"schmuck" poems
You make my skin crawl
In a neutral way.
You make me leave the room
Then wish I had stayed.
I think ill of you
Half off the day.
Yet I cling to every harsh
word that you say.
With you I'm either weak
or a raging *****
Even though you're the one
with a tiny ****
Crossing paths with you
lights my mind on fire.
Yet your not someone I've come
to love or admire.
Your an imperialistic
**** worshiping ****
So someone please explain why
I feel like the schmuck.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give **** gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, **** suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Smiling, laughing, jumping
Beaming with extravagant light
He ran through the meadows hoping
That his father would take him to the wonder Park tonight
But his father couldn’t make it
Since he had a night shift
And little Jimmy couldn’t resist
His innocent tears from dripping
He tried hard to pull his tears in
But they shamelessly slipped
His mother patted his back asking him
To be a strong guy
As according to her and this Utopian world
“Boys don’t cry”
Young Jimmy walked with a sore eye to his house
After getting bullied by Big Barry Fry
His father asked him to man up and stop being a mouse
As according to him and many a folks alike
“Boys don’t cry”
He smashed the ball into the goal
Leading his team to victory
And flung into his father’s arms
Wishing to achieve his sympathy
Adolescent years passed by
Times came which made him want to cry
But he had to hide his tears
As according to this ideal world
“Boys don’t cry”
Time passed
His dreams did shatter ripping him apart
Devastation gripped him breaking his heart
But still he pulled his tears back
He had to try!
Because according to this flawless world
“Boys don’t cry”
The summer of ’59 brought him lady luck
But who knew, innocent Jimmy
Had turned into an evil schmuck
Bruising his wife to death
Gave him eternal peace and rest
Making up for all those moments
Which were supposed to be dry?
As now even according to him
“Boys don’t cry”
~Manu M.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
I am glad I lived this long
So I could be on the internet.
I always wanted a ****** life
And though I haven’t got there yet
I am close, I can see it now
Throngs and hordes of ***** people;
Hundreds want to ****** me.
Several sites want to enlarge me,
I blush, nobody wants to reduce me.
I get fifty or so messages a day
Telling me how hot they are.
They treat me like I am a king
Or a kind of ****** superstar.
Calling me like sirens on rocks
They do, at least, until I get
To the part where I must pay
To get laid on the internet.
I have asked enough questions
Some of them embarrassing
To get the idea and understand
Why it’s me they are harassing.
By even clicking on their site
I’ve proved that I am a fool.
They say to themselves, I’m sure
“Will you look at this gullible tool?
Oh, and the promises they make!
They will rock my world with a word.
They will tell me the hottest things
That a schmuck like me ever heard.
But to clear the air, when they ask
For card numbers I don’t make a peep.
I am as ***** as a drunken rabbit
But first and foremost, I am cheap.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Keen little neons
playfully jump around, colliding with her mind
and she sits there, legs crossed, her ***** aroused,
but it gets doused as the Wall Street pinstripe type walks by
she utters a sigh, looks at the sky, the ending's nigh, and it's night.
Skyline looks pretty
beams and lighted apartment block kitchens and real pop-up ads,
them keen little neons,
her eyes flicker like those hanging lights in horror films,
perpetuate fear, the skeletons are in the clear.
I told you, you schmuck, the end is near.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
Little Princess Perfect without a single flaw
Thought that she was perfect in every way she saw
But one day she ran into a crazy, orange man
Who said "I am better and will beat you because I know I can"
Princess perfect laughed and her court well they laughed too
"You cannot win against me and my loyal crew!"
Little Princess Perfect and the man with funny hair
Got into a contest that seemed far from fair.
Princess Perfect with her legions of subjects said
"You're a sexist bigot and have an orange head!"
So the man replied to her face "And you're a crooked cuck!"
"You're also sick and greedy you lying, corporate schmuck!"
Little Princess Perfect who thought she'd already won
Laughed and played and called him names while he continued to run
"I will make this kingdom great once again I vow!"
And multitudes applauded him as he took a bow.
"You're all deplorable!" Princess Perfect cried
"How can you sleep at night taking this orange faced man's side?"
"Princess Perfect your days are numbered." he said in return
"People want this kingdom great. That's for what they yearn"
"People will never choose you!" Princess Perfect said
"Look at the polls you orange **** You're as good as dead!"
And all her court agreed she had already won
So laugh and play they did having unending fun.
Then when the day came to decide the combatant's fate
Princess Perfect with her court could hardly stand to wait.
"Get ready to celebrate my loyal, faithful fans!"
Princess perfect cried to all throughout the land.
And as the kingdom came together and began to count the votes
Princess Perfect felt a lump deep in her throat.
"What the hell is happening?" She cried to her staff.
The totals made no sense to her and all had ceased to laugh
"This is impossible! He's pulling way ahead!"
Princess Perfect panicked and her soul filled with dread
"I am Princess Perfect! I know I cannot lose!"
But the kingdom voted and the crazy orange man they did choose.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
Prologue: People have their own sneezes and that is surely fine, but you need these top-notch instructions for a faultless sneeze. I will instruct you on the fine art of how to make everyone in the room feel badly for not saying "Bless you!" You will find the results of your new sneeze to be utterly awesome. People will enjoy hearing you sneeze and wonder how you perfected such a basic human function. You will love your "after" sneeze and wonder how you could ever live with your "before" sneeze. Be an "after" and stay an "after!"
STEP 1: Start by breathing heavily. Gasp for air, inhale deeply. Don't make your peers think you are merely snorfling. Don't make them think you're some kind of schmuck. You want to sneeze like royalty. Take in that breath and inhale proudly.
STEP 2: Rise a little, maybe even stand up, to open up the lungs.
STEP 3: Let it loose, make it loud and sneeze with gusto. Make your sneeze noticeable to otherwise oblivious teachers who only notice wrong answers and very obvious text messaging during class time. Make your sneeze a TRUE distraction.
STEP 4 : Before anyone says a thing, bless yourself as if no one is there, as if you were in your room all alone int he dark of the shadows where the sound of the bed creaking scares you half to death. Where the thing under your bed says means things to you while you try to drift off to sleep--where loneliness and death meet and...sorry. I got carried away. To recap step four, talk to yourself. Refer to suggestions below*.
STEP 5: If no one speaks, begin to cry. Moan and wail. Wonder aloud why no one takes the moment to wish you well in your time of need.
IN CONCLUSION: If none of this works to gain you attention, the blow me down and call me Sally. It's time to choose new classmates. By golly, they must be the most putrid thing any baby spit up if they don't' stop for a second and wish you a very bless-ed life from here on out.
*SUGGESTIONS BELOW:
"Achoo! Excuse me, bless me."
"Hachoooo! Gesundheit."
"Achew! Bless my soul."
Warning: Sneezes have been known to spread disease. Sneeze responsibly!
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
The things I'd do to be with you
Would put me away for good;
So, here I wait in solitude,
No sun, no moon, no light.
I've dug deep to break out,
I've climbed walls in my sleep;
I've dealt and knelt,
Held my hands out
To supplicate for pardon.
But I'm a repeat offender,
A schmuck and poor pretender;
A pled lifer for loving you.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
Did you notice the crisis going on outside,
It’s terrible really they’re trying to hide
Atrocities behind a wall of big lies
The badness of this is incredibly sized.
So get out and help, you useless ****
Shout and whisper you absolute schmuck,
March and stamp and tiptoe around red tape,
Call it ****** harassment, but I wouldn’t call it ****
Donate and berate but most of all-
**** THE GOVERNMENT,
(Tenderly, like a lover, to not upset the way of things of course.)
Why aren’t you looking for missing kids
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you saying what Russia forbids
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you aching from every pore
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you saving all of the ******
Why aren’t you crying at the dead bodies
Why aren’t you giving your money to us?
Why, aren’t you someone the people can trust?
Did you notice the crisis going on within,
It’s terrible really, a huge massive din
Is crashing and smashing alone in your head
You can’t ever stop, unless you are dead.
Oh wait, you posted a brightly coloured infographic on your instagram story?
You’re good, never mind.
Feb 22, 2022
Feb 22, 2022 at 8:28 PM UTC
These old doors,
sullen as spinsters.
Wharves, deckhands, the old chopping block:
flights of time misremembered in a
backward gaze.
Toes in water.
Hooks to fish.
The sea salty.
How shall I count the ways...
lost among the waves.
But look, afar, the old man on his boat!
Is he Charon come to point the way to
the seaward lost; or has he come to
sequester memory to some far shore?
(Maybe he's a schmuck with a paddle!)
Seagulls, feathers, the brine:
all groan with this wood.
In this wood was the line
that snatched life from the water
(the fish, the scales—they shine)
and flopped on the deck,
heterocercal.
The evening closes on this vista but
not the charades of time.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
it's called the Mt. Everest of cuisine
without food critics...
- so i gather the chinese are not
too keen on deserts, esp. chocolate?
that fake aphrodisiac of feminism's
excuses of eager beavers in early
age trying to find a dumb schmuck
later on in life and making him
docile, effectively curbing his
****** appetite, translated as
domestic violence after they went to *** parties
with rich boy sons of billionaires?
- well the chinese do like sweet & sour
and sweet & salty cuisine.
- indeed... quiet the deviation.
- and if it ain't sweet & sour or sweet & salty...
- compared with indian cuisine, it's quiet bland.
yes, today got cooking orange chicken,
what a playful, but a mysterious glutton dish...
the marinate was not like the marinate
i'm used to, it was so diluted...
orange juice, caster sugar, soya sauce,
malt vinegar, orange zest,
ginger and garlic paste,
finely grated onion - a bit of chicken,
half the marinate content soaking up
the chicken refrigerated for 1/2 an hour,
the rest heated to a boil, cornflour added
to thicken in...
then the marinated chicken taken
out of the marinate, dipped in egg
then cornflour and fried (mini schnitzels
of the east), in three batches...
then coated in the remaining marinate
of prior heated with cornflower,
a custard too thick that orange juice had to be
added, then evaporated so the essence
got soaked up... mm... a playful, but a mysterious
glutton dish... yummy.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
A vulture of voluptuous
a curator of curves
he walks
and stalks
and talks
then balks
like I'm the one absurd
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
Known across the seas as an adrenaline ******
Back home he was an academic flunky
Made famous for his seemingly infinite luck
Those who made his acquaintance considered him a schmuck
Owner of more scars than there is time in the night to tell
Females from his past pray for him to be swiftly dragged to hell
His only consistent lover resides in the starry sky
Even through the dripping blood, she still stares him in the eye
There are times where he simply and violently loses hope
But for this, his lover's cold embrace puts his heart back into pace
Although he is on his own for the waves running down his face
The brain behind the two sockets is stuck in an emotional rut
Ephemerally protected by a revolving door that he can't shut
Shielding the public from all these feelings by living on a whim
The sea quakes when it sees that horrifying grin
Seething with convulsing ire that no crew's captain can match
Heart reeking of despair from years chasing a feline he can't catch
**** it all back in, it is no longer he; only I
Apologies for the temporary eruption
The long term lack of your sweet fragrance often causes this corruption
If it is what you want, tell me to get lost because I know you aren't shy
At the end of our once in a moon meeting you can barely say goodbye
I'm not offering to be strong for you, but to be strong together
Side by side, there is no storm we couldn't weather
No force needed, our hearts will simply dance
Just once give our love a chance
No longer do I want to say I, let's make it we
Be my pirate empress and together we can sail the sea
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
I gotta go to the store where on the corner stands a *****
She dresses kinda **** but her jeans are all tore
Prolly from the last time she was kneeling on the floor
**** it ima say hi cause im a little bored
Hey whatsup
Its just my luck
But before u duck
Can i get a ****
I dont wanna ****
Cause i only gotta buck
If i wasn't such a schmuck
Ud get stuck
As we ****
So we get back to my place
Undid her shirt made of lace
She takes off her ******* and tries to sit on my face
Whooaaaaaa Slof down lil lady this isn't a race
Me lickin' you down Hell No it ain't the case
Not the time nor the place
Maybe if your ***** was still an ace
But after all your work it's just a disgrace
Problem is ur a beautiful woman, a pussly like that is nothing to waste
On second thought, you know what, No ill pass on that taste
Are you on the pill?
You better be still
If not in the morning you'll be feeling real ill
Your sicker than that cause u might get a thrill
When you walk to the doctor and get them to ****
My future little boy i was gonna name Bill
I through about Will
But before I knew it he's laying real still
Now im starting to get angry get the **** outta my grill
or ill end up dumping pieces of ur body in the water mill
bury the rest on the other side of the hill
An eye for an eye and a **** for a ****
I dont want any drama
Especially from a baby mamma
Lemme breath for a minute at least gimme a comma,
Ok relax mother ****** or ima spell "cide" after "homa"
Lemme calm down before all this deli drama
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 11:27 AM UTC
Nine Lives (Cat From Hell)
I have a cat that just wont die,
trust me, I gave it the old college try.
It pukes, pees and poops on the floor,
brings dead animals to my front door.
I've dropped him off many of miles,
but it always comes back after awhile's.
No food or water for many of weeks,
my water bed now has many leaks.
Killing this cat is so **** tricky,
whenever I **** it, he comes back like Little Nicky.
Poisoned its food with lots of cyanide,
into the window it would collide.
Stabbed it twice, buried it in the yard,
but in like Pet Sematary, this cat will die hard.
Ran it over and over with my truck,
he just makes me look like a schmuck.
Tried to drown it in my bath tub,
this cat belongs to the nine lives club.
Every morning, I wake up in my own blood,
it laughs at me while he smokes my last bud.
He breathes fire from its meowing mouth,
he definitely came from the deep south.
I'm like Tom, he's like Jerry,
its favorite drink is a ****** Mary.
I once even fed him to my dog,
next day it came back inside a brown log.
I've punched it hard, and kicked it far,
this hell cat is the most bizarre.
Tried killing it with a single gun shot,
burned it with water that was boiling hot.
No matter what I tried it wouldn't work,
he always made me look like a stupid ****
I even burned down my own house,
there he was carrying out a dead mouse.
My whole body burning from cat scratch fever,
I chopped off its head with a sharp meat cleaver.
Put it in a huge *** and made some cat chop suey,
it tasted bad and very gooey.
After that day, I felt scratching from the inside,
two weeks later, internal bleeding is how I died.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
While waiting, tired and sore, my eyes tremble in
awareness. Trying to wake up in a notorious dream.
Bronze statues of gay senators, tales of despair, and
maniacs. I think of Ginsberg and his reach to free
speech, to tell all the fakers to smoke a dinosaur,
to see the real world. I think of my sister, deceased,
rotting down below, people praying to their unreal God.
I dream of living in a narrow world, where the creeps judge
the freaks, and prey on the high school cheerleaders.
3 lights, 2 dead, 1 burning out.
I sit in my square bedroom,
bay side blue walls. My heroes are dead,
my only brother dead, paintings from my faded out great-grandmother hanging on the wall.
Cd’s of suicidal music,
stolen books from school,
MAD magazines, no not that kind of madness you schmuck!
Books filled with my ***** word poetry,
two alarm clocks, one for noise, and the other
for amusement. I sink, getting more tired, sinking in my box bed.
What will I dream tonight?
Sleep.
I wake up with Shakespeare written on my lips.
2009
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Homeless in paradise, it's never that clean
Home free, since I was a middle-aged teen
Purple haze trees, as my life's infrastructure
Smelling the scent, of my bohemian subculture
Playing along the boardwalks of Venice Beach
Passersby, all the time just begging to screech
Their rude undertones, as they sip on their latte
Surely, I was a given, for a dope smokin' runaway
I must admit, I am a drunk
I will admit, I did love punk
I won't admit, I'm not a hot *****
Have to admit, at skool I did flunk
I'll **** it up, to make a quick buck
But, will you admit, you're a flaming schmuck?
Living in paradise, was forever my scene
Hassle-free start to my touring routine
Purple haze shades, my life now has structure
You see the success, of my worldwide pop culture
Gracing stages of past fame, always to a beat
Fanatical fans always be wanting to meet
Sifting my bin, for stuff I've worn, this be stalking
I'm the greatest musical queen, I've heard them talking
I must admit, I am a drunk
I will admit, I did love punk
I won't admit, I'm not a hot *****
Have to admit, at skool I did flunk
I'll **** it up, to make a quick buck
But, will you admit, you're a flaming schmuck?
Hurting in paradise, for wherever I'm seen
Hitting trees, I ditched my last limousine
Injecting purple haze into my veins, now I’ve suffered
On Youtube, my once famous sculpture is buffered
Fooling around, the ***** strips, never that discreet
With my purple haze shades, I was fast on my feet
Families, not mourning, nor crying, putting me 6 feet under
Atlantic contracts, royalties accrued, now easy to plunder
In departing my last scene, I'd become fatally unstuck
Because of how I'd been living, as a dim-witted, schmuck.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
Defunct steam punk
on the top bunk
smelled skunk and shrunk
into a trunk.
Funky crunk juice
with floating chunks
of dunked *****
shot from a Monk’s junk.
Spelunker, a drunkard,
bucks ****** up truck drivers
hiding behind tree trunks…
the schmuck.
Clunky blunt, fronted
musky, and held by a hunk
flunked the test
and was debunked
in Timbuctoo.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
.*well... a horror movie soundtrack is just a choice... there's always a loop of the song dreaming, from the coraline soundtrack; i'm such a sentimental schmuck.*
fasting all day,
blood sugar levels low in
the later afternoon...
filling up on an English
breakfast leftovers past
midnight...
it's raining... and there's
still more than 3/4 of
a whiskey bottle left...
but it's raining...
and...
i suppose i should wish
to write something...
but then... then again...
with the bedroom window
ajar...
putting on some horror movie
soundtrack...
and subsequently listening
to the rain...
do i really need another "poem"?
another, rather ********
statement concerning
flashing numbers...
in red, rather than emerging
words from a blank space?
no... not really...
there's just something about
a recalibrate of the body
after a day of fasting...
it's like ******* Ramadan
with me, almost all year round...
i guess with the whole globalist
affair... i sleep-stalking
my time in these hours...
at twenty minutes past 1am
most people are asleep...
while i'm...
just shy of pouring myself
another drink,
and contemplating falling asleep
mingling a horror movie
soundtrack and the falling rain;
rhapsody of the most gentle
scuttling, tapping...
i call it...
the aqua-aranea effect...
water-spider effect...
ghostly piano of the night...
weaving a lullaby like
no other lullaby could ever
be sung;
like the hallow call of the impeding
inevitability of death -
and: that rare grace:
of primordial yet at the same time:
eternal sleep.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
What we had didn't matter to me.
Didn't mean anything to me.
Without you I feel free.
Your touch of my skin didn't make me feel.
Because I knew it wasn't real.
You're nothing to me.
The words you said didn't captivate me.
Enamor me.
It was just an act,
I'm sure you'll agree.
You were just a game to play.
A heart to betray.
You're worthless to me.
You're a ghost to me.
At most you'd be,
nothing more than
a mind to ****
A stupid schmuck.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I just needed to lie for a second.
Because my lies are your realties.
I'm done with the formalities.
It hurts. Because I cared and shared
all that was the mess of me with
somebody as unworthy as you
because I thought I knew
who you were and your intent with my heart.
I should've seen from the get that I was
just another
twit you could mold and fool.
I'm sorry.
I just need to lie again.
For a moment.
I'm fine now.
I'm strong now.
It doesn't hurt.
I'm moving on.
I'm better off.
I feel alive.
I'll be okay.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I just need to lie for a second.
I'm glad we had it.
I don't regret it.
I'm glad I opened up.
I'm glad I shared my trust.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry for the lies.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Fay can see Baruch
from the window
of the living room
down on the area
of grass below
he is alone
sitting on one
of the bomb shelters
left over
from the war
she peers down at him
taking in
the cowboy hat
the silver looking
6 shooter toy gun
he seems
to be cleaning
she wishes
she was there
with him
but her father
says she is to stay in
and learn about the saints
and said he will
quiz her later
when he gets home
from work
about them to see
what she has learnt
the book
is on the chair
unopened
a bookmark
of St Benedict
lies on top
her mother
is in the kitchen
preparing soup
she knows her mother
would turn a blind eye
if she wanted
to go out
but they both know
that her father
would punish her
if he caught her out
especially
with Baruch
the Jew Boy
as her father calls him
the killer of Our Lord
he often says
although Baruch
denies being involved
in any way
she hopes Baruch
will look up
at her window
and see her
he has put his gun
in the holster hanging
from the belt
of his jeans
and holds a rifle
bought for him
for his birthday
he aims at the sky
and twirls around
pretending to shoot
pigeons flying
over head
she watches him
as he aims
at the coal wharf
where the coal carts
are being loaded
with coal
from chutes above
her father doesn't like
Baruch even though
Baruch always smiles
and says shalom
to him if he passing
her father on the stairs
of the flats
Baruch says
her father is a schmuck
but she doesn't know
what that means
but if Baruch said it
it must be a nice term
she thinks wiping away
the steamed up glass
where she has
breathed on it
she blows him a kiss
from the palm
of her thin hand
he doesn't know
but he'll get it
any how she knows
he aims at
the steam train
passing over
the bridge
by the Duke of Wellington pub
she smiles as he does
the kickback
from his rifle
the train passes
unharmed
the driver unaware
he has been fired upon
by a cowboy
from the grass
she eyes him
determinedly
wants him to look up
at her window
he lifts the rifle
to the sky again
and fires
then he pauses
lowers his rifle
and stares at her window
she waves
he looks
she waves frantically
he looks away
she bites a lip
he stares up
at her window
and beckons her down
with a wave
of his hand
she waves
crossing her hands
as if to say
can't come
he gazes
and then waves
and blows a kiss
from his hand
upwards
then he climbs down
from the bomb shelter
and disappears
the grass is empty
he has gone
the book of saints
lies on the chair
unopened
she goes
from the window
and picks it up
and opens
and begins to read
sensing
a good portion
of her 11 year old
girl's heart
bleeds.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC