"sanitize" poems
There's a tired old man singing in his boat
He hates his voice but he still likes to vote
Voter registration put him on hold
The value of a thought has steadily dropped
Respect for free speech has stopped
I gave my opinion and someone called the cops
Pump your fist in anger and tell the world why
Shout to the sky, look in the camera's eye
And say "I don't need a reason, it's my right"
Think of all the change that you will bring
Telling the artists what to paint and sing
Sanitize, commercialize, let freedom ring
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Standing in forty-degree weather;
Water threatening to change to ice.
Perhaps, the rain will cleanse me,
And I will feel pure.
Maybe their blackened fingerprints
Will fade away from my skin.
The grease from their selfish palms
Leaving without a trace.
If I stand out in the cold showers,
The storm may sanitize my soul.
And maybe,
Just maybe...
I will forget their selfish appetites.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Once an addict always an addict
And I'm back in the attic
Blowing dust off picture frames and knickknacks
Stirring up old feelings and panic attacks
These memories so fragile
These demons so quick and agile
None of it ever goes away
Just covered until a cloudy day
When my soul decides to do some housekeeping
But this is something no spring cleaning
Could ever completely sanitize
Until I come to realize
That this is no longer me
Just remnants of what I used to be
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
rainbow-blooded life forms be ware.
we, who season the earth.
we, the cultivators of spices -ginger, clove, cinnamon, saffron.
they, who currycomb the earth.
they, who purify, sanitize, sterilize, absolve
destruct
we, the corrupt.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Poets, like doctors, know the anatomy of suffering... tearing the paper with rusty carving knives...
We see scarlet scratches and eggplant colored bruises on every square inch of foolscap... we open scars with words... stainless steel scalpels which we never sanitize...
We perform open heart surgery with blunt instruments... We cauterize the wounds with coals of Fire...
We are civil war sawbones, removing the gangrenous leg to save the body... Carrying out our task with whiskey bottle anaesthesia.
So have a care... The Doctor Is In.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/30/2016
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
It's the same all the time:
You go to the table you pick up the glasses and trash
You throw away the garbage and dump out the ***** glasses
You push the glasses on the scrubber and twist them and turn them until there is no dirt
You rinse off the soap and then you put them in the scalding hot blue chemical water and stack them in twos
You start again but this time you do two at a time and you scrub
You push two on the scrubber you twist and you turn them and get all their stains off
you rinse away the cleaner and drown them in sanitizer and stack them next to glasses the same
You finally reach that last glass with cream and grime to the brim
You go to scrub this glass and push it onto the scrubber
As you scrub the water is turning milky white and brown
you keep scrubbing but it won't get clean
maybe it needs a rinse
you hurridly put it in the second bath of water but that only gets it *****
maybe if you sanitize it, it may finally be clean
you put the crusted glass in the blue water and your hands burn and bleed
you turn away to nurse your hands but there's one problem.
*the glass isn't clean
it won't be cleaned
it's broken now because I tried to fix it*
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
Burn, freeze, sanitize
my hands
So they'll forget how yours feel
Cleanse my skin again and again
And maybe I won't remember
How soft you were in my arms
Lobotomize my brain, please
So I can forget who you are to me
Then maybe a smile
will appear on my cracked lips
And I will
lose you
to that beautiful new world
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 6:26 PM UTC
Smudges of dirt into the hair,
His eyes had black rings
under and around
as he sat on the ground
fully fury bearded face,
like a raccoon.
But he was a man.
The bandage adhesive surrounded
what was a mark in the center
of his forehead, a red welt that
had encountered a hard harsh
reality, a beating and a loss.
The hospital was just around the corner.
But he was homeless.
He had his second place prizes, empty
bottles of liquid to sanitize hands
lifted by his, tortured short
fingers, surprisingly agile,
laughing at his own guile.
The hospital is just around the corner.
And his two litre bottle stash,
under his coat,
behind his back, in the long grass.
He was crouched behind
the chain link fence, smiled
and laughed to himself as
the dog and I walked by,
what could I offer him that
he didn't already have,
he wore A coat,
he had A toque,
he had currency in
the form of half a gallon
of hand sanitizer,
he was happy,
I heard him laugh,
saw a broken tooth,
and cut lip,
his world and my world,
were not far apart even though,
we could only taste the other's
reality.
He is a homeless man and I don't
know his name.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Demagogues of our society; daftly delivering
disarming delusions of decrepit delights.
Dealing in powder, rock and liquid death,
demurely doled out in droves to the
willing unconscious, dysfunctional deviants
of the land.
Blindly offering devotions, flaccid devotions
to plastic, white collar deities; giving new
definition to internal deformity, through
decelerated dejection.
Desperate and emotionally dismembered,
defrauded by quick, cheap decadence,
debauchery, and mental decay in many
deliriously delicious forms...pick a flavor,
name your poison!
Delegate your defect, as those with
doctoral degrees in defunct traditions
do deviously delineate their demented
designs...for our future.
DejaVu?
Perhaps, but in fact, it is we
who sniff, inject and drink up their drivel,
decidedly and dutifully depleted of
intellect by way of dubious data.
Duplicitous dullards...sanitize and
deodorize their fiendish lies...as we,
WE do nothing!
Not enough of us dumbfounded or
dumbstruck by their deceitful smiles.
Full of dread and deep dismay, by
the statutes of the day...I, for one,
will dream of better days, when we
shall defeat these diabolical demons.
But for now, down beaten, downtrodden;
we will continue to be denigrated for
the duration.
Clever dissection; dumb as they want you
to be,
disparity of all creativity...individuality...
and all of your rights...controversially.
Our disgruntled displeasure doomed...to
fall on dormant hearts...and we,
debilitated and daunted, lives dismantled,
are now forever haunted, by our freedoms
demise...by days we could question
their smiling lies.
Demagogues; Big Brother...such delinquents
dosing up the masses with a deluge of powder,
rock sedation and liquid elation...pick your flavor,
name your poison.
At the end of the day WE are ONE...duped,
defaced, defeated...and to continue on this
road, our final denouement will come
disturbingly disguised...as DEATH!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
This time is precious,
every moment infectious.
One minute in a parking lot,
parking cigarettes in the dirt,
outside a library no less.
And from one minute to the next,
shaking hands with a councilwoman.
Just her presence,
was a good omen.
This is a community meeting,
ahead of a strike,
on May 15th.
Our fight?
Our cause?
Wage parity.
The resource vitality,
of every worker,
and every family.
Every human deserves dignity.
Repeat it with rapidity.
We are all created equal.
This is a civil rights sequel.
You can't survive on $7.93
And if it were up to me,
No job would pay less than
FIFTEEN.
The rich can't inoculate,
what they didn't anticipate.
Fry cooks, cashiers, drive-thru tellers,
(these ain't no "bums" or beggars!)
They met up with activists,
and labor leaders.
They've walked off the job
and into the streets!
They've come out,
to take a stand,
to shake off their chains,
and make some demands!
$15 and a union!!!
If you haven't taken notice,
I don't what you've been doin!!!
I hope McDonald's, Wal-Mart, and retailers galore,
value the profit-producers,
running their stores.
The notion upon which,
both capitalists and socialists can agree,
is that labor produces value according to theory.
The media are watching,
in case you need reminding.
Watching you rake in BILLIONS,
while paying and STEALING,
POVERTY WAGES.
We call this condition,
hard-working ENSLAVEMENT,
with pay-as-you-go debit card "paychecks"...
And all this "part-time"
just to make sure workers are best
nickel'd and dime'd!!
But what you don't seem to understand,
is that this movement is long overdue.
Do we need a historical inflation review?
And this $10.10 business?
Please!
What is this 1993?
You can't sanitize,
Baptize,
nor televise,
this struggle.
These are a people who've had enough.
'Ya Basta!' they say! 'Enough is Enough!'
Enough struggle,
enough hustle,
Enough putting in muscle,
and your time, and blood,
and sweat and tears,
many with children,
many for years,
without a pay bump that keeps pace,
with the basic cost of living these days.
Still a minimum wage,
of only $7.93?!
I say 'Ya Busta!'
if you ask me.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
Not sure if this would be consider taboo
To even mention the view
Did I just hear her say the word touche
When the doctor proceeded to do what she had to do
With stage crew and camara in hand
Filming what little dignity I have left
Are the tapes rolling, I may need consoling
When this crazy trip finds somewhere to land
Do I even need to mention the day before
Pills and laxatives by the score
To clean out my innards must be least 10 pounds thinner
Need I say anything anymore
Back to the uncomfortable crowd
You can hear a pin drop at the sound
For them it's routine, for me a dastardly deed
Could someone please send in the clowns
Adding a touch of savoir faire
Excuse me, is there enough room in there
If things get a bit tight make sure the pliers are sanitize
Anyone up for a game of truth or dare
Doesn't get anymore personal than this
Best friends now without even a kiss
Operation at 7 film at 11
To be viewed YouTube via Internet
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
Despite all my efforts:
of scrubbing off the oils
settling on my skin,
of dousing heavy colognes
to cover away the perfume,
of covering in ice water
to mask away the warmth,
and persistent use of alcohol
to sanitize germs left behind,
through every physical method
practical and possible,
I could not easily erase
the trace of your hand.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
she paces down the dimly-lit corridor of a modern day ***** den
in a corner apartment, situated on the intersection
of **** carpet and depraved junkies
she knows she was raised better.
guided over heaping masses of humans
cigarette butts
and the burnt carpeting they create
she knows it's only getting worse.
her hands are clenched in tight fists
awaiting the moment
when she can finally loosen up
she knows her father loves her.
her fingers run along the wall
awaiting for a familiar feeling
something to remind her of something she loves
she knows these walls are nothing like her bedroom.
she and he sit down before a snowy television
he reveals a plastic syringe
beneath flickering florescent lights
she knows it's late.
he flicks his lighter and burns the needle
to sanitize it
leaving a layer of burnt black butane
**she knows it's still *****
laying down, a the warmed needle is placed on her arm
she ties her little league shirt tightly
around her forearm
she knows her father wouldn't be pleased.
after leaning back
she's reminded of her last flu
by the initial feeling
she knows nothing now.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
a soft voice that can
sanitize a mind, and
that mirrors skin like linen,
hair flowing faster than
blood to her heart,
looking in her eyes
proves that cerulean skies
can walk on earth,
anxiety blurs the lines
of a perfectionist,
leaving reservations
in the minds of anyone
lucky enough to
grace tangibility and
her footsteps cohere,
with lips rarely touched
a godless man can feel them
in his fingertips when praying
to a god he doesn’t believe in.
MJB
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
you tapped my shoulder
and whispered in my ear
"thats wrong. fix it"
my gaze followed
your long, boney finger
down to the skewed papers
on the desk next to mine
i simply shook my head and answered with
"no, thats not mine to touch"
i started to ignore
your fervent tapping and whispering
but it moved up
to screaming and shaking my body
i couldnt hold myself back any longer
i quickly grabbed the papers
and filed them
making sure they were neat
before setting them back down
you were happy
it was casual
it was normal
so i started to
live by your rules
letting your gentle taps and whispers
tell me what to do
i would fold my gym clothes
in the same order every day
i would sanitize my hands
before and after every single class
i would fix peoples binders, paper, and pencils
just to please you
then it changed
others started to laugh
mess up the clothes i neatly folded
push my papers out of order
hold me back
as they made everything crooked
watching me struggle against their hands
as i tried to break free
to fix it all
you were screaming
telling me how those fingertips
were touching my body
infecting me
you were violently shaking me
saying how wrong the mess was
that i had to fix it
fix it
fix it
fix it
i still do as you say
abide by your rules
the laughing and taunting
has disappeared now
as i freely fix my things
theres the occasional question and statement
"why dont you just leave it?"
"it isnt that important"
"the mess wont affect you"
none of them know
of you looming behind me
a strict ruler of my mind
telling me they were wrong
no
none of them will know
they wouldnt never understand
how important your pure touches and words are
to the filthy, messy place
that is my mind
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
These butterfly wings
Just cut through my gut,
And I'm left a fuckin' schmuck
Tripping over my tongue
And large intestine-
Like a hesitant ***
Stumbling through disgust
With a slow ingestion of fear.
Quiet the thunder in my ears
Place judging eyes here,
As I shake my paper cup
Fill 'er up, but not too much;
Just enough to feel human.
Cleanse your aching skin,
pay for my sticky sins
And addictions.
I crave to feel your touch
But once our nerve endings brush,
You'll wipe the dirt off and sanitize my love
But keep that point one percentage.
I'll let my own grow with a mother's gestation.
I find comfort in your aged hatred
So I'll build us up, then break it
'Til I'm left lying naked
Next to gritty dust,
To scrub into my wounds
When they open to the sun
Freshly bloomed, memories
That cut my heart so deep;
I'm drowning in my blood,
Pop another lung
As I descend into blackness.
Nothing.
No one.
Gone.
-SLuR
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
Menthol drops stop inflamed, bursting lines and sanitize glass eyes
Leaving opaque walls behind
Perceptions consist of persistent resistance, lists never ending, refusing to change, shallow blame twists into shame
As the drops start failing
I did it again, I let her back in
I knew where to go, but I went where I've been
I did it again, I let her back in
I knew where to go, but I went where I've been
Cursing birth at death
Wrapping my hands 'round her neck
And stealing her last breath
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 1:12 AM UTC
Should I speak with velocity
As I claim to leak veracity?
Share a fair stare leads to “harassing me”
Silence holds a gold ferocity
But platinum resides inside a travesty
Yet the origins of this casualty
Was not the first fatality
It's birth was an idea, you see?
Are you sick of this this hostility?
Is your health a grim variety?
Failed to conform to propriety?
Here's an inferno “Oh no, a monstrosity!”
So why chastise my morality?
Must I despise and note your deformity?
Lead covered gold is not a new novelty
But somehow chaos seems so orderly
Cheat on Death with Immortality
Sleep with Lust for chastity
Uniqueness is another banality
Copy/pasted originality
Experience this eternal finality
Our follies are a great mentality
Your demise is your vitality
Real life is surreality
Feign the truth with validity
Pride upon your humility
Rust brags of lost durability
Insomniacs thrive restlessly
If you engage in logomachy
Then you'll love this: sophomachy
“Who's more manly?” Phallomachy
“Let's do what's right!” Hypocrisy
We act like we have modesty
But we boast of prowess internally
“Maybe if I work with integrity,
They might notice, and appreciate me”
Work too hard? Liability
Conned her heart? Lie-ability
Honesty at start? Futility
Torn apart? Utilize utility
Day dream REM stage: Insanity
Sanitize with rage: Calamity
Perhaps it's a phase: Therapy
Live like “good ol' days” regretfully
Raze a raised loving family
Tame their ways with amnesty
And watch them break their identity
Of perfection tainted in fidelity
Are our minds just a cavity?
Uprising against the gravity
Speak high of low society
Think I'm crazy? Analyze me
A grave cradling a memory
Of each ill-fated ideology
We die for our biology
Pyromania is the new cryology
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
One. Go to the U-Haul store. They haven't run out of boxes yet. Get a few medium, a few large. Don't forget the tape.
Two. When you begin to pack, start with the largest items first. The blanket you watched the stars with. The letters. The books.
Three. Tape everything down. Don't let anything out. Tape it several times actually. Let him hold the box closed while you tape.
Four. When you can't fit everything in your tiny boxes throw the rest in the car. Pile everything in the trunk. Every photograph, every memory, every good day.
Five. When everything is gone, sweep. Be rid of any crumb, flake, dust, or morsel that remains. Sanitize each surface with antibacterials of course. It must look as if you were never there. We were never there. Now it is empty.
Six. Bring everything to the storage center. Remind him he doesn't need a 10 by 10. Load it in. Lock it shut. Now there are no possessions. Now there is just you.
Seven. Obsess over anything you may have forgotten. Focus on something. Did you get everything? You don't have gloves! You need gloves. Go buy gloves.
Eight. Write him a note. Rewrite it. Write it again. Try to say everything you'll want to say for the next few years. Repeat every memory from the last six months and write them down. Repeat. Make up the ones you'll never get in your head.
Nine. Drive to the airport but don't go inside. Stand on the curb. Give him a mask. Lysol wipes. Gloves. Suitcase. ID. Note.
Ten. Say goodbye. Hold him with every last bone in your body. Cling to his shirt. Try not to cry. Smile. Hold his hand for the last time. Plant a kiss on his lips. Remember his eyes. Draw them in your head. Run your fingers through that new haircut again. Kiss his ears. Kiss his nose. Hold him again.
It is hard to let someone go when you still love them. It is hard to watch conversations dwindle. It is hard to never hear him call you his star. It is harder to watch little pieces of us say goodbye every day. Because while the whole world is six feet apart he is one thousand one hundred and eighteen point five miles from you.
So take down your photos. Put those in a box too. Put away the letters. Fold up his shirts. Don't go to the places you went to together. They're closed anyways.
11. It is hard to let someone go when you still love them. Try not to love them anymore.
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 11:34 PM UTC
~~~
so few synonyms,
for so many needy
for a place of
shelter
by any name
call it what you may,
proffered here to thee,
but yes, but no,
nothing is ever free
the toll to pay is this...
clarify and prep clean a vision,
do away with the dots and floating swirls
seen beneath closed eyes,
get the senses ready,
Purell sanitize gel
all your sad ways of thinking
then
breathe out so loud,
confirming you're genuine, ready, eager,
for you have been prequalified
to be here
to earn a place of
shelter
no other way
other than:
*read thy fellow poets,
earn their trust,
learn their signatures,
let their phrases of cleansing comfort
be all the
oasis, refuge, sanctuary, haven, asylum, retreat
you ever need...
fear not the tactile voyage arduous,
we have all paid and made it intact,
when you arrive,
prepare for a
welcome stupendous,
from us who have long patient awaited
more than just your first edition arrival,
but our newer combination additional,
bringing us all to a refreshed
state of grace*
~~~
Shelter Island
August 9, 2015
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
the stains of a woman's carpet
speak so much to the nature of our gender
careless and wreckless
clumsy and unkempt
wait wait wait
is that our gender or our generation?
stroll the room of anyone born in the eighties
or later, i guess
and im sure the evidence there
must suggest something similar
our fast paced lifestyles
leave no room to tidy
no time to sanitize the stains of our daily adventures
we must keep moving
we must never stop
because the moment we do
our life passes us up
missed opportunities
left out of events
new people to meet
new conversations to be had
we are all entitled to such things, are we not?
let us not forget
each of us special
each of us unique
we all deserve more
than this meager life has to give
and because we all maintain this egotistical view
our ***** houses shall stay the same
our carpet stains we shall keep
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
the fact that you did what you did and i couldnt stop it
makes me cry
makes me want to die..
a feeling so disgusting
no amount of soap or water could sanitize.
the fact that i trusted you and you held me down while you slit my innocence,
i broke apart and the suicidal feeling becomes infinite.
what you did.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 3:45 AM UTC
I still catch your scent on things every so often.
Isn't that dumb?
But they're things that have nothing to do with you.
Like my roommate.
Or a complete stranger.
Or this one corner of my desk.
Not one of your old T shirts
(because you never gave me one).
I hate these strangers and desk corners for smelling like you.
How dare they remind me of such euphoria?
My nostrils fill with the scent of laundry, soap, cotton, and loyalty.
******* loyalty.
My eyes flutter closed
My brain fuzzes
The corners of my mouth turn up slightly
And I expect to see you in front of me
And feel your flannel against my cheek
And your dry, cracking fingers against my palms.
But you aren't there.
I get disoriented for a moment.
I spritz. Sanitize. Breath deeply.
Avoid that stupid desk corner
Because I'm sick of being reminded that I'm still in love with you.
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC