"sanitary" poems - Hello Poetry

"sanitary" poems

Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it. But everyone else is wearing it. I cant help the way I feel. Blonde Red Orange Brown Purple DMs purple with pink laces school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops stairs made for stomping and storming cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis. You cant read my mind read my lips read my body read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside for shamefully purchased tampons instructions included and time has passed and masks have fallen and I find you there in the muck and the mire and dust you off until I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest. Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run right through my veins giggles throbbing through my pulse pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes and there you are and there I am.

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Jun 26, 2013

Jun 26, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC

Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it. But everyone else is wearing it. I cant help the way I feel. Blonde Red Orange Brown Purple DMs purple with pink laces school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops stairs made for stomping and storming cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis. You cant read my mind read my lips read my body read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside for shamefully purchased tampons instructions included and time has passed and masks have fallen and I find you there in the muck and the mire and dust you off until I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest. Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run right through my veins giggles throbbing through my pulse pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes and there you are and there I am.

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Shuffled in Moved like cattle Numbers on the forehead Making money off of death Gotta keep it white Like sanitary To clean up all the ********

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Jun 4, 2015

Jun 4, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC

Healthcare Inc.

Shuffled in Moved like cattle Numbers on the forehead Making money off of death Gotta keep it white Like sanitary To clean up all the ********

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We are a nation in war We will not take any refuges We will only take prisoners So do not try to step up on our borders We do not tolerate anything But democracy and Elton John We have a Queen and good sanitary systems The Queen's love and Märsk Mc-Kinny Möller! We have musicians and even though They make utterly boring music And have nothing but nonsense to say We love them like a ******** nephew We have rappers; they say ***** and they say **** We have stand up comedians they say poo-poo We are about 5 million white species Producing 28.000.000 white pig's pr. year We have such clean waters you can't imagine We have a love so deep you will not belive Our police force is build on high moral principles We build everything on pure and strong idealism.

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Aug 21, 2014

Aug 21, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC

Circle Of Commitment.

We are a nation in war We will not take any refuges We will only take prisoners So do not try to step up on our borders We do not tolerate anything But democracy and Elton John We have a Queen and good sanitary systems The Queen's love and Märsk Mc-Kinny Möller! We have musicians and even though They make utterly boring music And have nothing but nonsense to say We love them like a ******** nephew We have rappers; they say ***** and they say **** We have stand up comedians they say poo-poo We are about 5 million white species Producing 28.000.000 white pig's pr. year We have such clean waters you can't imagine We have a love so deep you will not belive Our police force is build on high moral principles We build everything on pure and strong idealism.

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man who wears a hat sits still near the back unmoved by the world or the exposed breast of a statue (brain waves do not discharge through a fedora) tag attached: bald is sanitary oranges have more delicacy raw smelly and afterward singing allons enfants de patrie ding dang **** like that, all frog-ese so we don’t understand chanteused stiff basso profundo to excite to let us see with the clarity of a dream curled with hate set firm, firmer in the arms of a sleeveless girl then slung to sea level white as a leopard’s eye remember its peroxide bathed, bleached inclined on the pillow just at the angle of expectancy without a hat sideward glance and the crippled heels of angels sparking down the hall bulletin: young man willing to wear false beard to ease the pain for all or trumpet blues broken played horizontal touched by seaweed hands in the light of boats (unfurled) slowly and the memory dies slowly half-forgotten, half-remembered halved again slowly only to begin again grim molecules of love

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man who wears a hat sits still near the back unmoved by the world or the exposed breast of a statue (brain waves do not discharge through a fedora) tag attached: bald is sanitary oranges have more delicacy raw smelly and afterward singing allons enfants de patrie ding dang **** like that, all frog-ese so we don’t understand chanteused stiff basso profundo to excite to let us see with the clarity of a dream curled with hate set firm, firmer in the arms of a sleeveless girl then slung to sea level white as a leopard’s eye remember its peroxide bathed, bleached inclined on the pillow just at the angle of expectancy without a hat sideward glance and the crippled heels of angels sparking down the hall bulletin: young man willing to wear false beard to ease the pain for all or trumpet blues broken played horizontal touched by seaweed hands in the light of boats (unfurled) slowly and the memory dies slowly half-forgotten, half-remembered halved again slowly only to begin again grim molecules of love

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Sandbox giggles and seesaw chuckles echo around the park. Little ones pitter patter on tarmac and grass, oblivious to their age. All they know is the sun is shining and they're going to feel like this forever. Rubber throwing and hushed whispers echo around the classroom. Schoolkids adding and subtracting, oblivious to their age. All they know is that they hate math and they're going to be an astronaut when they grow. Cheesy pop songs and girly giggles echo around a bedroom. She's curling her friend's hair and smiling, oblivious to her age. All she knows is that Jake is a cutie and she's going to marry him when she's 21. Birthday wishes and _lots of love!_ echo around the dinner table. He's having his first beer as an 18-year-old and loving it, oblivious to his age. All he knows is that he's going out tonight and staying up till dawn. Baby rattles and first words echo around the house. The baby is mumbling its first word, oblivious to the meaning behind it. All it knows is that its mummy is warm and it's daddy smells nice. Memories of sandboxes and summer nights echo around their heads. They're laying in a bed in a sanitary place, oblivious to the current situation. All they know is that their time is up, but they had such fun whilst it lasted.

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Aug 8, 2018

Aug 8, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC

hospital bed blues about a life they lived.

Sandbox giggles and seesaw chuckles echo around the park. Little ones pitter patter on tarmac and grass, oblivious to their age. All they know is the sun is shining and they're going to feel like this forever. Rubber throwing and hushed whispers echo around the classroom. Schoolkids adding and subtracting, oblivious to their age. All they know is that they hate math and they're going to be an astronaut when they grow. Cheesy pop songs and girly giggles echo around a bedroom. She's curling her friend's hair and smiling, oblivious to her age. All she knows is that Jake is a cutie and she's going to marry him when she's 21. Birthday wishes and _lots of love!_ echo around the dinner table. He's having his first beer as an 18-year-old and loving it, oblivious to his age. All he knows is that he's going out tonight and staying up till dawn. Baby rattles and first words echo around the house. The baby is mumbling its first word, oblivious to the meaning behind it. All it knows is that its mummy is warm and it's daddy smells nice. Memories of sandboxes and summer nights echo around their heads. They're laying in a bed in a sanitary place, oblivious to the current situation. All they know is that their time is up, but they had such fun whilst it lasted.

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perfunctory actions zombie habits sheep normalcy blindly following the cud chewers lemmings fall to their deaths slowly genetically engineered crops dusted with pharmaceutical poison laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides fed to the babies of the poor – wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in as the impoverished masses rot for viewing pleasure leisurely strolling across manicured lawns those in power scoff at the growing spectacle unaware that the cake is stale and the masses smell blood – hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates mix those with interest credit season it with mortgage fees and serve it on wall street place mats taking stock of stock market gains gamblers do double gainers off high rises adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class under classed – underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling both symbolizing the slow decline of the American dream screaming into the sewer fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris loss of the inner shine glowing reflection of living organisms fading as the day slips into the blue-black – night falls on a nation of imbeciles brain dead patients broken by depression and weight-loss scams hearts crying out for care personal and compassionate instead are met with sterile robotics and sanitary “C” students dressed in white fearful of lawsuits and spiders they prescribe to symptoms without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1 is a human being, just like them also living in fear of the same establishment –

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Jun 24, 2014

Jun 24, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC

trip to the Dr.

perfunctory actions zombie habits sheep normalcy blindly following the cud chewers lemmings fall to their deaths slowly genetically engineered crops dusted with pharmaceutical poison laced with irradiated petroleum pesticides fed to the babies of the poor – wealthy voyeurs eagerly tune-in as the impoverished masses rot for viewing pleasure leisurely strolling across manicured lawns those in power scoff at the growing spectacle unaware that the cake is stale and the masses smell blood – hurriedly, accountants shuffle tax rates mix those with interest credit season it with mortgage fees and serve it on wall street place mats taking stock of stock market gains gamblers do double gainers off high rises adding to the flesh being consumed by the under class under classed – underclassmen, underpaid, stretch under ware elastic as waistlines expand with the debt ceiling both symbolizing the slow decline of the American dream screaming into the sewer fewer eyes look back as disease dulls the iris loss of the inner shine glowing reflection of living organisms fading as the day slips into the blue-black – night falls on a nation of imbeciles brain dead patients broken by depression and weight-loss scams hearts crying out for care personal and compassionate instead are met with sterile robotics and sanitary “C” students dressed in white fearful of lawsuits and spiders they prescribe to symptoms without knowing insurance number 87319A23-S1 is a human being, just like them also living in fear of the same establishment –

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Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters ******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks. half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever or scheming to defraud Walmart Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender. Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day. Will commands the unentanglement uncurse unfear dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard. only truth will be uplifted Peace be with you whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream Was there ever a floor in here?

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Mar 25, 2010

Mar 25, 2010 at 12:53 AM UTC

Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters ******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks. half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******** about whoever or scheming to defraud Walmart Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender. Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day. Will commands the unentanglement uncurse unfear dispell all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard. only truth will be uplifted Peace be with you whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream Was there ever a floor in here?

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I was born in a cold land, The leaves bright orange like the sun And a dusting of icy dew on wilted grass; I was born in sanitary white and surgical blues, Incubated, saved, isolated; Mamá cried: In the motherland, mi Apá would’ve had to choose. I was born into exile. I was born to immigrants, Brown like the dirt Mis abuelos grow caña in, Like the leaves, glorious colors past; I was born foreign. I was born in Español, Accented with indigenous words, Bastardized like our foods and dance; I was born and placed At the care of a deer’s eye, Tied red around my wrist, A wooden cross, A brown ****** A blue-eyed Niño Dios. I lived in dust for 2 years. I ran free, in fields of milpa, In fields of caña, In zocalos with Colorful waving paper flags And statues of generals. I played with cousins, Sharing bolis and nieve, The hot clay burning our feet, Racing to cool down at the spring. And then I was brought back for school: Los gringos van a estudiar, They whispered, a bit mocking, about me, 4 years old, a girl, In a place where girls were good for marriage, University for the rich, snobby folks Of faraway cities. I came back to the cold land in spring. A small barrio of tall broken down buildings, Tiny apartments that became havens At the sound of guns at night. There was no more running around freely, No more campos, no more town squares. School was foreign, There was English to learn, A struggle to lose the accent, To make the thick words Comfortable in my tongue.

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Jan 8, 2013

Jan 8, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC

autobiotry- incomplete

I was born in a cold land, The leaves bright orange like the sun And a dusting of icy dew on wilted grass; I was born in sanitary white and surgical blues, Incubated, saved, isolated; Mamá cried: In the motherland, mi Apá would’ve had to choose. I was born into exile. I was born to immigrants, Brown like the dirt Mis abuelos grow caña in, Like the leaves, glorious colors past; I was born foreign. I was born in Español, Accented with indigenous words, Bastardized like our foods and dance; I was born and placed At the care of a deer’s eye, Tied red around my wrist, A wooden cross, A brown ****** A blue-eyed Niño Dios. I lived in dust for 2 years. I ran free, in fields of milpa, In fields of caña, In zocalos with Colorful waving paper flags And statues of generals. I played with cousins, Sharing bolis and nieve, The hot clay burning our feet, Racing to cool down at the spring. And then I was brought back for school: Los gringos van a estudiar, They whispered, a bit mocking, about me, 4 years old, a girl, In a place where girls were good for marriage, University for the rich, snobby folks Of faraway cities. I came back to the cold land in spring. A small barrio of tall broken down buildings, Tiny apartments that became havens At the sound of guns at night. There was no more running around freely, No more campos, no more town squares. School was foreign, There was English to learn, A struggle to lose the accent, To make the thick words Comfortable in my tongue.

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To make wine, Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks. Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process. I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine. My tannins add a bitterness and astringency, But I must be picked at the right time. My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance. The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut. Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter. Some more sweet, not bitter enough. Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten. After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed. Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon. For years, it was done manually, by foot. Now, preformed mechanically, systematically. But hey! "Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine." Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed. Why do you ask? To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine. But red wine, Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins. After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours. This continues until all my sugar, Is converted to alcohol. To produce dry, wine. The final stage is aging. I am bottled with a cork, Put on a shelf. And ironically, await my optimal fruitfulness.

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Dec 6, 2016

Dec 6, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC

FERMENTATION MANIPULATION

To make wine, Grapes are crushed then poured into fermentation tanks. Once fermentation begins, the grape skins are pushed to the surface by carbon dioxide gases released in the fermentation process. I am the only fruit who has the necessary acids to make natural, stable wine. My tannins add a bitterness and astringency, But I must be picked at the right time. My acidity and sweetness must be zen in balance. The right ones are sorted through, but not all of us make the cut. Unable to be served as sweet wine, too bitter. Some more sweet, not bitter enough. Simply picked at the wrong time, their peak unwanted, forgotten. After being sorted we are destemmed and crushed. Our roots ripped from us, dignity stomped upon. For years, it was done manually, by foot. Now, preformed mechanically, systematically. But hey! "Mechanical pressing has brought tremendous sanitary gains as well as increased the longevity and quality of wine." Grape abuse continues, white wine grapes are quickly crushed. Why do you ask? To keep unwanted "color" from leeching into the wine. But red wine, Red wine is left in contact with it's skin, forced to acquire more color, more flavor and additional tannins. After being sorted and crushed, I naturally ferment with in six to twelve hours. This continues until all my sugar, Is converted to alcohol. To produce dry, wine. The final stage is aging. I am bottled with a cork, Put on a shelf. And ironically, await my optimal fruitfulness.

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Misogyny tastes like the sanitary pad that has been used by her, over and over again. So it is not stained in blood but soaked in blood.

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Jul 19, 2020

Jul 19, 2020 at 3:15 PM UTC

Misogyny tastes like the sanitary pad that has been used by her, over and over again. So it is not stained in blood but soaked in blood.

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While Waiting For The Train #4 Sitting here, thinking about work and the inherent contradictions of housekeeping. Or, should I say: Sanitary Engineer, Building Maintenance. In reality, all it is is an old fashioned janitor. Or, as some of my friends say: “Old **** janitor!” Affectionately, but also with an edge. oo0oo But this isn’t what I am thinking about. No, it’s more the routine and its mindless activity. As we often say: “It’s the same old, same old”; or, “SSDD”; same **** different day.” Today for example, it was a Thursday Monday. It’s always a Monday of some kind. And Monday kind of describes the job too. oo0oo This too, is not what I am thinking. It’s more the executive decisions a janitor must make. Decisions that determine the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory, office, or where ever. You laugh! But really, it’s true. Ever go to the bathroom and there is no toilet paper? See, I exaggerate not. Or what if there were no forks, knives, or spoons in the lunch room. Then what? Are you really going to eat that crispy green salad with mushrooms and feta cheese, smothered in ranch with your fingers? Please! oo0oo But, even these earth shaking decisions are not what I am thinking. It’s those ever present, critical questions: sweep, mop, then pull trash? Or should I pull trash, sweep and then mop? This monotonous rotation determines the rotation of the earth around the sun; the phases of the moon and when will I clean the bathrooms, causing the most inconvenience to everyone. This by the way, is most satisfying and one of the few perks of the job. Sweep, mop, pull trash; sweep, mop, pull trash. Or, pull trash, sweep, mop! It can give you grey hairs, all this responsibility and decision making. oo0oo Sitting here, now on the train home, a brilliant, not to mention uplifting, idea rampages through my tired mind. Tomorrow I am going to be rebellious- an open radical! A free thinker! Tomorrow, I have decided will be “Liberation Day”. “Janitors of the world unite!” Tomorrow there will be a revolution, as I, the **** Old Janitor will: mop, pull trash, then sweep!!! (written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior) © 2014 redzone

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Oct 29, 2015

Oct 29, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC

While Waiting For The Train #4 Sitting here, thinking about work and the inherent contradictions of housekeeping. Or, should I say: Sanitary Engineer, Building Maintenance. In reality, all it is is an old fashioned janitor. Or, as some of my friends say: “Old **** janitor!” Affectionately, but also with an edge. oo0oo But this isn’t what I am thinking about. No, it’s more the routine and its mindless activity. As we often say: “It’s the same old, same old”; or, “SSDD”; same **** different day.” Today for example, it was a Thursday Monday. It’s always a Monday of some kind. And Monday kind of describes the job too. oo0oo This too, is not what I am thinking. It’s more the executive decisions a janitor must make. Decisions that determine the ‘smooth’ functioning of a factory, office, or where ever. You laugh! But really, it’s true. Ever go to the bathroom and there is no toilet paper? See, I exaggerate not. Or what if there were no forks, knives, or spoons in the lunch room. Then what? Are you really going to eat that crispy green salad with mushrooms and feta cheese, smothered in ranch with your fingers? Please! oo0oo But, even these earth shaking decisions are not what I am thinking. It’s those ever present, critical questions: sweep, mop, then pull trash? Or should I pull trash, sweep and then mop? This monotonous rotation determines the rotation of the earth around the sun; the phases of the moon and when will I clean the bathrooms, causing the most inconvenience to everyone. This by the way, is most satisfying and one of the few perks of the job. Sweep, mop, pull trash; sweep, mop, pull trash. Or, pull trash, sweep, mop! It can give you grey hairs, all this responsibility and decision making. oo0oo Sitting here, now on the train home, a brilliant, not to mention uplifting, idea rampages through my tired mind. Tomorrow I am going to be rebellious- an open radical! A free thinker! Tomorrow, I have decided will be “Liberation Day”. “Janitors of the world unite!” Tomorrow there will be a revolution, as I, the **** Old Janitor will: mop, pull trash, then sweep!!! (written as~~redzone 5.14.09 - Aztec Warrior) © 2014 redzone

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This is about my Grandparents. They got married in the 1920's . . When one didn't get divorced. My Grandfather kept a diary, though he didn't know my Grandmother read it most days. He believed he'd been trapped into marriage, for much of their time together and was very bitter . . He failed to see what she was all about for a very long time . . Not the easiest marriage . . This is about that. Eiderdown Diary In previous prose The pages of my days Payed homage to my . . Crucified vows. What I thought love . Meant Ambition . . sold for scrap . . Traded for a shotgun wife's, Wed . locked . Bed . . . White lies in kisses A Mans need ******* two more souls From that sanitary bed before Work withdrew me . . . Fridays drank frustration dry Saturday screamed . . for Sundays relief . . My respite found in working weeks I drank her tears for years Bound by habitual responses Through disabled conversations . . Through polite goodnights I . . Sought Belief . . . Yet still washed Sundays Cars Then Pension planned retirement . . Though Circumstance a change My never mind Lady Beckoned . . Persuading The Cancer Degrading my Days away My shadow sipped her sun Became perfume in pages My Eiderdown Diary Morphine removed me Soothed me to Bed Time instead she said To understand . . Then Kissed my forehead . . Held me dead

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Aug 9, 2013

Aug 9, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC

dominic-simpson

Eiderdown Diary

This is about my Grandparents. They got married in the 1920's . . When one didn't get divorced. My Grandfather kept a diary, though he didn't know my Grandmother read it most days. He believed he'd been trapped into marriage, for much of their time together and was very bitter . . He failed to see what she was all about for a very long time . . Not the easiest marriage . . This is about that. Eiderdown Diary In previous prose The pages of my days Payed homage to my . . Crucified vows. What I thought love . Meant Ambition . . sold for scrap . . Traded for a shotgun wife's, Wed . locked . Bed . . . White lies in kisses A Mans need ******* two more souls From that sanitary bed before Work withdrew me . . . Fridays drank frustration dry Saturday screamed . . for Sundays relief . . My respite found in working weeks I drank her tears for years Bound by habitual responses Through disabled conversations . . Through polite goodnights I . . Sought Belief . . . Yet still washed Sundays Cars Then Pension planned retirement . . Though Circumstance a change My never mind Lady Beckoned . . Persuading The Cancer Degrading my Days away My shadow sipped her sun Became perfume in pages My Eiderdown Diary Morphine removed me Soothed me to Bed Time instead she said To understand . . Then Kissed my forehead . . Held me dead

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i am a bath towel i am always fresh and clean and ready for your use you hold me up close to your unblemished skin dry it and take in the scent of the lavender soap that you used to wash me yesterday i am a bath towel i am never out of place forever on your rack when i am ***** you soak me with water twist it dry repeat until done fresh crisp and clean on your body soaking in your intimacy soak, twist, repeat i am a bath towel i am always listening never speaking cleansing your anguish and your worries with my sanitary i have seen all your scars and oh! i wish i could rinse them from you like i do with the lipstick on your cheek given from your last lover i am a bath towel i am always going to be at your side there to cleanse there to wash but will you ever let my soft fabric wrap around your heart so full of spring blossoms and summer skies and keep it as my own?

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Feb 9, 2018

Feb 9, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC

i am a bath towel

i am a bath towel i am always fresh and clean and ready for your use you hold me up close to your unblemished skin dry it and take in the scent of the lavender soap that you used to wash me yesterday i am a bath towel i am never out of place forever on your rack when i am ***** you soak me with water twist it dry repeat until done fresh crisp and clean on your body soaking in your intimacy soak, twist, repeat i am a bath towel i am always listening never speaking cleansing your anguish and your worries with my sanitary i have seen all your scars and oh! i wish i could rinse them from you like i do with the lipstick on your cheek given from your last lover i am a bath towel i am always going to be at your side there to cleanse there to wash but will you ever let my soft fabric wrap around your heart so full of spring blossoms and summer skies and keep it as my own?

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whether sweet or salty it is the mother of life no matter whether you are Darwinist or Creationist water as a source of our existence you cannot deny so, what do we do with this essential gift of nature except drink it and float on it? we waste it, pollute it, in general, we simply don’t appreciate it at least those of us who live in the comfort zones of regular rainfall advanced sanitary installations and drinkable tap water millions of others depend on their lives for water from the sky or from the sea re-appreciating water taking care of it may save the lives of our children they are our future

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Jul 27, 2016

Jul 27, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC

whether sweet or salty it is the mother of life no matter whether you are Darwinist or Creationist water as a source of our existence you cannot deny so, what do we do with this essential gift of nature except drink it and float on it? we waste it, pollute it, in general, we simply don’t appreciate it at least those of us who live in the comfort zones of regular rainfall advanced sanitary installations and drinkable tap water millions of others depend on their lives for water from the sky or from the sea re-appreciating water taking care of it may save the lives of our children they are our future

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your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake soaked in your salt, shivering, an ocean; you address the doctor directly but she will not meet your eyes, she says your NIGHT SWEATS: psychosomatic, fever dream; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake on the examination table, the sanitary paper soaked in your salt, disintegrated into thin fibers clinging to your clammy back; you sleep in the bathroom, in the bathtub, your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake drowning in your salt, head violently breaching the water before you are fully conscious, a survival reflex, you suppose; your NIGHT SWEATS: you sleep in your garden, in the grass, you wake in a brackish marsh; your NIGHT SWEATS: salt crusts your skin, rough pale scabs; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake

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May 6, 2016

May 6, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC

robin-goodfellow

THE BRACKISH WATER, THE SODDEN SHEETS

your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake soaked in your salt, shivering, an ocean; you address the doctor directly but she will not meet your eyes, she says your NIGHT SWEATS: psychosomatic, fever dream; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake on the examination table, the sanitary paper soaked in your salt, disintegrated into thin fibers clinging to your clammy back; you sleep in the bathroom, in the bathtub, your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake drowning in your salt, head violently breaching the water before you are fully conscious, a survival reflex, you suppose; your NIGHT SWEATS: you sleep in your garden, in the grass, you wake in a brackish marsh; your NIGHT SWEATS: salt crusts your skin, rough pale scabs; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake; your NIGHT SWEATS: you wake

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We saw her leaving Jericho Tearing down the walls Throwing a childish tantrum Whilst ******** in the halls We saw her chasing pigeons In the local council park We caught her chewing daffodils Whilst humming 'Baby Shark' She drank a lot Ate nothing much But the ice Inside the tube Grit her teeth Swallowing bubbles The plastic straw The noxious fumes She was forever Chasing a high That cost too much And left too soon We saw her licking batteries Relaying messages to Earth We caught her hiding sanitary towels Underneath the dirt That lined the filthy walls Of her low-rent, low-mood high-rise Ghosts that wraithed inside her head Left bruises on her thighs We saw her join the homeless men In the shadow of the mall She combed the streets every day And still found sweet **** all She sang a lot And never slept Beneath the weight Of a poisoned sky We knew she was sad All the time But we never saw her Cry We saw her live Her lonesome life Even saw her when she Died From the other side of hell We decorate our homes Forget the fine line The thin divide Between our professional smile And the crazy inside our bones

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Jan 10, 2019

Jan 10, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC

We saw her leaving Jericho Tearing down the walls Throwing a childish tantrum Whilst ******** in the halls We saw her chasing pigeons In the local council park We caught her chewing daffodils Whilst humming 'Baby Shark' She drank a lot Ate nothing much But the ice Inside the tube Grit her teeth Swallowing bubbles The plastic straw The noxious fumes She was forever Chasing a high That cost too much And left too soon We saw her licking batteries Relaying messages to Earth We caught her hiding sanitary towels Underneath the dirt That lined the filthy walls Of her low-rent, low-mood high-rise Ghosts that wraithed inside her head Left bruises on her thighs We saw her join the homeless men In the shadow of the mall She combed the streets every day And still found sweet **** all She sang a lot And never slept Beneath the weight Of a poisoned sky We knew she was sad All the time But we never saw her Cry We saw her live Her lonesome life Even saw her when she Died From the other side of hell We decorate our homes Forget the fine line The thin divide Between our professional smile And the crazy inside our bones

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Twenty minutes, lost. I though I had been under my steadily flowing deity for hours. I thought I had had a spiritual experience lasting longer than Genesis. But it was only twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Of standing naked under falling water, feeling soap suds and scratchy cleansers and sharp tangles Cleaning my skin and my soul of my physical reminder of my connection to the river To the world Thinking only flesh and water, flesh and water. It was the mantra in my head. We are all just flesh and water. I was ripping through the harsh curls of my hair thinking flesh and water Flesh and water. I caressed my goddess, my god, my spirit, nature’s spirit When I caressed the showerhead. I saw it clean me of the plankton of the natural water and replace it with synthetic chemicals To keep me sanitary and acceptable. Twenty minutes. It felt like that was how long it took for the blade to run across my skin, my wet-and-dry-sand skin. Twenty minutes running up from the product of the hills to the home of my womanhood. I noticed how the man-made razor matched a section of veins on my wrist. Twenty minutes. In twenty minutes that were actually twenty lifetimes I became Pocahontas, daughter of Earth and sister of water. I felt my connection to what sustains me and it changed me. How did twenty minutes seem so long Under the florescent lights?

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May 19, 2010

May 19, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC

Twenty minutes, lost. I though I had been under my steadily flowing deity for hours. I thought I had had a spiritual experience lasting longer than Genesis. But it was only twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Of standing naked under falling water, feeling soap suds and scratchy cleansers and sharp tangles Cleaning my skin and my soul of my physical reminder of my connection to the river To the world Thinking only flesh and water, flesh and water. It was the mantra in my head. We are all just flesh and water. I was ripping through the harsh curls of my hair thinking flesh and water Flesh and water. I caressed my goddess, my god, my spirit, nature’s spirit When I caressed the showerhead. I saw it clean me of the plankton of the natural water and replace it with synthetic chemicals To keep me sanitary and acceptable. Twenty minutes. It felt like that was how long it took for the blade to run across my skin, my wet-and-dry-sand skin. Twenty minutes running up from the product of the hills to the home of my womanhood. I noticed how the man-made razor matched a section of veins on my wrist. Twenty minutes. In twenty minutes that were actually twenty lifetimes I became Pocahontas, daughter of Earth and sister of water. I felt my connection to what sustains me and it changed me. How did twenty minutes seem so long Under the florescent lights?

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The fuselage must gleam in a pink Pacific sunset at 29000 feet inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men and a sanitary case wraps my pillow. Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked roads that vanish into blind ways. Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!” Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.” A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach. At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets. The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10. This last part was in the guidebook. A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention. They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester. Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling. Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited. They look like me. And I look away. The woman’s throat moves. Or does she chuckle? “For you.”

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Jul 18, 2010

Jul 18, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC

The fuselage must gleam in a pink Pacific sunset at 29000 feet inside, I am brought puffed cellophane pouches of tamarind by attendant ladies and men and a sanitary case wraps my pillow. Bangkok’s taxis are driven by a man with bones for a neck on cracked roads that vanish into blind ways. Later a child – spying left – pulls me through a curtained door into an ante-room to sell me cling-wrapped copies of Japanese slasher movies. “Cheap!” Flies circle a mound of meat spiked to a vending cart -- “special for you.” A sea of mopeds rumble up the road and chase me between parked cars Tattered hunks of plastic bag blow past off the beach. At night gut rot infects the air, and I walk in brown puddled streets. The tar sky smothers above the neon and the barkers and the *** for $10. This last part was in the guidebook. A woman sits, cloaked in a shawl, selling women’s apparel, all arranged on pale and chalky mannequins, angled at attention. They wear the rouge of the truth-telling jester. Their mouths are gaping, smiling, lurid, laughing, howling. Eyes wide, piercing and empty, excited. They look like me. And I look away. The woman’s throat moves. Or does she chuckle? “For you.”

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I know we aren't on good terms since we aren't speaking anymore, and the last time we encountered each other you barely acknowledged me. There was a time when I was really angry at you. I suspect we aren't friends anymore because you don't think I value the friendship we had as much as you did. I know why you would think that. After all, you are the more considerate one. You were the one who always made sure I puke in the toilet instead of on myself or on the lobby floor of the high-rise condominium you used to live in. You were the one who would listen to my ranting like an all-night sanitary napkin. You were my best friend, and I know I was more of a problem than a friend. But I hope you know that I know I didn't measure up. You were the best friend a girl with issues could ever have. Even with your own, you would make me feel like mine was the issue that mattered more. Since I have to live with not having you anymore I want to pose a retort to the problem you were once faced with. You once said to me "I don't know how to help you anymore." Well, I'm glad to report that--- although my problems may not puzzle you any longer---it is no longer necessary to . If I can't fix my past, I'll have to make sure I prepare for the future, that is the rest of my life. I refuse to live in death. I insist that you forget the unsolvable problems that come in your life. Allow me to fix myself. Allow me to say thank you for being in my life at a time that I needed you. Thank you for leaving me to my own devices. I thought I would die without friends. My life today is mine. It was no small feat being a friend to me. I hope you belong in your life and belong in life. See you on the other side.

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Nov 6, 2016

Nov 6, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC

Dear Former Best Friend,

I know we aren't on good terms since we aren't speaking anymore, and the last time we encountered each other you barely acknowledged me. There was a time when I was really angry at you. I suspect we aren't friends anymore because you don't think I value the friendship we had as much as you did. I know why you would think that. After all, you are the more considerate one. You were the one who always made sure I puke in the toilet instead of on myself or on the lobby floor of the high-rise condominium you used to live in. You were the one who would listen to my ranting like an all-night sanitary napkin. You were my best friend, and I know I was more of a problem than a friend. But I hope you know that I know I didn't measure up. You were the best friend a girl with issues could ever have. Even with your own, you would make me feel like mine was the issue that mattered more. Since I have to live with not having you anymore I want to pose a retort to the problem you were once faced with. You once said to me "I don't know how to help you anymore." Well, I'm glad to report that--- although my problems may not puzzle you any longer---it is no longer necessary to . If I can't fix my past, I'll have to make sure I prepare for the future, that is the rest of my life. I refuse to live in death. I insist that you forget the unsolvable problems that come in your life. Allow me to fix myself. Allow me to say thank you for being in my life at a time that I needed you. Thank you for leaving me to my own devices. I thought I would die without friends. My life today is mine. It was no small feat being a friend to me. I hope you belong in your life and belong in life. See you on the other side.

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If there's a way to dig a little deeper into a new layer of skin, tap into something in our bones that hasn't already been analyzed and speculated by doctors under bright white lights on cold impersonal tables surrounded by an army of masked, gloved and sanitary conscious individuals- a method of existing that hasn't been romanticized and isn't cliche, I'd really like to know. Because in vicious turbulent cycles I'm falling head first for things that have been worshipped so many times in trance-like moments of adolescent anguish and pretenses of solitude seeking introverts that lie to themselves cause they don't have the guts to do it to others. Who the hell is alright behind a smile masking a cringe? And all the tropes idolized and hymns murmured by Sad folk don't really make you feel special anymore cause you've lost your individuality by stepping into yet another trap. But then again hating all things has long ago been branded as valueless, when in fact values are the only things you're really searching for.

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Oct 11, 2015

Oct 11, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC

Romanticized to death

If there's a way to dig a little deeper into a new layer of skin, tap into something in our bones that hasn't already been analyzed and speculated by doctors under bright white lights on cold impersonal tables surrounded by an army of masked, gloved and sanitary conscious individuals- a method of existing that hasn't been romanticized and isn't cliche, I'd really like to know. Because in vicious turbulent cycles I'm falling head first for things that have been worshipped so many times in trance-like moments of adolescent anguish and pretenses of solitude seeking introverts that lie to themselves cause they don't have the guts to do it to others. Who the hell is alright behind a smile masking a cringe? And all the tropes idolized and hymns murmured by Sad folk don't really make you feel special anymore cause you've lost your individuality by stepping into yet another trap. But then again hating all things has long ago been branded as valueless, when in fact values are the only things you're really searching for.

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your poetry is the timid surgeon's blade your brainwashed disfigured filth posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled over horse **** parasitic eager beavers rattling off hollow sanitary words from suburban armchairs when you speak of passion... I want the ivory joy of licking teeth in black cold nights of February grabbing fistfuls of flesh and desire not your stiff ******** advertisement, marketing zombie climaxes and red roses of compulsion when you speak of loss... I want the acrid smell of burnt hair, a scene of cinder and ashes, a house of dreams smoked by the arsons of addiction and stupidity not your camouflaged metaphors of two dollar sunrises and legislated loneliness, echoing off the empty walls of narcissism when you speak of hate... I want cold bacon grease and blood stuck to my tongue and dripping from my mouth, to become a carnivore of ****** and liberated violence not your confused assault of cheap mouthwashed words spat in basins of shallow ************ ah, **** it, write what you will but give more poetry should

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Dec 27, 2018

Dec 27, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC

forest-kvasnikoff

Why your poetry *****

your poetry is the timid surgeon's blade your brainwashed disfigured filth posing as poetry, glitter sprinkled over horse **** parasitic eager beavers rattling off hollow sanitary words from suburban armchairs when you speak of passion... I want the ivory joy of licking teeth in black cold nights of February grabbing fistfuls of flesh and desire not your stiff ******** advertisement, marketing zombie climaxes and red roses of compulsion when you speak of loss... I want the acrid smell of burnt hair, a scene of cinder and ashes, a house of dreams smoked by the arsons of addiction and stupidity not your camouflaged metaphors of two dollar sunrises and legislated loneliness, echoing off the empty walls of narcissism when you speak of hate... I want cold bacon grease and blood stuck to my tongue and dripping from my mouth, to become a carnivore of ****** and liberated violence not your confused assault of cheap mouthwashed words spat in basins of shallow ************ ah, **** it, write what you will but give more poetry should

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I got nothing up my sleeve but the rest of my arm im stuck scavenging this wretched world bare tooth and claw divine intervention sewing seeds of discontent blemished me somehow built by an architect? its hard to imagine a world with a place for me neatly wrapped so sanitary someday you'll find me belly up on the side of the street caught in the flashing lights brushed by a stroke of epilepsy

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Feb 16, 2011

Feb 16, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC

I got nothing up my sleeve but the rest of my arm im stuck scavenging this wretched world bare tooth and claw divine intervention sewing seeds of discontent blemished me somehow built by an architect? its hard to imagine a world with a place for me neatly wrapped so sanitary someday you'll find me belly up on the side of the street caught in the flashing lights brushed by a stroke of epilepsy

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Showy Seas Consuming Me Vanilla Lipsticks No one saw the teenage boy Fascinated by how well she hid her toys. Embarrassed I am O help the girl with severed dreams I do not wish to live here I do not wish to know this dream. I do not wish to be a young lady My words polite and sanitary I wish to travel like a mad man Like a dove Like a regret-less old lady Hair wisps Eyes liquid Soul watery O Let me be O Let me be, O Let me be I was clinical They were cynical I was a psychologist It was the crucible Mind of a poet Thinker of a historian Lethal, lethal combination Home is 1984 School is the Renaissance That may not do Embarrassed I am Embarrassed You are too.

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Jun 22, 2013

Jun 22, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC

unkempthairmessysoul

Humilation, Liberation

Showy Seas Consuming Me Vanilla Lipsticks No one saw the teenage boy Fascinated by how well she hid her toys. Embarrassed I am O help the girl with severed dreams I do not wish to live here I do not wish to know this dream. I do not wish to be a young lady My words polite and sanitary I wish to travel like a mad man Like a dove Like a regret-less old lady Hair wisps Eyes liquid Soul watery O Let me be O Let me be, O Let me be I was clinical They were cynical I was a psychologist It was the crucible Mind of a poet Thinker of a historian Lethal, lethal combination Home is 1984 School is the Renaissance That may not do Embarrassed I am Embarrassed You are too.

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I have been advised (“…now don’t take this the wrong way”) That I Am too RAW… It was suggested (“…merely a suggestion”) That I Water down my art… Dilute it… Make it more palatable… Sugar coat What may be bitter… Make what is not nice Nicer… For the more… “Delicate Audiences…” Don’t expound upon Addiction or Anger or The Streets Politics, Passion, ********** or Love Gone Bad Don’t say **** or *** or Hell… or **** Bottom line… In the name of Money… and In an attempt to reach a wider suburban demographic Tone it down… sweeten it up… Sell out…. And you know… He’s probably right… Commerciality does sell… My dilemma… if I took out the Politics, Passion, Anger, and The Streets… the Damns , ***** Hells and ***** I may as well be Doctor Seuss…and A cute and flowery poet~ I am not I am what I am (a woman fully grown) I’ve done what I’ve done (some things only Me and God know) I’ve seen what I’ve seen (I’ll tell you about it one day) I write about life … and Not only is life not always palatable It can be quite bitter... Not only is it sometimes not nice It is sometimes not even Sanitary... And if the more… “Delicate Audiences…” Can’t get with it… Then **** their ***** to hell Let ‘em watch a ******* TV

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Jun 5, 2013

Jun 5, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC

I have been advised (“…now don’t take this the wrong way”) That I Am too RAW… It was suggested (“…merely a suggestion”) That I Water down my art… Dilute it… Make it more palatable… Sugar coat What may be bitter… Make what is not nice Nicer… For the more… “Delicate Audiences…” Don’t expound upon Addiction or Anger or The Streets Politics, Passion, ********** or Love Gone Bad Don’t say **** or *** or Hell… or **** Bottom line… In the name of Money… and In an attempt to reach a wider suburban demographic Tone it down… sweeten it up… Sell out…. And you know… He’s probably right… Commerciality does sell… My dilemma… if I took out the Politics, Passion, Anger, and The Streets… the Damns , ***** Hells and ***** I may as well be Doctor Seuss…and A cute and flowery poet~ I am not I am what I am (a woman fully grown) I’ve done what I’ve done (some things only Me and God know) I’ve seen what I’ve seen (I’ll tell you about it one day) I write about life … and Not only is life not always palatable It can be quite bitter... Not only is it sometimes not nice It is sometimes not even Sanitary... And if the more… “Delicate Audiences…” Can’t get with it… Then **** their ***** to hell Let ‘em watch a ******* TV

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