"proboscis" poems
**squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango**
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
I am your platter
Of sterling silver
Serving up a pig
Of visible bones
Naked and dying
Suffocating on
A poisoned apple
A poisoned gag-ball
Regurgitating
Salivary screams
And my heart is set
In loveless resin
Resonating love
But never beating
Again until you
Peel away my chest
Peel away my heart
And **** out the love
Through your proboscis
Until I am just
Gag-ball, resin, bone
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Busy bee eyeing the flowers
Seduced by the bright colors
Probing with the proboscis
Hairy body covered with pollens
Visiting the clovers and hollyhocks
Also in love with Dahlias and roses
Returning with the days fill
Honey sac full of nectar
Returning to the honeycomb
They are ‘Bee-ing’ happy
With all the sweetness
Just Bee Happy
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
I ain’t got no intimate, ain’t got no stiletto heels
Ain’t got no Lsd, ain’t got no smack
Ain’t got no partners, ain’t got no drill
Ain’t got no slapstick, ain’t got no hanky—panky
Ain’t got no Lsd, no slot to mount
Ain’t got no castrato, ain’t got no crumpet
Ain’t got no conjoined twins, ain’t got no nuns or eunuchs
Ain’t got no whipcord, ain’t got no adoration
Ain’t got no ******** ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no ******
Ain’t got no oscillation, no shags
No uniform, no parts
No smack, no drill
No partners, no peccadillo
Ain’t got no stimulant
Ain’t got no whipcord, no propagators
No titbits, no intimate
I jabbered, I ain’t got no uniform, no hanky—panky
No peccadillo, ain’t copulated till one is blue in the face to have a funny feeling
And I ain’t got no ******
Oh, but what have I copulated, oh, what have I copulated
Let me tell what I copulated and nobody’s going to enlarge telescopic
I got my ***** on my face
My extra—sensory perceptions, my knobs
My ****** peckers and my ********
I got my stuck—out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** my *******
My thingummies, my cockles of the heart and my posterior
I got my ***********
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got ***** I’ve inseminated cheerleaders
I’ve got bottomgremlins and hacksawhoodoo
And Mephistophelian juggernauts too like you
I got my ***** my pistil
My ESP, my knobs
My vaginas, my peckers and my ********
I got my stuck-out tongue
I got my tentacle, my proboscis
My ***** and my *******
My ***** my ***** and my posterior
I inseminated my ****** sorbet
I got my thingummies, my talons
My ball and socket joints, my forelegs
My hooves, my pincers and my snorker
Got my crest
I got my ***** I got my slipperiness, my *****
I got *****
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 4:29 PM UTC
If you were reincarnated as an animal
Knowing everything you do now
Would you treat humans differently than animals already do?
Or would you bite the hand that beats?
Or would you bite the mouth that eats?
Would you treat humans kindly?
That could be a bullet finding
I come across a shivering raccoon
Stuck inside a winter monsoon
It's too young to survive
I could help I surmise
Its coat can't protect its form
In my car it's nice and warm
But I don't understand the raccoon
And I fear it doesn't understand me
Though I'm not proud of it
I travelled around it
Mosquitoes want your blood to survive
The same way I want your love to arrive
There's a pestering orbit
Your teeth grind and grit
I feel the need to feed
I am overcome by greed
I want you inside me
So I insert my proboscis
And you turn into colossus
It's an animal process
When you squash us
So animals grow stingers
And poison that lingers
When we use our fingers
To smash them
And detach them
From our humanistic existence
They have a reproductive resistance
So we keep fighting
And they keep biting
Because there's no end in sight
When we see animals take flight
We define anything different as animal
This is our excuse to act tyrannical
They feel our wrath
When they're in our path
We turn them into roadkill
This world becomes a landfill
Our hollowed humanity on the shelf
We treat animals as we treat ourself
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
On old world wings you've come
through ages gracing wilds
In gardens you hover, humming hawk moth
seemingly like a bird
With beating wings you sing to honeyed flower stalks
a proboscis long for drinking up
phlox and penstemon
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
On old world wings you've come
through ages gracing wilds
In gardens you hover, humming hawk moth
seemingly like a bird
On beating wings you sing to honeyed flower stalks
a proboscis long for drinking up
phlox and penstemon
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
I'm paying tribute to one of the finest Poets I know, Tony Hoagland. He recently passed away from Pancreatic Cancer at 64 years young. This is one my absolute favorites and I believe you'll love it also.
Romantic Moment
After the nature documentary we walk down,
into the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores
where the mock orange is fragrant in the summer night
and the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.
It is just our second date, and we sit down on a rock,
holding hands, not looking at each other,
and if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
and ***** softly into the mouth of my beloved
and if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
***** and spread the quills of my cinemax tail.
If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
insert her hypodermic proboscis delicately into my neck
and inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,
and if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby treelimb
and smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.
And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
tongue three times around my right thigh and
pummel me lightly against the surface of our pond
and I would know her feelings were sincere.
Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
she remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and iguanas,
human males seem to be actually rather expressive.
And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive
enough credit for their gentleness.
Then she suggests that it is time for us to go
to get some ice cream cones and eat them.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
There is perfection in the perfectly sauteed shrimp,
pink and plump and juicy.
Marinade clinging to the gentle curve of its back...
specks of lime zest and tarragon...
slide slowly down the sides,
a hint of tequila,
of honey
curls their way from pan...
to proboscis
and I smile.
Then...
gently with tongs...
turn them over....
...
...
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
The careful moon maunders through the glass ceiling
on these long nights
when I try to alchemize my visions into ships.
I imagine the mist moping among the larches—
the dewy bark that wakes,
looking for shadows of loggers in the grey.
On cold nights like this I sleep beneath a sheet, sweating,
dreaming of China’s violet sky exploding with hues
of a butterfly’s paper wings.
The summer air crackles above the pale girl’s tent—
a counterfeit ankh hangs between
her naked, sagging *******
and she sees the future in the reflection of her eye
on an Opinel’s blade—her iris wheezing into shapes.
She tells me there are gales ahead
like ones in schoolbook etchings of Poseidon.
Boys will choke on salt, she says,
or the ice will kiss the little princes to sleep.
But she coos how they look like dancers at a ball.
How many boys will be lost? I ask the girl.
All of them, she says with ***** on her breath,
but this won’t stop you, will it?
In my favorite dream yolk sizzles on a cast iron as mother sings.
My older sister laughs, cheeks full of sourdough and jam,
and father’s wet hair drips onto his paper—
the ink of little letters smearing into bare branches.
The dream helps me forget that rain never ends where I wake,
where guilt’s proboscis feeds on hardened veins.
To whomever’s my son, please don’t put me in an elegy
where the memory of me will rot like wet wood.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Why did Noah take nits?
Let's pull this ark to bits,
God let Noah take two nits,
Plus two mosquitoes, each proboscis,
Gave humans encephalitis,
What is worse than this?
Why they bring malaria, blip!
What is worse than this?
As well as Noah's two nits,
God let Noah take two rats,
With two fleas on board, that's that,
So Noah brought bubonic plague,
While lovely unicorns floated away,
Then on all those wooden decks,
Noah took two woodpeckers, by heck,
So that was the end of Noah's Ark,
Lucky he wasn't eaten by sharks,
So, why God, did you plan all this, mate?
I know Noah was human to make mistakes,
Taking rats, fleas, mossies, and nits, great!
Was taking two nits more than fate?
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
The Platypus
(a limerick for adults, teens and older children)
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
Keywords/Tags: limerick, double limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, platypus, ****** duck, proboscis, nose, beak, feet, webbed, flippers, eyes, eyesight, sight, vision, myopia, myopic, animal, nature, ****** erotica
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Ballade of the Bicameral Camel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a camel who loved to ****
Please get your lewd minds out of their slump!
He loved to give RIDES on his large, lordly lump!
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
Other Limericks
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!
"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
Mouths are not used for communication.
Rather they add to all frustrations,
Allowing lies, guile, and machinations.
If man had a trunk to trumpet a warning,
‘Twould be better served than a tongue used for spurning.
A narrow proboscis for nutrients to ****
More useful than lips that spew only muck.
The double-speak game is one that must stop,
Before all good words are spun into rot.
Mouths are ridiculous adaptations,
That enable ridiculously false orations,
Telling us all we need is communication.
-M. Hale
6.10.11
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Distract me, humble vibration.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind
Give me a pattern to find
And I will happily rip from reality
Like a shredded letter from an old foe.
Distract me, fleeting words.
Preoccupy this preoccupied mind.
Give me a motive to find
And I will dutifully leaf through your pages
Like flat stones skim the water’s simple strata.
Distract me, passive chi.
Preoccupy this preoccupied me.
Give me a flavour to find
And I will reach for the bottom
Like the proboscis of a bee
Innocent search for mother’s riches.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 3:19 AM UTC
It's like a swarm
Of malevolent spectral butterflies
Green and black
Evil emanates
Corruption cascades
From each sickly flap
Of those tiny evil wings
It floats up
When you think you're perfectly safe
Calm and sane
Removing reason
Surmounting sensibility
At each cruel brush
Of a pair of hairy antennae
No one else
Believes there is a danger involved
Daft and Lucky
Blissful Blindness
Ignorant Innocence
Of the butterfly's bite
From its noxious proboscis
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Shafts of courage depicted on the
parchment of hope
Running into beamlight of victory
Leaning towards trunk of optimism
You speak courage
You emit courage
Protruding ribs of scalped stood
on wingspans of surgery
At the hours of the night.
Spring of courage flown into the
feeders of victory.
Spirit of courage locked-up
scroll of fear.
Sun of courage dried up the
stagnant sea of fear.
An entanglement of two wars
fought with two divine axes
of courage.
But you conquered fear.
Sneezing out the mucus of death
from the nostrils of conquest,
Zooming like an eagle soaring into
the waiting arms of the theatre.
Clipping the fangs of scalped with
hope.
Withstanding the chilled cold of the
night.
Resisting assault from the proboscis
of mosquitoes.
Waiting for days in hours.
Tarried for result outside the fragile
womb of life and hope
Tarried for positivity in anxiety
Pendulum of anxiety thickened the
darkness of fear
But you whizzed back like a matador
from the ordeal of a long journey
of life.
A second Lazarus revoked the decree
of death.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 11:56 AM UTC
Limericks II - Nature and Animals
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot!"
###
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
###
The Dromedary and the Very Work-Wary Canary
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
###
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
###
The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
Keywords/Tags: limerick, nonsense, light verse, humor, humorous, nature, animals, leopard, spots, mockingbird, raven
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 1:37 AM UTC
Yes, it's another poem from my vampiric friend, the fearsome COUNT ORLOK!
Death's Head am I, silver-green
Eerily glowing-in-the-doomy-dark,
See my delicate feather-like wings,
Wings of an ethereal ghost, deadly antennae,
Scented fatally with secret moth codes.
And I stare unblinking...
I watch my own wings flap open;
My life is balanced on my fingertips,
Weightless and shimmering, fearful of what?
I dare not ask that, for I dread the answer,
The response of night-creatures baying at the moon,
As in a terrible nightmare.
And I fly forth to bring death
To frail creatures of mere flesh,
O the joy as my teeth sink into waiting necks
And proboscis-light kisses run down my naked spine,
My tongue savouring their dying essence,
A vague taste of purest *****
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Ink wounds sketched on her wrist
Prophetess unfurled her diamond proboscis
Hungrily ******* the pollen muse from the lyrist flower
She bounces her piety on the edge of her eyelids
Her azoic eyes flashing
Like a chrome apochromatic
Phonetic voice spinning a tune
Stylus fingertips dancing on a spinel canvas
Outlined on her metal stomach
Though eccentric
She is sterilized with intelligence
Tilting diagonally on insanities thin line
She is straitlaced
Self absorbed
Cryogenic
With upside down crosses imprinted on her throat
While her proselytes unthread dreams
From her coliseum heart
Bowing down to the collage God
Sacrificing sacrifices
“Pull more, pull more!”
Proselytes cried
Sunbeams painting their ash faces
As they pulled more dreams
From between the Prophetess lashes
Her hips becoming a petal chakra
Her vertebrae evaporating into bone butterflies
Fragments of every churchy elements
Pinning themselves to her skin
Her leather wings flapping a nursery rhyme
She spins out of control
Her musical clavicles creating a glassy chemical
Which shimmer and shake
Tattooing her pearl bones
Infusing her thoughts
She grafts herself on the minds
Of her Proselytes
They worshipped her life
They worshipped her body
They fed on her lies
Until one day
Error religion snatched her out her skin
Turned her into sacral fiber
Planted her whispers deep in a field of shredded dreams
And stretched her moon soul
Across the sun stained sky
For all to see
Her star spangled faith
Misshapen into unbelief
She had become her own religion
Her own personal god
But without any meaning
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
I thought to acquire
A piece of wall art;
Reproduced in mass would be fine
As long as it’s attractive, yet honest,
without tasteless jest,
And appears to be organic,
Cultivated
At the artist’s discretion.
In the catalogue, my attention falls
To a print
Of an anatomical drawing
From a botanical field guide,
Colored with pencil: the perianth
A pastel pink
That yields to a gentle yellow
Just before
the petals are enveloped
by the green sepal coat.
High on the hanging stems
Round buds of emerald and buttery cream
Follow their elders
In gradient lines of expansion
To the end where the eldest
Bend into blossomed bells;
All come together and seem
As a pink and gold Easter dress.
From the petals stretch
The pistils and stamen.
Reaching
Reaching
Gasping, I can nearly hear
The flower’s patient breathing,
Waiting
For a kiss
From a fluttering errant proboscis.
The pistil aims for the ether,
To another’s anther and
Pollen dusted petals.
Tempted now am I
To wear always
A corsage about my neck.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
When you're shivering
beneath a shawl,
and you're warming your hands
between your thighs,
(sigh)
there's nothing to keep your nose warm
except a proboscis mitten.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
I WOKE UP IN HELL*
I must've slept a good four hours before I was awoken by a peal of crazy laughter. The other girls had gotten up, and were not at ALL respectful of the fact that I'd arrived only hours ago, and needed a full nights sleep. There were nine of us in that room... the size of a small motel room. And one mirror. One sink. ONE TOILET. IT WAS INSANE.
The cackle was emanating from a bleached blonde who's face was reminiscent of a Proboscis monkey. "How'm ah gonna bleach mah hayah?! She asked, querrilously. Her drawl was purposely drawn out and irritating. She pulled at the lifeless black & white reverse skunk fur on her head. Then announced that she needed to dye her ***** hair, too! except she put it with such vulgarity I blushed.
"SHUT UP!" Shouted a girl with eyes flared open so wide you could see the whites completely around the irises as black as olives. This female was to become my worst enemy. But right now I seconded her sentiment profoundly. And said so. Her eyes snapped my direction and narrowed. She didn't like me from the jump. Some women are like that. And there is no appeasing them. The other girls I got along with. But not her. NEVER her.
The blonde stormed from the tiny room, shooting me such a poisonous look that I felt the acid spray my face. Cheers went up from several of my roommates. But black-eyes just turned a shoulder as cold as liquid nitrogen.
"Serious. How do we bathe? I asked. The shower was, evidently, broken.
"There's showers by the pool area," replied a pretty, albeit rather pear shaped girl. She was stuffed into a blouse & skirt which appeared 2 sizes too small. "C'mon. I'll show you..."
We left the mildewed room, the lazer beams of black-eye boring into my back...
I HAD JUST MADE A DANGEROUS ENEMY, WITHOUT KNOWING HOW OR WHY.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC