"polo" poems
Are you listening to the whispers? are you feeling scandalised?
Harbouring ***** little feelings that you wanna sanitise?
Walk through the swinging doors of a catholic franchise
Ask em for that sailors knot a black-n-white man-ties
To the pairs of prying eyes his practical rebuke
Is a marital disguise and a tactical puke
Throw the garter ‘mongst the pigeons, the voluntary victims...
Whose single minds are filled with matrimonial conviction
Paired up poets pool their miseries; the price of art
Each miserable synergy - the sum of its parts
Did he swear that he’d hold you ever dear to his heart?
To love and to cherish til your knees did part?
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
There she stands on ceremony all silk and sinew
While the vow evicted from his Adam’s apple continues
To stutter as the panic builds like stifled farts
Til it splutters its devotions on her lady parts
Her eyes sentence you to sit though your neck-hairs stand
She’s the ****** ****** written in the lines on your palm
Old scores squeeze sideways through her gritted teeth
And he takes on the debt of every promise she believed
Hide the love-bites in a polo-neck, your love life in a Rolodex
When the ***** hand of happen-stance runs its evil down your keks
Cos like the indelible digits on your bathroom mirror
Love is for life until you dress it with liquor
If she wants you like her father and you want her like your mother
What the hell are you gonna do when you’re bored of one another?
We are but experiments, seven billion shades of wrong
The clever ones stay celibate, the others pass it on
That’s an easy line to settle-on in present company
Single-riders in the peloton to pick up the debris
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....SHIT
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill
In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.
The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.
All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****
Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair
Oh, so there is a god.
I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
Hello to the guy in the white polo
the formal black slacks
and polished black shoes
You could've noticed a little girl around
who is utterly attracted to you
You look at me every now and then
and I ignore those looks of yours
you don't know I'm secretly giddy
flattered, enthralled, enamored
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
Your eyes peel off my Polo,
Shimmy off my conservative slacks-
I am not a walking show.
I do not consent.
Your words strip me of my smile,
Your whistles devour my dignity-
I am not a dog, to be called to attention.
I do not consent.
I do not consent to this ritual humiliation,
I do not consent to this violation,
I do not consent to this dehumanization.
I do not consent.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
There was a cat named Crazy Christian
Who never lived long enough to *****
He was gay hearted, young and handsome
And all the secrets of life he knew
He would always arrive on time for breakfast
Scamper on your feet and chase the ball
He was faster than any polo pony
He never worried a minute at all
His tail was a plume that scampered with him
He was black as night and as fast as light.
So the bad cats killed him in the fall.
5.3k
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
There was a small boy, in a little town,
Unknown to most people.
He was soaring, I remember,
As if running through to freedom.
He spread his arms between the crowds
In his navy blue pants and sweater,
His bright white polo
And his shiny shoes of patent leather.
The school bell rang
So he tucked his wings to grab his bag,
And he climbed up the steps
As fast as a little boy can
But the gate had just closed right in front of him.
He had his little hands
Gripped around the metal of the gate
And shook them wanting to get in;
He pushed his arm but only got his shoulder though.
There was a man
With no emotion in his face,
Watching him trying to find a way in,
But the man didn't move an inch.
The boy put his back against the fence
And I cried before walking back.
Nothing he said would change his mind.
That was me then but now I'm the man in the other side,
Having forgotten what it was like to spread my wings
And want to fly.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:19 AM UTC
I fell out of the top bunk once
completely naked
right onto the linoleum floor
of your dorm room,
praying that your roommate
wouldn't roll over and see my ***
at 3a.m.
I quietly crawled back up to you.
You cradled my spine,
I'm never letting you go again, I promise.
I told you I was fine,
so we both started laughing.
I had to cover your mouth
or else you'd wake the whole floor up.
You blare Kanye West from your speakers
when you're signing checks
or finishing that last math problem,
and I'll just sit next to you and grab
a piece of scrap paper to doodle on
while asking you stupid questions
just because I want to get you talking again.
Sometimes you take it out on me, but
sometimes we have cereal after ***
You spoon feed me while I sit on your lap
in just our underwear
gasping when the cold milk
drops on our skin--
fruit loop kisses
and detangling my hair with your fingers.
