"shampoos" poems
Missing the whistle of the teapot.
A big tin thing, dented, spouting
Warnings, careful baby, I am
Really hot.
The hum of the microwave,
The machine noises of coffee being made,
Them noises just ain't the same.
There is no poetry in
Whirring hum, beans bump 'n grinding.
They don't talk to me.
But in the middle of night,
When I rise, get dressed,
Still put on mismatched socks,
My t-shirts inside out,
The same jeans been wearing for weeks,
Cause they are right handy,
Lying on the floor, feeling so good,
Covering up my old fashioned
Keds.
Someday, I guess there will be
A machine that hoses us down,
Shampoos the mind while your fingers idle,
Then becomes a wind Chunnel to dry us up.
Will it have octopus arms
To dress us, having looked at our daily schedule,
Taking into account the weather channel forecast,
Where n' when we gotta be?
I suppose that if I ask nicely,
The replicator will make me perfect coffee,
And even whistle if that's what makes me happy.
But as long it don't try help me write,
That ****** function, that ****** need,
Human,
And only I can
Whistle while I write.
6:13 AM
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
another midnight I've seen this week:
bed times have gone from books and milk
and slightly ajar doors,
to long slogs far into the early morning hours-
-did I, did I try too hard to hold your hand?
If so I didn't mean to,
maybe the excitement of being held again
made my squeeze a little too much.
-
another morning afternoon I've seen this week:
primary education routines of *get dressed
and ready for school* have been lost to
fading light showers and foaming shampoos-
-did I, did I not follow the Curtis rules?
Should I run a bookshop? Be late time and time again?
Runaway to the continent and write a novel no one wants?
Lose a wife and fall for a model?
if so, I'm sorry I'm not that.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own
self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area
i can hear bad music
coming from the room
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something
it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)
like a dairy queen in
late september,
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces
i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face
my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality
i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account,
too because
it reminds me of myself
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
Wash
*Away the memories of how
We tangled together
Like the perfect sailor’s knot
An organized intricacy
Coalescing my jumpy nerves
With your easy laughter*
Rinse
*The weight of your fingers
Imprinted on my scalp
A heartbreaking muscle memory
Fingers that once ran through my hair
Run to another’s touch*
Repeat
*This sadistic cycle of erasure
Hoping one day forgetting
Won’t be a conscious thought
That shower shall set me free.*
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
“aquashield+ .. what is this?”
—“sunscreen”—
“no wonder you get burnt all the time it expired in two-thousand-eight ya mad cat.”
“a-ah..”
“ah?”
“good that i use a different one i 'spose hmm?”
“pfft—bronzer.”
“oh come on.”
. . .
—“awshit look at all those dried soap carcasses in the back there. little beached whales”
“exfoliating, irish spring...”
—“hey what's with the two-in-one shampoos anyway?”
“...well,”
—“seems to me like they're just tryna make showering faster.”
“yah. what's your issue?”
"well, what's the point of that? enjoy the ****** thing.
I dare you to find any two things better than being under a hot shower
& the heat of the blowdryer in the hair after...gaw-damnn.”
—“preach.”
. . .
“man, and all the dust...”
Oct 15, 2011
Oct 15, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams
gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams
haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite
cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty
gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control
ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls
mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow
tinkling diamond chandeliers
funiture art nouveau
elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar
thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for the czar
pastel parisian cakes
hand stitched italian shoes
hornback crocodile leather
master barbers fine shampoos
bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liqueur
any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur
richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires
soak them drink them in
bask in their fires
all priceless things
based on human lies
worth less than dust
compared to love in
someone’s eyes
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
O Hair, o Hair, wherefore art thou dear Hair?
You stuck with me since I can remember
How come you’re leaving? Why do you not care?
Why haven’t you grown since last November?
What did I do to make you love me less?
I’ve always given you the best shampoos,
Conditioners, hair cream- why are you distressed?
I wish you could talk- for I have no clue.
‘Stress’- the doctor says that you can’t bear it
It hurts you, it makes you sad, angry, weak
How I miss your happy, active spirit
You lit up my days when the world was bleak
You were obedient, made me look good
Introduced styles of your own I didn’t know
Growing fast into a shiny mane you would
Falling tantalisingly to my brow.
You used to cooperate with the stylist
So I tried new things, innovatively
Fashionable styles I never could resist
But you danced brightly, never plaintively!
Alas! I can’t possibly understand
Why you fall away to the cold hard ground
As I brush you, in the shower, strand by strand
The sight just shocks me as you make no sound.
You don’t respond to new-fangled oils
Bought online for you in desperate attempts
To make you grow again, healthy, unspoiled
But you stare up at me with harsh contempt!
Do not desert me yet, my darling friend!
I will change myself for you, make it right
Ensuring your precious life doesn’t end
I will put up a victorious, mighty fight.
I’ll meditate to reduce stress on you
I’ll stop shampoos to use homemade products
I’ll take the required medicines, oils too
Baby, for me, increase your good conduct!
I’m so sorry for all that I did wrong
All the things that then made you want to die
I’ll take care of you now, you will be strong
Work with me now, sweetheart, don’t ever cry!
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
He runs out of the bathroom after a 20 minute shower
leaving puddles of warm water trailing through our home.
"Smell me!" he says as he pushes his head under my nose.
"Smell me. I smell great!" I do and he does.
"I used everything in the shower. EVERYTHING!" He is so proud.
Later that night, as I take my shower I find:
all 5 bars of soap still partially lathered,
every shampoo and conditioner bottle opened and askew,
and all of my sample envelopes ranging from Healthy HooHoo to acne cleansers, botanical shampoos to magnetic hair rejuvenation creams,
all tore open and empty.
For this, I fall in love all over again with a 12 year old kid.
And he smells great!
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
Mamacita hold me dearly under folds
of black hair where light can't shine I
feel the warmest with my nose
pulling deep breaths of floral shampoos
and hot mesoamerican corn tortilla
from the oven with pepper carnitas drifting
through cracks under locked bedroom
doorhandles, in the bed and under
an azetec starred quilt duvet between sunshine
brown arms with tiny black feminine hairs,
I think about dinnertime at seven
with my warm Mamacita and her cousins
and of all the caring people
L.A shared with me.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
She...she responds to a soothing bath.
He...he prefers a different path.
They each disrobe from the day's affairs,
the formal restraints they each do share.
Their clothes lay scattered about the floor,
both stand naked at a tiled shore.
She eases herself into this sleeve,
a temperate knitted liquid weave.
He guides the stream from it’s perched spout,
the water finding the perfect route.
His face is wet, his eyes are shut tight.
She prefers ambient candle-light.
She gently sponges her supple skin.
He grips the soap...oh, so masculine.
She contemplates his rugged terrain,
he puts his hands out to feel the rain.
His caress yields a lathery foam,
her fingers begin a downward roam.
He too diverges, or so rather,
deviates from the task to lather.
Much attention in just one region,
cleaning can’t motivate this legion.
His thoughts of her, and her thoughts of him,
nothing stops what’s about to begin.
Tremors start from her head to her toes,
a smile blossoms as she plateaus.
He feels the pressure stiffly increase,
it brings to him an immense release.
She savours the last rippling quiver.
His knees weak from such an endeavour.
They catch their breath, and resume their chores,
have they been remiss in these detours?
Excuse the news they misuse shampoos,
they choose to amuse with such taboos.
One can’t ignore in the aftermath: he takes showers
... and she takes a bath.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 10:34 AM UTC
OK, I can no longer say
I’ve got a receding hairline
and sure everyone can see
the plain fact, the bald fact -
but there are pleasures, you know
I’ve saved heaps on hair gel
and shampoos and conditioners
(enough I think
to fund my retirement)
and I can actually feel the cool air
(no one can call me hot-headed)
and the great thing now
is everyone says with all honesty
I’m **** as Sean Connery
(what they actually think
or say behind my back
is none of my business)
but the best blessing of all
is I never need to look for my comb
(I confess I was always misplacing it)
and so I don’t need to reach for my wife’s comb
and so she lies as still as a cat
and she doesn’t need to roar
like a lioness
first thing in the morning:
Don’t you dare touch my comb!
Ah, the blessings that linger
like so many halos
in eminent baldness
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
The poison is in all of us:
Half-smoked cigarettes lay on the side of grainy gravel paths,
crinkly Dollarama bags and glass beer bottles.
We relax on trees
leaning
backs against the braille texture of bark
that tries to speak to us in a language we don’t understand.
We lean back and raise our faces
towards the sunlight dancing between
the leaves of the canopy,
listening to the tires
whizzing against concrete,
but think it similar to the smacking of waves against stones;
lean back and savour the syrupy smell of maple trees
against our tongues,
thinking to ourselves
how grateful we are for nature
as we sit in a paradise of tall trees
their branches intertwined in a space
smaller than bathroom stalls;
lean back and breathe in exhaust
and cigarette smoke masked
behind a layer of sweet antiperspirants
and coconut-scented shampoos
as the wind whips hair against your face.
We take peaceful naps against the undeciphered braille,
but the poison is in all of us
and one day this paradise will become
nothing.
A bed of dirt
blanketed by prickly store-bought
strips of grass.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
Violets are red
Roses are blue
Gloves are for feet
Hands go in shoes
Pants hang on flagpoles
Flags hang out of pants
Water is for mopping
Save it on fake plants
Hungry people eat
Starving people starve
Recycled paper saved the forest
Just another product to be carved
Park benches are for bums
Parking lots are for the homeless
Raise taxes to give to the needy
Makes more people jobless
Live flowers to the die-ing
Dead flowers to the sewer
Ghosts are imaginary
Walk around the grave to be sure
Bomb at home injures just one
Mass riots ensues
Bomb at the neighbors kills hundreds
Lets review the latest shampoos
Rap is black
Country is red
The old live longer
But the schools are dead
Think outside the box
Draw inside the lines
I'll make my own indecisions
And let my own colors shine
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 1:48 AM UTC
I bring you pitiful news from home where
the large McDavitt family has a strain of
lice that has become immune to all nit
killing soaps and shampoos; joyous
information is, the clan moved from
the neighborhood.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
A woman sees her picture,
She can't resist a glance,
Passing a shop window,
Would she change,
Given the chance?
Big nose,
Small *******
Short arms,
And the rest,
She looks over
She hates what she sees,
A beautiful woman,
'I can't eat what I please!'
Dye can only do so much,
Creams and shampoos,
Sport and diets,
You'll just gain the pounds you
Lose.
Size 14,
Once so huge, now the norm,
Clothes show buldges,
Body far from the perfect form
You stare into a mirror
and what you'd like to see
Is your teenage self
In all her skinny glory,
Yet for those you don't know
Strangers passing by,
Wouldn't stare and think
She's eaten all the pies,
Whilst your lying eyes,
Set out to hurt you,
People will see and think,
I wish I looked like that too.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 9:04 AM UTC
Do you know what we men love, ladies?
We love the raisins in our apple pie
when we just want apple pie
We love the broccoli in every dish
how you beg 'just give it a try!'
We love the fortune in toiletries
so there's no room for our combs
perfumes, shampoos and body creams
blow dryers, curlers and foams
We love how you sneak to the bathroom
just prior to us awaking
we plea for you to hurry
as our bladders are sorely aching
We love to join you shopping
and discuss the cashier's hair
and if we happen to like it
do we tell you...do we dare?
but most of all we love you
for the biggest, most valuable perk
is the motivation you provide
to get our ***** off to work!
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams
gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams
haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite
cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty
gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control
ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls
mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow
tinkling diamond chandeliers
furniture art nouveau
elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar
thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for a czar
pastel parisian cakes
hand-stitched italian shoes
hornback crocodile leather
master barber fine shampoos
bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liquor
any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur
richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires
soak them drink them in
bask in their fires
all priceless things
based on human lies
worth less then dust
compared to love in
someone's eyes
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Even amongst the sorrow of life
Joy can be found-
Sometimes in big things,
But more often in the minuscule:
Like stickers from teachers-
"Good job!" "Well done!"
And you see you did just one thing
Right.
Finding a sweet mint
Tucked in the pocket of grandmas purse-
And knowing she wouldn't mind
If you took it.
Happiness lives in fuzzy socks-
When you feel like your feet
Are being given a long hug
By a teddy bear.
Travel size shampoos, too-
So small, yet yielding limitless
Wonderful and soapy scents.
Bouncy ***** for merely a quarter-
That seemed as though
They could bounce higher than the sun.
The pure euphoria of
A wall of scented candles-
Uncapping each and taking in the
Peach, caramel, linens, blueberry,
And countless other imaginative aromas.
Buttons and bubbles-
Such cute words
For such cute objects
Small and round and full of laughter.
Above all else,
Happiness is derived from the
People
That make you who you are,
And the simple smiles they give you
Day after day
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
So I cut my hair
And changed my barbells
Switched out my hoop
And bought new clothes
Rearranged my room
Changed shampoos
But still I feel the same
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 7:27 PM UTC
It’s unique to everyone.
Maybe it’s rain,
or the ocean.
Gasoline
or coffee.
How about fresh linens
or cinnamon apples?
You could smell new books
or old books,
fresh parchment,
cotton candy,
or bubble gum.
Maybe it’s chocolate,
or fruits,
or mint toothpaste for you.
How about flowers -
lavender
lilies
roses
daisies?
Carnival foods
like funnel cake,
and hot dogs.
Or air fresheners
that smell like erupting volcanoes.
New cars,
or ancient forests,
castles filled with only the finest
or abandoned ruins.
Things burning,
fresh-cut grass,
strong or subtle perfumes,
or maybe sterile hospital rooms.
If you’re into it, sweaty athletes,
or band kids,
or comic shops
where you can play your favorite card games.
Is it your room?
Your house?
Is it home?
Where you belong.
Curled up next to someone you love
on Halloween,
reading or watching a movie,
realizing this is what you were missing.
Is it makeup,
or hairspray?
Certain shampoos that trigger happiness?
Or candles with the best scent ever?
How about baking –
cookies
brownies
cakes?
Maybe it’s cologne,
or the smell of the air
as it changes from familiar to foreign.
It could be a theme park,
or the mountains.
How about old forts,
and rivers you grew up around?
You know these smells,
the ones you love.
Well, that’s my favorite.
It’s the smell of love.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 12:53 PM UTC
mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mm
in a swirl of
cards, spoons, cereals,
books, brooms, thermometers,
laundry, photos, flipflops,
knives, gifts, rollerblades,
dishes, yogurts, candy,
catfood, homework, pajamas,
cartons of milk, tickets,
money, toys, sweaters,
hats, bags, sandwiches,
phones, pants, messages,
icecreams, umbrellas, lunches,
handcrafts, letters, bottles,
breakfasts, shampoos, succus
and tattarrattat
this
little bitty pretty one
is lost
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:34 AM UTC
I love, I love, I love poetry
more than acting, more than making films.
your ego reeks of ****
because you keep looking at me like that.
your ego reeks of ****
because it’s your favorite smell.
your ego reeks of ****
because my ego reeks of ****
we are just mirrors,
wreaking of ****
washing, cleansing,
but the smell never goes away.
the **** you love
is the **** I used to love when I was a kid.
all trends are patterns
repeating, repeating, repeating.
I love, I love, I love poetry,
and it reeks of ****
so hard to clean,
but **** isn’t what makes me sick.
it’s the thought of it
being like that forever.
my friend once told me:
if it smells weird, if it smells good—
the smell only lasts for ten seconds.
so even though your breath reeks of ****
that will change.
oh, you thought I was finished?
we no longer smell of ****
we smell of the best soaps and shampoos
products available in our area.
(that happens to be Safeguard—
this is not sponsored,
but I always wanted a sponsorship.)
this is a poem, by the way.
stream of consciousness,
dictated through my voice,
since I forgot about this feature.
the ego does not smell like ****
the ego has no smell.
what smells is your breath,
and that shall pass.
all shall pass.
as I pass on the baton
to the next muse of my inspiration,
I want to say:
your ego no longer reeks of ****
but if it does, just wait ten minutes.
oh, you thought I was joking?
one more thought:
your ego reeks of ****
because your ego exists.
delete.
oops.
not sure if I’m using this properly.
anyway, I’m not going to edit this poem.
your ego smells like ****
because I made it smell like ****
your ego can smell good if it wants—
like daffodils, cinnamon rolls,
whatever your imagination comes up with.
but I’m too tired to think
of what smells good besides soap.
so I guess that’s my favorite.
as spoken once:
roses really smell like boo-boo
—Andre 3000, OutKast.
once we realize
everybody’s ego reeks of ****
we also realize
we can make our ego smell like soap.
and that is the end of the poem
(for now)
unless I come up with something else.
this is stream of consciousness—
this is my poetry collection—
and yes,
I’m a poet writing about a poet
writing poems about ****
that’s not the point.
the point is:
if your ego smells like ****
you have a lot of life to live—
for better or worse.
and my ego reeks of ****
the more I write this poem,
but it won’t
once I finish it.
so as I bid you farewell,
I say:
I am no Shakespeare.
I am no Oscar Wilde.
I am Andy Denson.
The next great poet of the world.
And even if I’m not, I don’t care.
Because at least—
my ego doesn’t reek of ****
Mar 16, 2025
Mar 16, 2025 at 5:10 AM UTC
Sometimes, you gotta just sit
on the bathroom floor for a while.
Because,
that’s where you got ready for
sleepovers with the popular girls,
tattooed your finger when you were 15,
started to give up on the world,
and started to believe in it again.
Bumpy tiles beneath you,
leaving red imprints on your upper thighs,
they saw your manic impulses
and sluggish lows,
they saw your meltdowns
before dance class,
and moments of privatized shame
after knocking over a vase
at your own house party.
The walls have changed over the years,
the floors have been
tile and ceramic and hardwood,
but a bathroom is a bathroom -
your own personal echo chamber,
or a makeshift confessional,
whatever you may need.
Jan 16, 2020
Jan 16, 2020 at 4:10 PM UTC