical coma,
and the
ripples
put me back to tranquility.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
This is my body
It's my limbs
My legs
My pink heads.
Clenching corners of my skin
Contracting Contracting
Muscles for days.
Deep inside me
Jelly-filled cream
This is my body.
It's mine.
Do not try to claim a piece on me
My rib cage is not splattered in barbecue sauce.
Do not label me, prickling your poky nails in my sight
I revel in love and you revel in anger
This is my body.
Mine.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
We gonna hammer the nail that dont set flush an even playing field of lowered expectations.
Wanna givakida trophy for not trying hard cause his feelings are at stake...gimme a feckin break ?
Gotta bullyshame
Lifelong crying game.
Dr Spock is laughing off his ***
***** shame.
GPA. By Gumby and Poky
Elastic. Whole perception hoaky.....smoky
around the borders...
Ahh sixa one equals half dozen of the other
Anything.trumps nothing all right ?
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
the pasta is too gummy
marsh swamp buckets
sheep on the hill overcast rainy a little the grass is green
im having withdrawal
from her face, you know.
throwing out my report card with my lunch
wanna have a skinny stomach
there's milk on my jacket sleeve, i remember it warm on my wrist.
everything on my hand has faded
it's just little poky hairs now, no more hearts.
the girl in my head walked by me red gray blue she looked like berkeley (no, richmond i guess) like a drizzle sun today's weather she walked like the rainbow at the end of the hill
someone lit the bathroom on fire.
i know if he was still here,
the moon would be out
but without him the pasta is just too gummy my stomach too full the hills too wet
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 12:57 AM UTC
Enter the house if you dare
This is a warning in beware
A very poky house
The only movement is a mouse
Now that you turned the doorknob
You are the focus being the problem of no solve
As you walk through the house you hear moans, creaks and you feel the creeps
The house doors have been locked
You have become the ploy of the plot
You want to run
But you can’t because the house has you at the center among
Continue to walk through the house if your heart lets you
Suddenly an eerie hand reaches about
You then yell in a loud shout
It’s the spirit of the Ghost who owned the house
The moan was his wife who was his spouse
It’s the spirits being in unrest
As the lightening flashes all over the house
You are alone
Your whereabouts from others is totally unknown
You had to take the initiative to enter the house
You have become your own fright
Throughout the house there is no light
Venture on and move it along
Yet it won’t be long
You are being carefully watched
The house starts to shake
Now how much more can you take
Is it your nerves captivated by fate?
This is your final hour
You feel your stomach about to sour
The house has you completely trapped
You feel like you body is going to snap
The house is your tomb
It’s an awakening of the spirits being your doom.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
The little girl sitting on the floor
knew she wasn't that little anymore
and now was time to stand and think
how much has changed in a blink
of an eye; that how messed up
this sullen world is like a cup.
Cracked and burnt and full of things,
like dusty stones and shiny rings.
All twist and turn in a poky space
pushing each other, it's like a race.
It didn't make sense, it's almost wry
some laugh hysterically while others cry.
She wondered, pondered, trying to comprehend
was this the beginning or the end
of her life she just found out;
she's just a tiny speck in a crowd
of million others of her age,
blank, naive, on the same page;
but she knew how it was,
like a clayey knoll in a blanket of moss.
But when the wind hits at times,
the green is cleared and out it shines.
And she will too, betwixt, she knew;
and face the fire when it will roar.
Oh, she isn't that little anymore.
A.S.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
'''She said
I will be her death
I promised her to resurrect her back to me
I told her to stop biting her lips 💋
She winked instead
I felt like taking her out to watch the moon
Ended up giving me rousy moan
Wore heavy clothes to hide the poky *******
But her swinging **** left me with a but but'''
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
these years go quicker
than you would’ve believed
five years ago
now the others
seem to be doing well
this one other
I look at the pictures
they have elected
to wallpaper
their pencil-case sized
portion of the web
and yes
between the shots
of leafy streets
meals reflected in mirrors
an emotionless selfie
one in every six
it is clear
they have gripped
the big city
or the other way around
and here
in your own mirror
straggly tufts of hair
glints of silver
sewn into teeth
thin crimson pitchforks
in the whites of the eyes
you wouldn’t know a life
like that if you walked into it
shook its hand
over a strangely-named drink
in a poky but affable bar
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
MUSING
Sitting here in the room that I call my study,
I'm somewhat deep in thought,
Been to a party at the place we once went,
I remember that night how we both enjoyed it,
you never left my side,
you were my protection.
I punched my way through glasses of somewhat poky punch,
and shots of Sambucca,
which were dutifully spilt,
all over my face rather than in my mouth,
in fact,
my face is so sticky,
I'm somewhat stuck.
I'm In a place where I don't need to be,
I want to walk away from you,
You're just a poison tipped dagger stuck in my side,
preventing motion.
You are a thorn in my eye that blinds me,
to others,
as,
still your magnetism attracts,
although,
I'm repulsed,
by your antics.
Meanwhile darling,
you killed my emotions.
(C) Livvi
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
Too many things on mind,
too many things to say,
too many things to express,
in this space.
Space so big but poky,
poky as every movement,
every moment,
as everything is watched by a FANATIC.
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 1:30 PM UTC