I wear your Polo pull-over backwards
to the boys bathroom sometimes
just because it's closer to your room
and because my name is no secret anymore.
And on Sunday's I fold your laundry
on a gray blanket I lay overtop my ***** carpet,
because I love the smell of clean boxers
and you don't know how to iron dress shirts right.
But you kiss me with your mouth open,
and you hold me when I fall asleep,
and you're all I want to wake up to.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
I miss the old Kanye, straight from the gold Kanye
Chop up the soul Kanye, set on his goals Kanye
I hate the new Kanye, the bad mood Kanye
The always rude Kanye, spaz in the news Kanye
I miss the sweet Kanye, chop up the beats Kanye
I gotta to say at that time I'd like to meet Kanye
See I invented Kanye, it wasn't any Kanyes
And now I look and look around and there's so many Kanyes
I used to love Kanye, I used to love Kanye
I even had the pink polo, I thought I was Kanye
What if Kanye made a song about Kanye
Called "I Miss The Old Kanye", man that would be so Kanye
That's all it was Kanye, we still love Kanye
And I love you like Kanye loves Kanye
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
Waves taller than I was
cool atlantic ocean
grainy sand between my fingers
burying my toes.
Hot sunburns and salty hair
the beach bars where we used to eat off the kids meal
going back to your condo
sitting on your couch.
Thrown over his shoulders
covered in sand, the warm weight used to be fun but now it just scares me
you scare me.
My shoulders were kissed
sunscreen on my back
the lukewarm pools and marco polo races holding my breath until i thought my lungs would explode.
The water would rush back with the pull of the ocean our sundresses damp around our ankles, bruises over our mouths where you held them shut
The porch light was on to the condo my towel draped over your balcony, bathing suit bottoms in your bedroom.
Forgotten toys and to pairs of arm floaties because i was never good at swimming, you left your watch on the shoreline.
Crying because of the pain and the hatred and love
Never knowing if I would be cuddled or touched
but knowing i would be cuddled after being touched
those sunburnt spots caressed by you.
White caps peak as the sun rises, we’re cold with fevers and abuse, shaking as our feet are wet again with salty water and your watch pulled out to the sea, lost forever.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.
Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.
With smash hits like
"This traffic is ********
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals
Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.
old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.
"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.
Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"
So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
i reach in and silently grasp
the motionless windsong
the captured bird
and with deft fingers release its bindings
with a phrase give tender to its
timid fire
with intent i set in motion the
captivation by slow roses
the freedom by the scarce better graces
of humanity's collective soul
the thoughts are sticky
engraved with each meaning softly embedded
into its thick skin
the carefully crafted box
of her smile
each detail lovingly attended
each lined honed with precision
she fine tunes her perfect form
and spray bottles the scents
one for public consumption
the other for me alone
enthrones her earrings in edible lobes
and with zealous care places a bead necklace
in the sweating sweet expanse of naked skin
of her open polo shirt collar
shakes out her hair
with a little version of dancing sitting down
while singing along with phish
and then she catches me open lustful staring
and laughs
'want some...come get it babe'
her tennis outfit
misplaced on the shopping center floor
is neatly wrapped around her in a mixture
of loose and tight
devious adventure for the eyes
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
Looking back at life brings on a shiver:
landmarks and stygian fragments,
radiant corrosion.
Will my feet still carry me home?
The morning breaks,
turn the blue skies on!
we're committed now,
guided by a God few know.
On Earth the math is made up,
8 billion people
and 1,000 questions,
out here the days
are numbered differently.
But in the ether aura
there are silent obligations:
we're trading passengers midflight
--the jester and the acrobat inside the LEM,
Marco Polo on the rocketship,
we're eating the survival kit,
making postcards of the trip.
All spoils for survivors.
Post signs for a near perfect disaster.
You are on my mind.
You are in my heart.
Are you in my blood?
I would die for you.
If this is goodbye, remember,
these things happen...
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 8:39 PM UTC
I.
with my hand clutching my heart,
i anxiously swept my feet across
the hallway lined with a hundred artworks,
only to discover at the very end
that mine was just
one place short of an award.
i run all the way back the long hallway
to hide teardrops in a dark lonely corner
until my father
came and gave me
a comforting embrace.
his strong hands patted me on the back,
my tears stained his crisp polo as
i buried my face in his chubby belly.
he told me
that i'm the greatest artist
and that no matter what
he loves me.
II.
seeds planted in me bloomed
into realizations
and those realizations bred feelings
and like a tidal wave
the sea of emotions
surged over me
and overflowed to my eyes
chest felt heavy and
my head felt light.
i made my way through the dark and crowded room
to my brother
and in front of all his friends
tackled him in a hug.
he scuffled my hair and locked me in his arms,
and i couldn't believe he hugged me back
instead of pushing me away.
he told me
that he was stupid
and that he was sorry.
III.
he held me back as everyone else went down
the winding staircase.
i knew too well that this day would come
but i injected myself with lies
that February can feel like forever.
but the truth prevailed
and the truth hurts.
our cheeks brush and blush.
he got me on the tips of my toes
and his thick sweater caught my tears
as we wrap each other in a long embrace.
i let go of him and dropped my hands
because the moment felt too right but
he hugged me tighter
and he swayed me
gently
back and forth...
back and forth...
back and forth...
contrary
to the wild beat of my heart.
he told me
his final goodbye
and that he will miss me.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
do you know
i fall asleep
with my hands
touching
together
but I notice the difference
as yours Are tougher
bigger
rougher
but i've never had the pleasure
of falling asleep with
your hands
though ive slept
cocooned
in your scent
do you know
i've never been very good
at confessions
i confess
i could draw
freehand
the shape of your lips
from Memory
(i could show you
where they curve
and bend
and they look like
the perfect destinatIon
for my life to end
killing myself,
to die upon a kiss
to die upon
your kiss
i'm killing myself
by even thinking this)
i confess
i could shade
the exact ways
your hair falls
dowN
by your face
(i could explain
the smelL of your hair
after a long day at work
it feels thicker
as it resists against
my hands
you dO that too
do you know)
i confess
i could describe
the wonders
in
your eyes
of
your eyes
so accurately
they would be seen
by the blind
(i'd rather not tell you
how i feel
when you catch me
staring
but i just
can't
help myself
i neVer want to miss
a single blink
a wink
no time to think)
i confess
words,
the words,
keEp
running
sprinting
dancing
prancing
in my mind
but i cannot find
an acceptable order
to confess them in
love in you i am with
one two three four five six
and, oh father,
there is no need to confess
for We have not sinned
he would not look
upon me
if i was the last to exIst
he merely
glances over to me
now and then
and, oh father,
you know
how i desire
These
tormenting
words
to go
he could barely tell you
the colour of my Hair
i could tell you
the colour of his
when he was five
milky way kid
do You know
me
am i
just a girl
who falls asleep
alone
in the backseat
Of the car
that old red polo
is not so appealing
anymore
and, love,
i confess
or
these words will die
on the lips
yoU leave
unkissed
i am in...
i cant
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
-Opening-
Some things are part of you
And yet you have no control.
Certain memories and habits are -
And my sister was just so.
On the morning of the funeral
Mum gave me a mint, a polo
I ****** it for a while
And felt the ‘o’
Dissolving into a thin hoop
Of mint on my tongue.
And somewhere in there was the memory
Of other moments spent
******* the ‘o’s of meditation
Years, sometimes decades ago.
There was no narrative to these memories
Save me
And during those moments that narrative
Could not see itself,
Or the relative position of its parts,
But moments do not need narrative
To be complete
Like Bryony,
I’ve found life to be
Oftentimes bad for me,
Like confectionary
And cut flowers
Short and sweet.
-1-
Bryony is now a rose,
But once upon a time
She was a mischievous
Kink in a hose.
At Kingswood Drive,
Ben and Bry on the same side:
“Daniel – help us out! The water’s stopped-
Look down the end and check that it’s not blocked.”
At last! A chance to be of use!
The baby bursts with pride -
Just as the hose unkinks
And sprays him in the eye.
-2-
Bryony ran away from home
To join the circus known as Camden Town
A world of orphans with piercings
Selling t-shirts to clowns.
I didn’t understand it,
Neither did mum and dad.
But we went to visit once, me and mum,
I must have been about six,
Can’t remember much,
But it must have been a good night –
Always is –
When you end up in high heels and a dress.
I was her little manniken
In a whole world of fashion.
-3-
“Dan? Pass my bag there with the moisturising lotion.”
I do so, and by return of post –
A vague memory of a smoky blond from photos.
I always thought she would be a model
When we were growing up.
I didn’t tell her until recently
When she’d acquired the cheekbones for it
But now her skin rippled
With dry amusement
At the notion.
-4-
At the hospice they admired
Her strong will and determination
To join the dots
Of visitors
With a shaky stubborn line
From declining throne
To the swing seat
In the garden.
“They’re lovely here.” She said.
They were not trying to change her,
They were helping her accept.
-Ending-
An ending fitting for a start
A rhyme she made me
Learn by heart
My earliest memory of her
Playing pattercake
And saying:
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Make up, make up
Never, never break up.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 6:19 PM UTC
"No.
No you absolutely can not go to the store to buy some beer
you! you are too young
just stay inside and watch some TV
beer is for losers
no go and make your dad another G&T;
during the commercial break"
Feeling thirsty?
Want to be liked and respected?
want to be fun?
life of the party?
want to be swarmed by a slew of half naked vaginas with legs?
then get yourself a Bud
"Why can't you be happy with what you have?
you know we never had much growing up
and look at us now
a pair of reasonably comfortable adults
don't you want to be reasonably comfortable?
can't you just be yourself?"
Hey you! Yeah you!
what the hell are you just sitting there for?
It's a Friday night why aren't you out partying?
no invitation. **** Wait I know why -
What's that you are wearing?
you don't know!?
you need some Polo
and some Nike, just do it
throw in some brooks brothers
don't you want people to think better of you
don't be THAT guy in cargo shorts
unless you like ************ alone at night
and here's some Beats by Dre headphones
so you can hear us better
Now I no it's pricey, but don't you want to be happy?
we've got your happiness right here
and it will only cost you
your parents' credit card
"We just don't know what's wrong with you
why are you in such a rut?
get out of bed, go and do something
we got you what you asked for
why can't you be satisfied?
a lenovo 2 in 1?
what the hell is a Lenovo 2 in 1?
A laptop and a tablet?
Why?
Oh, you just have to have one
well I'm sorry, but money has been tight
maybe you should get a job
your birthday is right around the corner..."
Look at this cool guy
Look at how great his life is
you want this. We know you do
what you'll need is some more swag
just a little bit
and some cough syrup, expensive liquor and some ***
plus you'll want some *******
how else can you party this hard?
Maybe get a gun, or a knife
no. Definitely get a gun. A big one
that way nobody will say anything to **** your buzz
carry that big stick and walk tall cool dude
oh yeah, here's a secret for you
keep it to yourself alright?
women really like being treated like ****
we told them to
"What's that?
a gun? For what?
oh so now you're going to **** yourself?
well I'm sorry but we don't do that in this family
you'll just have to be ground into submission like everybody else
what makes you so special, huh?
why do you get to punch out early
shut up, keep your head down, do your job, buy some **** have a family
then get your kids started with all the **** you buy.
brand name baby clothes and such.
now be a good boy
and pay your taxes
but shush, the TV is on"
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
I conquered vast pieces of land.
I ruled green patches and sand.
I am Akbar, I am Aurangzeb, I am Alexander, I am emperor,
I am man.
I discovered places which were unseen and unknown,
sometimes with my friends and sometimes alone,
I am da Gama, I am Polo, I am columbus, I am explorer,
I am man.
I constructed beautiful mosques and castles,
see this Taj, as if it was built by Angels.
I am Ustad Ahmed, I am Master james, I am Sinan, I am architect,
I am man.
I take rational approach to solve life's mystery,
through biology, physics and chemistry.
I am Jabir, I am Newton, I am Einstein, I am scientist,
I am man.
I have turned upside down many nations,
my thoughts and writings can inspire generations.
I am Marx, I am plato, I am socrates, I am philosopher,
I am man.
I crossed boundaries of earth to reach space,
Even on moon you can find my trace.
I am Aldrin, I am Gagarin, I am Armstrong, I am astronaut,
I am man.
I shape words like a sculptor with delicate touch,
my few words can convey so much.
I am Iqbal, I am Kabir, I am Wordsworth, I am poet
I am man.
I Stayed for nine months in her womb,
her love and kindness made a man in me to bloom,
She is sister, she is wife, she is mother, she is woman,
Yes, I am man because of a woman.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
through graceless steps and cleavaged twirls,
girls shared repost with other girls,
and the upper lips of the ladies curled,
as the married men all swooned.
they got bored all too readily,
so drunk their liquid steadily,
synthetically coloured blue and green,
she'd seen the latest advert.
and the boys in their polo shirts,
drunk and high on testosterone,
they took pictures on their camera phones,
and called each other gay.
the male claws began to itch,
for the feeling of **** and the feeling of ****
and the dancefloor was badly lit,
so they knew they had a chance.
sweaty hands and fluorescent teeth,
moved through crowds to find their niche,
and the necessity for niceties,
was shortly overruled.
uninvited gropes from behind,
on bellies of those who looked like they might,
be easily persuaded to bed that night,
without heavy rhetoric.
then came the bartering stage,
those awkward five minutes in which to arrange,
the consummating details, the exchanging of names,
the reality of night.
there were many things to factor in,
tales of lost friends still waiting,
I said we'd share a taxi home,
and she can't walk alone.
and after the barter is all complete,
the scorned pick fights in the street,
the end draws near finally,
so the masses all go home.
some walked home solemnly,
whilst others share the company,
of people they'd knew they'd never see,
after the night is through.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
his coffee is not sweet,
not so bitter, and not so creamy
he wants just the right blend.
he hates polo, just t-shirts.
doesn’t want collars, and over-details.
he likes it simple, often plain.
he’s too picky with unfamiliar foods,
doesn’t eat too much when not at home.
he needs just a single dish.
he doesn’t want it colourful,
black and white satisfy his soul.
a single hue could mean it all.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
There was a time where I believed that friendship didn't flicker like a waterlogged outlet. Where standing up came before standing out. I never understood what growing up was for a long time. I remember when I was 15 and I saw a man at starbucks spill coffee on his white dress shirt and thinking **** that I'm never growing up" and then when I was 18 I draped a plain white polo over my heart and watched everyone I thought cared about me redefine caffeine from waking me up to putting me to sleep. I insisted that success and money didn't go hand in hand and positivity is easy when the only thing you're paying for is young cigarettes and blindfold mints. When we grow on the outside, we shrink on the inside to a certain extent. We watch death like a ****** sequel. We fear the inevitable and watch the hands on the clock until they clap and your lights starts to flicker. We live in a sea of inconsistencies that drown our livelihood and when times become consistent, monotony sits in our throat like drying cement that cracks until we can't even breathe for ourselves anymore. Can anyone define happiness? And can you tell your kids that growing up is a breeze? Cause that gust of wind can blow the half empty cup of coffee on to your clothes and really **** your day.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I was attacked by jellyfish.
Clear umbrellas
circus tents with mardi gras beads
hung down the side
like indian fringe
tentacles stretching stretching stretching stretching
and stopping.
And stinging.
Those mother smuckers
shooting venom
like Belushi shot ******
through my skin
Chinese acupuncture
sticky jelly arms sticking
plucked off suction cups
like fake tattoos rubbed off
with bare fingers
skin burned
a sixteen alarm salt fire
contained by ocean
no flame but pain
and water stings
the tickle from tentacle to skin
not even a fish
but a gillfree zooplankton
free from captivity
but caged to my skin
like a remora
those shark suckers
but I'm not a host
just prey in the way
for a swim in the gulf
or a walk on the shore
or a pet at the zoo
my chest my feet my hands
stung like ghost bees
not seen but felt
glossed with mud
this time tide sand
wet like tsunamis
mixed with vinegar
rubbed like bay leaves
under the nose
to relieve congestion
but on the wound
to relieve infection
my skin reddens
like rose bloom
from gypsum sands
and I want to sleep
sound as Beethoven
but wake again
like an immortal sea jellie
roaming every ocean
like De Soto or Marco Polo.
Marco
Polo
Marco
Polo
Fish out of water.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC