"schoolgirls" poems
paper used to be scratched
pencil lead sharpened
long ago now
a schoolboys remembrance
schoolgirls too
friends
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
my date with thc,
serendipitous and sublime,
like the first time
curious george killed
the black persian *****
got me sky-hiking
in a cloud of delusion
and creativity,
climbing ladders of abstraction
for nine mystic rungs
from mundane muse,
regrettable
like drunk ***
with an octogenarian
to lucid peaks of eccentricity,
a vaunted house built by
jimi and john,
long gone,
but resurrected
this date
we split a dime
into 3 nickels
and rolled every penny
into a top-5 billboard joint
we sprayed the submarine
purple
with haze
then made the wind cry
mary
as we gazed at two
giraffes making babies
on the serengeti,
laughing hysterically
like schoolgirls watching
riding miss daisy
then the cbd kicked in
and I toodle-ooed
my two
ungratefully dead hippy
stoneheads
and crashed from
the ninth rung of
the last ladder
onto grandma's bed,
clutching the first lines of
my date with thc,
serendipitous
and
sublime...
~ P (#Pablo#hcgktbpp)
(8/12/2013)
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
a thirsty soul suspended over the
waters of this heartland like some kind of
symbolic sacrifice to the lesser demigods
she is wearing a hippy skirt and a fashionable hat
a swift sunrise gives her aspects of divinity
she tells me she came here to go shopping
but in the turbulent space between our hearts
something has changed
she tells me cloudy days make her sad
i tell her rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers love it just the same
she knows she loves it too
i pick up her thought and bounce it like a rubber ball
cause it keeps comin back to me'
just like that mysterious smile that
lingered on her face
long on my mind
i cant seem to shed the thought
that it all means something someplace
always somebody thirsty somewhere
the clock stopped at a quarter to four
and a shameful woman sits there fixing her face
with the wrenches and hammers of fashionable practice
seek to be the same as everybody else
someday your bound to get there
just to find yourself questioning why you
bothered once your there
her and the shameful woman put a
heated argument in the pocket of hunger
and giggling like schoolgirls walk away
to go find a mirror to get lost in
swap makeup and spit in some bathroom selfies
girls night out
i'm standing out here in the open air parking lot
watching the heartland of fiveashes sink slowly into the sea
walk on the puddles reflections of clouds
as they break apart to bring us a brand new day
rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers like it anyway
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I hate hentais.
I don’t mean to victim blame
Japanimated schoolgirls,
But why can’t any of them ever end
With the girl killing the **** out of her ******
Instead she just
Loses herself,
His mind broken *** slave
And that is the glorious end.
**** that.
**** pussycat; faster, faster
Bite his **** off.
How can there be any
Happy Endings
in such ********
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
Because I could not stop for Love,
She kindly stopped for me.
And I collapsed into her arms,
Cured then of being free.
In a golden carriage far we drove
Off cliffs and over rises.
Each time I felt sure that I'd died
But Love never lacks surprises.
And we passed Death along the road,
I waved but he would not reply-
I pounded on the windows gold
But he mutely passed me by.
For Love sat not with me inside
But whipped the horses viciously.
I asked her why and she replied,
"Love means no company."
We passed a church and, out behind,
A graveyard glowing in the dusk,
Two lovers' silhouettes defined
Beside a tombstone, clasped in lust.
We passed a darkened house and there
A lanky boy threw pinging pebbles.
And as the light when on, the air
Was filled with midnight funeral bells.
We passed a first kiss, slow and sweet,
Two schoolgirls shamed but still adoring,
And every time their lips would meet
A raven hoarsely tried to sing.
We passed a man and wife's "I do."
And peering through the stained glass window
Pallbearers paused their work to see
The other face of sorrow.
One thought gloats over all I see,
"When all is said and done,"
I muse in silent reverie,
"Love leaves you quite alone."
Because I could not stop for Love,
She kindly stopped for me.
And I will die my deathless death
For all eternity.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can conjure up some evil.
No lesser imps
or minor demons though.
Only a meeting with
the capital “D” Devil
because Glenn and I would command such an audience.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can giggle like schoolgirls
when Chuck Biscuits sits on that whoopie cushion we left out for him or
finds a fake, plastic eyeball floating in his coffee mug.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can go on the “Punch America’s Face Again” tour.
We wouldn't be singing in our slimy baritones on this road trip.
Just passing out black eyes
like Halloween candy.
Leaving a trail of busted noses and
broken hearts
in our wake.
There would be sleepovers.
Glenn and me
with Iggy Pop, Johnny Rotten and
the ghost of Peter Steele in attendance.
Ouija Boards and light-as-a-feather.
Peter Steele would always win.
He is a ******* ghost after all.
We could give each other nicknames:
Goodboy Glenn and The Big Dill.
maybe a secret handshake…
Nothing too elaborate.
Just cool, y’know?
We would text one another
after the season finale of The Walking Dead:
Darryl needs to die he’s not even in the comic but it’ll probably be Michonne there’s no justice on T.V. for cool black girls this show has just been a study in emotionally manipulating its audience since the beginning anyway why are we the only ones who see that
Why are we the only ones who see that?
Are you listening Glenn?
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
Right off of the 7 train,
Irish Catholic schoolgirls spilling
out of Jahn's like marbles
Their plaid skirts against exposed brick
bellies full of kitchen sink
The produce stand next door
eggs .60 a dozen, milk one dollar
Now converted into a bodega
or maybe even a small
Muslim prayer room
I bought my first album
at a record store on 82nd
The brown paper bags, thin as bible pages
It spun on the Victrola in my
parents' Tudor
The yellowing wallpaper smelled of
my mom's Virginia Slims
And sounded of my dad's Vermouth
His own liver fried
with onions, just as he liked it
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
With looping hillside vendors
and red-light beams stalking the
cigarette smoke clouds, clinging
behind business men mobs (of 4 or 5)
and fracturing wildly from green-glass
bottles of soju and the girls
(oh the girls) who guard and call
out from dark thresholds with only
a spotlight of pink neon from
*** Trans Cafe, Eat Me)
the signs from above. And the glass
walls separating the men
from the girls and the short skirts
(plaid like schoolgirls) beckoning,
silent and alone, sitting on stools
(one leg over another) paid at the bars
for two drinks (and 250,000 Won)
usually by Americans, bored and trapped,
stranded (at Yongsun Army Garrison)
they venture Incheon at dark,
with sad eyes and lust, (trading paychecks
for hand jobs) guilty and delaying,
waiting for a three year tour (of
what feels like a lifetime) in Seoul
to end.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
Think you can walk on me?
Think you can walk away?
Think you can take me?
I know your darkness, honey.
I know your corners full of cobwebs and shadows,
The places within you.
Think I'm innocent and pure?
Sure.
I have not torn lace and tasted flesh,
Or sharped my fingernails on the ridges of a spine,
But I have been to hell, sweetness.
Been dragged below a grave,
Gouged wet dirt with mine,
Desperate hands scrabbling to pull me back
To rainy bitter nights.
I have lain bare and ****** on the cold stone floors, stained blue and black,
Burned beyond a breath, beyond thinking,
Beyond hope.
I've been brutalized and torn apart inside.
To compare evisceration to the blooming of a rose,
To say I've had the far away gentler time.
To think I am naive as you suppose,
That I couldn't possibly know the foreign lands
Traveled by your mute experienced hands.
Think because I ask for you I need you?
It is my nature to give, but not to take.
Not to take love when I am not offered it,
But also not to take any more ****
If you look into my eyes, do you see fear?
Of anything, in their depths?
Keep looking, search away-
You'll not find it here.
You'll see my rise and fall, my grand absurdity,
But you'll not see my obeisance
To someone who will not match me
Mile for mile,
Straight down.
I have seen hell, you see.
Gazed long and hard and deep.
Purred savage in its velvet caress-
The way you have unzipped a dress,
I have unzipped my skin
And stepped out.
So look on, look lust, look IN-
I am no white snowflake, glittering
Fragile and quick to melt and meld.
No sniveling child begging weakly to be held.
I am a rainstorm drumming on my own back,
A rhythm and reminder of the tenderness I lack,
I am a lightning strike,
Sudden focused and intense, the white
Hot touch of the phantasm immense.
I am the song of suffering and of love,
I need no substance to loose my demons,
No dizzy fiery nectar to lose my mind.
I am complete unaltered, and sublime.
I have known centuries beneath my skin,
If no one's touch,
And words of every meaning through my wanting veins
For wanting such.
And you, girl, are not worth my time.
Push her blushing into bed, raise her pulse to reeling heights,
For I have pushed the world beneath my kneading hands, and pulled the sun to night.
Ravage rashly through the silly schoolgirls that you find.
The way into a woman's soul
Is the seducing of her mind.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Hank’s mother lectured
Him on the objectification
Of women. Never objectify
Women as ****** objects,
She’d say emphasizing each
Word with a slap to the back
Of his head, (he hadn’t seen
Women as such up until then,
Being only ten), women, she
Added, her dark eyes boring
Into his, are not there for men
To paw over with their eyes
Or hands of any other part
Of their anatomy, poking Hank
In the chest. Yet, when he later
Considered her words, he recalled
That she and that Mrs Baldof were
Always leering over that Jack
Hynde, saying, look at those biceps,
Wouldn’t mind those arms about
Me, imagine those muscles rippling
Over you and they’d laugh and
Giggle like a couple of schoolgirls
Being tickled, and although his
Mother was dead now and his
Father brain drained in some
New York hospital ward, he did
Try not to objectify women as
****** objects, did try to see
Them just as human beings, but
It was pretty hard when a nice
*** went by or a pairs of *******
Casually caught his eyes, going
Down the subway stairs for a train,
Bouncing there like punch bags
In a boxing gym or a slim figure
Came into view as he stood by
The window looking at the late
Afternoon sun, puffing a smoke,
Listening to jazz, a bottle of beer
In his hand, but he did try, and his
Mother’s words were still there,
The echo of them and the slap of
Flesh on flesh still vibrated inside
His head, despite the passing of time
With the clock’s tick-tock and him
Still turning his head and old eyes,
Watching a pretty woman going by,
In a tight fitting, breast hugging,
*** clinging, short shock frock.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
I want each step to land my foot
tangled heather
ash and soot.
And lead to where the wicked go...
where the darling schoolgirls know
when to turn with redden hue
gasping their intact virtue.
Yet I long my footfall down-
mossy sinfully buoyant ground.
Run to meet him by the stone
kiss him on it's granite bones.
And he'll swing me wide with wonder
pirate, he'll be, ravage. plunder.
I go where all the good girls shant.
all my christian vows recant.
Yes I will meet him by the river
and onward I keep
through the creeping myrtle, creep-
and the sinners sandbox
and painted ladies swings
(where I rest my chastity case)
that's covered in leather and tied up with lace.
Delight
as I watch good girls gasp-
as I swing wide hips, wide.
Thier ****** ******* clasps.
And that night will give birth
to a wretched new way
I am wanton
and crafty
and
unwelcome at tables-where ladies
demure
and insist on "no more!"
and
need polite conversations
to endless relations.
I'll roar down that path
like a thundering herd,
like an air stream that carries the weariest bird.
I'm curved, I'm pillowed.
I'm chest out.
I'm willowed...
I'll have holes in my souls
all four of them dotted.
Or six of them spotted?
Like a cat's lives they'll feed
so that reaper, recedes.
It's this path, though, you see them?
The Glories
majestic.
Twined up the tree trunk
and my heart is arrested.
I'm put in the mind of those
sinewy women
and sin
comes in scent
where that glory blooms nightly
and clasp hold of
these moments
of recklessness tightly.
Sahn 1/12/2015
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
My niece came round for dinner
promising lots of laughs
with pizza and a movie
since I'm stuck here on my ****
she brought a pepperoni
good and spicy just for me
the DVD she brought along
added the extra cheese.
It was a tale of vampires
poor persecuted folks
that fall in love with schoolgirls
as I sat waiting for the jokes
The fun was not forthcoming
thought my niece seemed quite enthralled
with this badly acted nightmare
as I sat there appalled
I saw a good bit coming
as the blazing sun shone down
on the pasty long dead hero
thinking that in flames he'd drown.
I waited for destruction
for the burning pain to start
Instead the ****** twinkled
like a little glowing star.
I've never seen such ********
such complete and utter crap
as our pasty long dead hero
glowed inside the vampire trap.
By the end my niece was crying
and frankly so was I
when she reached down for the sequel
with a tear still in her eye.
I told her I was fine now
I begged her to go home
I told her I was happy
to be here on my own.
But the little brat insisted
that I watch the whole ****** lot
I told her it's a broken leg
not a lobotomy I've got.
I quickly sent her packing
back to her own sweet home
with her ****** little box set
and to leave me well alone.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
She stood among the thin, goose-fleshed schoolgirls
with their full moon eyes
and straw braid hair.
Reciting Chaucer, Emerson, Frost,
as their feet scraped against
cured leather shoes,
toes curling with each word,
beauty lost in the hands of a sinister teacher,
no room for beauty with discipline.
Later she met the Janitor's boy in the broom closet,
She found beauty there, in his sweet, nonsense whispers,
fragments of Neruda bloomed in her mind,
Straw braid undone, leather shoes off.
Solomon's Song was written in his fingertips,
rough from mop handles and water buckets.
Their innocence burned in the dark,
their words unclouded,
Memorized verses on their breath,
they meant every line.
And she knew this was what the poets wrote of.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
I am underwater
the bottom of a pond
I am not drowning
I am limitless
deep under my own skin
no longer shallow
like puddles and schoolgirls
dancing with deities
I am happy to be here
I am a child
And now I am
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
A lit candle illuminating the room as shadows darken the walls
The little schoolboys and schoolgirls chatter loudly in the halls
The smell of pumpkins, uneasy cold air, in this season of Fall
Woman, recoiling away from my unholy punches of Satan
Simon's inferno has begun!
There would be men robbed at gunpoint, children being stabbed
Cats and dogs are being skinned and women being grabbed
Elderly man is sobbing, wanting to die once and for all
I shall end it all for him, no teardrops shall fall
My stormy disturbed eyes reveal it all...
The men used to be strong, for now they are weak
These skies of an unholy red, continue to cry it seems
I must go home now, let me out of this dream
Satan's sadistic smile continues to gleam
To the cries of women being *****
And the children continuing to scream
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 1:09 PM UTC
a thirsty soul suspended over the
waters of this heartland like some kind of
symbolic sacrifice to the lesser demigods
she is wearing a hippy skirt and a fashionable hat
a swift sunrise gives her aspects of divinity
she tells me she came here to go shopping
but in the turbulent space between our hearts
something has changed
she tells me cloudy days make her sad
i tell her rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers love it just the same
she knows she loves it too
i pick up her thought and bounce it like a rubber ball
cause it keeps comin back to me'
just like that mysterious smile that
lingered on her face
long on my mind
i cant seem to shed the thought
that it all means something someplace
always somebody thirsty somewhere
the clock stopped at a quarter to four
and a shameful woman sits there fixing her face
with the wrenches and hammers of fashionable practice
seek to be the same as everybody else
someday your bound to get there
just to find yourself questioning why you
bothered once your there
her and the shameful woman put a
heated argument in the pocket of hunger
and giggling like schoolgirls walk away
to go find a mirror to get lost in
swap makeup and spit in some bathroom selfies
girls night out
i'm standing out here in the open air parking lot
watching the heartland of fiveashes sink slowly into the sea
walk on the puddles reflections of clouds
as they break apart to bring us a brand new day
rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers like it anyway
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
They say “cover it up now
Make it look the same as all the other manufactured bodies,
Being pumped into this assembly line world”,
But my body is not the same as those,
It is soft and made of silk in an iron factory,
And the cold metal burns my skin.
Because I have the right to bear arms but not to bare arms,
Telling me that the guns that ****** are the only thing I am allowed to have,
And even though my body is hot hot hot, it will never be killer.
And you tell me that I am like the guns sitting in a shop waiting to be picked out, grabbed, paid for,
Except I'm worth less and and worthless and more disposable
Telling me I'm all hormones and ***** moans
Telling me that I am yours.
But I am not yours,
I am the little schoolgirls with battery acid thrown in their faces
Touched by hands that harm not help
Ripping apart their hearts and bodies.
But I am not yours,
I am not even mine,
I am in the freedom,
And that freedom is not in your guns or your yells or your stars,
That freedom is in the plant pushing out the iron girls, girls, girls,
Pushing them out into your world
The world that belongs to you because you claim it
But you're no match for the iron girls and their metal hearts
Taking everything you have and have had
And making it theirs, theirs, theirs
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
old saint bob
whacks a hefty tune out on a beer barrel
full of noise and nuance
like a dammed version of samson
tearing down these city walls
and like a blessed version of delilah
walking in mystical light
saint bob has a penny opera vocal
on his thin mans frame
but all the pretty girls say he's got a voice like sin
and the eyes of an angel
they are all a-flutter at his nearness
hes there just off shore if you look with care
old saint bob and elston gunn
had taken to the waves hoping
to be saltwater henchmen in such grand style
only to be shipwrecked in the strip malls
of suburbia with the catholic schoolgirls and
the paint by number sinners and saints
old saint bob and the charlatans of love and loathing
sit with a *** runner and swap sea stories
on the deck of an english privateer called penance
hoping to salvage the folly of their youth
but they have drank themselves to a fitful slumber
and the *** runner has fled with the gold
while all good sailors romance ladies of spain
old saint bob held out an old tin cup
and a hooligans song
by the sunbelt highway
one of the lover girls by his side
she so in love with his rough jester lost and lonely style
he will make it home someday
but he will only come if it can be
with a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder
in grand style
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Baby Mamas with their prams
Eating up wonderland
Dropping bits of food everywhere
Under their chairs
Laughing like schoolgirls
Flustered red
Bits of food
For non-believers
And the un-anointed
Are scarce
Clogging toilets with diapers
Dispensing waste
At an alarming rate
How much for a wonderland?
In the sky
Red marker
Rise and rise
White tissue
Go from white to brown
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling down
(all together now)
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling Down
How much for a trip to wonderland
With a cushioned seat
Padded headrest
And comfy feet?
Eat
A wonderland in the sky
The market is on the rise
The ground is black
And the clouds are white
Every minute
Clouds gather spin and rise
The Earth looks small
Falling behind
How much for wonderland
Up in the sky?
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Fireflies need no introduction.
So at night time they just glow
And light up the constellation
With that natural illuminous flow.
Fireflies are nature's lightning bugs
When they glow they teach us how
To love by giving free undeserved hugs.
That ****** the summer's evening show.
Fireflies lights up the natural environment
Especially in the midsummer nights
When they form part of the entertainment
That nature designed using bright lights.
Fireflies are nature's beautiful showgirls
They love flying and flexing their wings
When they giggle at night like schoolgirls
Who set fireballs to the playground swings.
IBPoetry©️
2/9/2018
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
Over 200 schoolgirls,
what difference does it make?
If there were only one ten or eight,
they were never yours to take
Hadija, Febi, Chioma,
should be in all of our heads,
but are instead
in a filthy man's bed.
We are the hands
that need to hold their mothers
or wipe away the tears
of their broken baby brothers
One found schoolgirl
the difference that would make
to be held in her fathers arms
they were never yours to take
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
It's all winter legs here,
curled in scarfs of red,
boot lace tied tight to seal in the warmth.
Walls of emptiness flutter skirts, graze ankles,
solid nothing like a stronger glass.
Her tilted head, his own inclined to trace the
dust on her boots.
A glimpse of a face poking between brown-sweater shoulders,
soldiers of some greater empire in floral uniform,
legs crossed loosely,
patrols of them crossing in twos and threes
past the archway of the gym's one-toothed mouth.
They had no solidarity of soldiers,
nor the strength.
Instead, like silly schoolgirls,
they stumbled over straps of bags
and stretched their syllables into the
first notes of laughter,
their voices as sensual as an air raid alarm.
They stepped sure-footedly,
every pace a vow of forwardness,
a marching corps ever onward,
the banners of their hair catching
unanticipated breezes that
misguided the heartless counterfire of rival divisions
even as their rifle lunch bags crackled in their white fists.
They swung long jackets around their forms,
the bones protesting, pushing against the cloth like
trapped men flanked by greater loves.
One paused to ask his name.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
all together
with numbers and rulers we form
circles in playgrounds like schoolgirls
with jump ropes and all with short sing song rhymes
short, and now shorter, now shorter
like ozone
with long life hum whispers and all with eyes
like lacking
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC