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Of death
the barber
the barber
talked to me

cutting my
life with
sleep to trim
my hair—

It’s just
a moment
he said, we die
every night—

And of
the newest
ways to grow
hair on

bald death—
I told him
of the quartz
lamp

and of old men
with third
sets of teeth
to the cue

of an old man
who said
at the door—
Sunshine today!

for which
death shaves
him twice
a week
V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,

Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,

Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,

Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.
Ma Cherie Aug 2016
She don't like her eggs all runny
she thinks crossin' her legs is funny
she looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter bunny
she's my baby
I'm her honey
Never Gonna Let Her Go

He ain't got laid in a
Month of Sundays
I caught him once
and he was sniffin' my ******
he ain't too sharp but he gets things done drinks beer like it's oxygen
and he's my baby
I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go

In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sitting on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
We're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothin'
but a big ol'  Hearts
dancin' in our eyes

she thinks all my jokes are corny
convict movies make her *****
she likes ketchup with her scrambled eggs swears like a sailor when
she shaves her legs
she takes a lickin'
she keeps on tickin'
I'm never going to let her go

He's got more ***** than
A Big Brass Monkey
he's a whacked-out ******
and a love bug ******
Sly as a fox
crazy as a loon
when payday comes
he's howlin' at the moon
he is my baby
and I don't mean maybe
I'm never going to let him go

In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sittin' on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
we're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothing
but big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes

In Spite of Ourselves

Written by John Prime
Cherie Nolan- A favorite wedding tune
I couldn't do any better this song to me is perfection, I couldn't say more... so fun and poignant... :) Song by John Prine and Iris DeMent see https://youth.be/fRb1h989_jk adorable video! For a couple who married today and my good friend Angie. :)
Bonkers? BONKERS?! Bonkers you say?!
I'll be completely wonkers for it is written upon my grave.
Until the moon turns to sun and the bearded woman shaves
Bonkers and wonkers until my final day.

Loud? LOUD?! Loud you say?!
I'll be forever loud for being quiet is a shame.
To whisper is to keep secrets and secrets shouldn't be said!
If not loud, then silence! Silent like the dead. 

Stay loud, and bonkers, and wonkers, and silent
Be afraid to be public and amusingly private
Stay creepy, and hushed, and awkward, and such
I promise you'll like it.
Very, very much.
kirk Mar 2019
A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving
Raj Arumugam Oct 2013
everybody shaves
so Warren Buffet invests in Gillette;
and every country drinks
so he also buys Coke shares -
which leads me to my own investment strategy

Every human sheds forty thousand
skin cells an hour
That’s forty thousand cells times 7 billion humans
each hour–
you listening? -
now that’s a lot of dust;
and not to forget the many cultures and nations
that cremate rather than bury
and that releases from each body in the barbecue
1.6 trillion cells of dust -
it’s a ****** dusty world, isn’t it?
so…I’ve got it all worked out…
*I’m investing in vacuum cleaners…
WARNING: The author cannot be held accountable for any investment insights you may extract from the poem. The author is also not to be held accountable for the veracity of any fact(s) you may pilfer from the poem for use in your hugely overdue The Human Body, Science Project. Proceed at your own risk.
SøułSurvivør May 2015
~~~

The unsung heroes
They work every day
Without complaint
At a job with low pay.

There are not many are out there
Who place their laurels
On the person who's right
But ends a quarrel.

It takes a person
Internally strong
To accept a defeat
And say they were wrong!

Those little things matter!
But don't get much ink
Like the husband who shaves
And cleans up the sink!

The mother who picks up
The toys from the stairs
The wife who cleans drains
And removes the hair.

The child who sees
That grandma is old
And therefore replaces
The toilet roll!

The boyfriend who remembers
The day of first date
A girl who pays dutch
To help out her mate.

Remember that you
Are needed and wanted!
So many small tasks
Are taken for granted.

At last the bell
Is taken and rung
For the persons who do this...

... *the heroes unsung.
SoulSurvivor
5/11/2015


And thanks to all the people
Who comment and repost
Even when they are not read!
I don't have a lot of time
Right now... I wish I could read
More. You folks really matter to me!

~~~
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,
“**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.

Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
This delusional concept of dressing up in your finest threads just to sit in some quiet, ridiculously-named, fancy establishment that has four walls and a few toilets and neatly-folded napkins, spotless silverware, and an overly-priced menu just to talk about some ******* that you pulled out of your *** when your arm was being stretched to the max trying to reach for the stack of crisp twenties that the ATM viciously spat at you is simply ****** up.

Yeah… that’s what I thought until I met her.

You know, “the one.”

The one that all the guys say you’re ***** whipped about.

That one.

She has her **** together. She is driven, goal-oriented, smart, funny, and **** in that hippie/bohemian kinda way, except that she wears deodorant and shaves her legs.

She even shaves….ha! I’ll stop. I’m just toying with ya. But she does shave.

She even has dimples, man.

Dimples.

And guess who the lucky ******* is that has the best table in the house sitting directly across from her, staring into those brown, puppy eyes??

My ***.

Then, without warning, this horrible, invasive, mood-altering, uncanny, uncouth, *******-of-a-question barges right in.  It asks, “How did you end up with her??”

Suddenly I find myself in a western movie, and this bow-legged ******* walks in asking for me.  The double doors behind him swing back and forth in rapid motion.  I don’t want to cause a ruckus, so I do what any real gentleman does: take it outside and settle it High Noon style.  I stare into his eyes (they’re brown too, but not like hers), and his eye lids begin to slightly twitch.  I draw my pistol from my hip and shoot him right between those eyes; blow the smoke away from the heated barrel; spin my pistol around a few times; and in the holster it goes.

Problem solved.

She and I start jawing after the waiter with the long rod lodged in his *** goes to fetch our excessively-priced wine.
I swear he said his name is Skip or Kip or… ah who cares?
I continue staring into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world.
She begins to tell me about her bittersweet day, so I cross my arms and lean in a little. All my focus is on her and of course her **** mouth too.
God, she has beautiful lips….
She’s telling me about her day at work – at the vet, that is.
She’s a veterinarian.
Anyway, there’s this little black-and-white, speckled miniature dachshund named Teagan that has been staying at the vet for a few months now, and it’s made a full recovery.
She’s telling me this story with such great passion and zeal, but she’s frowning.
This wealthy, elderly couple adopted it today, and Teagan is gone.
She grabs my hand and apologizes for being such a “downer”.

“I sorry,” she says in one of those baby voices.

Is that a pouty lip???

**** Me...

Did I really just witness a pouty lip form before my very eyes??

Did she actually just talk like a baby???

Plain and simple, I don’t stand for that cutesy, baby *******, that pathetic material pedaled by those chumps who pull that “good guys come last” crap.  

She’s awkwardly staring at me.

Before she can utter a single word, I bolt out of my chair, telling her that I’m suddenly feeling ill and need to use the restroom.

I whip around without looking and bump into our waiter who is bringing us our wine.  It spills all over his pearly, white jacket.

He grabs my arm to break his fall, but we both hit the ground hard, right on our backs too.  

All eyes are on me.

It’s dead, ******* silent. You could hear a mouse ****.

What do I say?  

I can’t just make a dash for the door without saying anything.

My mind is completely frozen, and I lie here, trembling.

Suddenly, my lips begin to part.

The words wiggle their way out of that tiny space between my lips.

“I sorry.”



. . .

.  .  .

.   .   .  

**** me.
Lawrence Hall Jul 2017
Sixth Mass Extinction

Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn

-The Guardian

The headmaster has shaved his head egg-smooth
Shifted his hair to the point of his chin
And his sunshades to the top of his scalp
His petrol-station SAS sunshades

He often boasts he doesn’t even own a tie
And hasn’t read a book since Upper-Sixth
Something transgender post-colonial
About Guevara (who is on his tee)

Not a form master, but a master of forms
A way-cool disciple of Ofsted norms


Variant for the American Market

Sixth Mass Extinction

Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn

-The Guardian


Like, you know, the principal shaves his head

Like, absolutely, ***

Got him a goatee, like, actually

Cheap gas-station Official USA Navy Seals™® shades, mannnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Not cool, ***, actually

I had to help him with the big words in Goodnight, Moon

Absolutely, like

Yosemite Sam™® on his faunky ol’ tee

His office has, like, stuffed fish and, like, football pictures, like, and his Dallas Cowboys™® baseball cap, like, actually
Jordan Gee Feb 2021
I miss my old hair clippers
I had them since before I got sober.
at the rehab near Philly, I would trade rollies for head shaves
until I learned that I could shave my own head without a mirror.
that was ok with me,
I saved on tobacco but I still had my cup and bowl out.
like an anchorite begging for alms by the road side.
some 3000 shaves of the head later and I don’t need a mirror
for much anymore.
I set the old clippers aside and I don't know where they went to.

When I wake up the sun is going down.
I do my shopping beneath the cold chalice of the moonlight,
cold glistening, somehow still reflecting of the Sun
even though
I said goodbye from
my window to the early evening dawn
9 hours before the burning
of the midnight oil.
I chant and ring my bells
so I don’t drift back to sleep.
but I can still smell sulfur so I
Aum and pray and ring the bells a little louder.

I found God on the carpet once.
It only took me 14 hours to pick through
every crystalline crumb that glistened in the kitchen light.
the next morning I had a half soup spoon full of the Almighty
but the hook and the plunger swallowed Him whole
and with haste turned me back to dust.

sometimes I’ll make a to-do list
with every strike of the pen another performance for
the bushels and the bones,
I like grocery shopping at night.
normally there are only a few souls and
old drifters wandering about and
they usually keep their eyes pointed down.
sometimes I practice small talk
with the clerk,
endeavoring to exchange appropriate
amounts of eye contact throughout.
personalities and performances and
I am so tired of caring.

when I’m waking up the sun is going down
but monica gave me a hand full of vitamin D and
a fire in the hearth and
sometimes the world
Is like a seven pointed centrifuge.
the heavy particles are all hitting the
chalice walls and I’m spinning so fast
all I can do is look up and breathe.

The swallows are singing swooping for the
Black Madonna and the Popes of the white smoke.  

God jumps from the sky to the spoon to the corkscrew
and L/L research put up a new tweet:
more from Hatonn about the bitter wine, and
this being quite a dense illusion for the thickness of the veiling,
and the chakras being tuned like strings on a harp
to be plucked by the Hands of the Creator.

This isn’t the density of knowing
as faith is the evidence for things unseen.
I’m still half blind but I can hear them chanting and
I’m just this side of single pointed thought but
facebook keeps breaking my ****** attention.
so I stand here
awoken to  the sun going down over the highway
and the snakes winding up my spine
and a mouth full of Vitamin D.
kundalini rising
cosmo naught Aug 2013
Smooth and sure,
like he shaves with Ockham's razor,
he's knocking on her door
at 2 AM.

What's more
is you'd think that it would phase her,
but she walks right down the stairs
to let him in.
Wally du Temple Dec 2016
I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.
This is a narative prose poem that emerged from the experienced of a sailor's voyage.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
Like the chef who hates to eat
The playwright who cannot act,
The clothing designer, a nudist,
The brave hero, so shy, a stammerer,
The musician, a deaf mute,
The architect, who live in a tent,
I am a writer who hates to type, for his fingers disconnect his eyes, his brain his insane

I am the father, who knows not his own children,

I am the man who hates to shave, and shaves twice daily,

The man who knows nothing of nature, but writes
in and of it constantly.                                                      ­

The man beset by endless money worries,
Who gives his capital away to charity in increments of thousands,

I am the man that never passes a street beggar,
Even the obvious frauds,
Without giving them a bill, and a god bless you,

I am the man that would gladly die young whose
Mother lived to ninty eight and gene'd up him good,

I don't know what you want from me.

I write to please. But I seem incapable of
Giving, paving streets with words you what u want to hear.

Moon, June, pill, ****, me me me be crap on this

I am the chef who cannot cook
The nudist ashamed of his body
The stammered into silence
The mute who screams inside till deaf with frustration
I writer of thin air, the unfair. I know not what
You want of me.

But I weep with frustration at the paucity of my expression,
Good god my final destination not close enough

In the hands of strangers, rejection
In mine own, verbal strangulation
Even

Whatever

Is
Insufficiently
Disdainful

Painful
I cannot give you enough of/if me to satisfy

What is it you want from me

I will write to displease

Why not do
What I do best
Anyway
Secure that this voice
Is lost among the voices
Answering

*whatever
I composed the anti-hallelujah

Are these verses, curses
about Depression
our mutual acquaintance,
or just research notes for further followup,
part two of a pas de deux, and,
did you go this time, too far,
or still not far enough?

Is this why you have deserted me?
Got Guanxi May 2016
peanut butter and jelly


smooth crunch,
dilapidated layers,
crushed into,
nuts and margarine,
it seems those screams,
in dreams are clarity,
in reality,
whispers of margins,
so close,
shaves and wavy days,
charging in %’s in head rests,
pieces left in indents of you,
on the mattress.
The fact is,
subjective to the
context of sparks,
ignited by espionage,
rubber gloves,
the ****** scope,
from afar,
how did we cope
before they put us together,
in jars.
The antithesis,
of all we can be.
Weak at the knees.
Peanut butter and jelly,
ready to eat.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
CLOSE SHAVE

Always her fascination
with me

shaving.

This her early morning ritual
observing each action

as if it were
holy.

I hide my face
in foam.

“Santa Claus! Santa Claus! ”
she chants

winces with delight
as the razor

(she gulps)

goes over my bump
without slicing it off.

The shaving uncovers the me she knows.

“Soft…soft! ”

“Mr. Daddy Soft Soft! ”

she gurgles
in a lather of laughter.

“Me now…now me! ”
she pleads with me.

I take the brush
coat her reflection with foam.

I shave her
with the tip of my little finger.

Her reflection sniggers &
she sniggers too.

Later, in the early evening
she appears
bearded in fresh cream.

She shaves herself
with a lollipop stick.

“Me... Daddy now...see! ”

I cha cha cha her
on the tips of my toes

as she clings to my
fingertips

dancing around
the living room.

One delighted
half shaved little girl.

One delighted
soft soft Mr. Daddy.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him
Yes, I have a love poem called Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet, of which, this is an excerpt, and is the After Dinner Desert Conversation conclusion.
She drains me of words
Like at the end of a bath,
And I'm left with the stopper
Dry as a prune
Until I can
Once again
Replenish my thoughts,
Come again
Under my shower
But I'm just a mist
Lightly saturating
Her once more
Like the moisturizer after
But she shaves and dries
It all off,
What of it all
Has she absorbed?
I can't be coke
Left to go flat
Crushed soda pop can
In the sun
Unable to redeem myself,
Won't you give me a nickel
For my love?

APAD13 - 131 © okpoet
Clay Face Nov 2020
The one who’s behind you is the one you love.
Something else calls you’re name, tickles your ear.
But what happened to the intuition of what was and is so true?
Ticks on your shoulders, did they wait for you?
Left you in corruption, an unsound view.

The trade is so strong, kills your brawn but what can you do? The pain never ends, when no one wins, you can only die in this life. The paper god on your tongue melts you into glue.

It’s agonizing as you bind the world.
Nothing splits you but your pulled by all.
Reality stretches your skin, your mind loses sight and you’re paranoid. It will never end.

And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends

A woman evolves from the colors on the wall.
Strange and hairy, lament grows as her fur.
Scintillating messages of life and death they call.
Who am I, and who are you?
I’m speaking in tenses contradictory to a single point of view.
I can hear her scream, as she shaves her pits.
So beautiful it serenades my mind and scars my eyes.

I’ll never have her, and she dissolves into the bars of this cell again. I’m coming down or I’m blasting off, so hard to tell when god digests so well. Release my mind. It will never end.

And it never ends
And it never ends
And it never ends

Pierced skin, stained skin, ripped skin, all over her.
She’s broken and odd, but so close to me, I can’t help but connect.
The cover of her book is blank and new.
Pages are torn and ******, nothing to awe but still novel inside.

It drains me as it’s end never finds an end.
I can’t belong here when I’m rinsed of life and I dry as glue.
Bound and confound I can’t decide what voice to choose.
You’re on the right and I’m on the left, in the middle is me and we are you.
The nurse draws a bath and I am rinsed.
Drooling in comatose they wipe your lip.
Who new god had a price and came in a sheet.
That little square is the key to become like me.
So free from what’s contrived when you can’t decide the difference in truth.

The days go by and the years turn to seconds.
The nurse whispers in our ear, your mother is here and we start to cry. She holds our hand.
And it ends.

And it ends
And it ends

It ends.
Holly Salvatore Jul 2013
You know how in the movies
Cary Grant got away with
Everything? Like in Charade
He tricked Audrey Hepburn

Into helping him and went by
Peter, Alex, Joshua, each time
She learned his "real" name
Thought "I know him now and

I could love him better than he's
Ever been. He will never lie to
me again." And she dreamed
About his olderman lips and

His olderman hips that had
Certainly been around the block
A few times and definitely knew
A thing or two about the things

Her mother warned her about
She leans into him anyway
The sweeping music begins
The camera pans discreetly

Over to the wall, modesty
Is the best policy afterall
And the next morning he's
Singing in her shower, she's

Finally solved the mystery of
How he shaves in that sensual
Chin dimple get a woman to
Do it for him, she's weak in the

Knees thinking about her hand
On the razor and getting weaker
When he saves her from Walter
Matthau's evil clutches and James

Coburn, the other villains are long
Forgotten so they live happily ever
After and sing together in the shower
For about a week until she learns he's

Someone else. Not even Peter, Alex,
Joshua, so many men he's forgotten
He leaves her crying holding the
Straight razor in her forlorn little

Fingers. He was just a guy named
Arthur who charmed her with a
Funny accent then walked out the
Door and ran up her water bill like
A cad
Charade is a good movie. I'm trying some new things with spacing. Bear with me.
Michael John Aug 2018
i


zowie doodles
maisie may
mali the bad
lily lu lu
and tommy tune..

ii

i recall thursday
in cold blowy bushes
hopeless
and late victorian

chairs..

a rather shoddy future
which got worse
helpless
victorian morals

and worse

and what then
a succession of
error
a word a curse!
woe to us!

silver platters..

but upon
my hairy shoulder
youth laughed
but a aways
harsh

wastrels!

and you think
and you think
timeless ways
and suddenly
i was 30..

jesus..

an elephant in
glass
unemployable ant
boats and stoats
and factory
malaise..

wish..

work in progress..
the seconds digress
like love and stars
not even a war

go fish!

a dance with a
great magical
door
called wishes..

and then 40..!

son,beware the
cat lady
beware
the graceful

smiles..and
whipped 20
by
or be

since..

and strange things
like comets
come and go
by

which

if character been
fate
is
typical..

of me..

as forecast by
teachers and towns
but unknown
music

grin down..

and by golly
close shaves
around corners
stuff and poetry..

some round..

lithe plain
and of course
why
not made a million

yet

but all
is
still
a sweet card..

a great winding
returning
empty while
of some

shiny circle..
Devin Ortiz Jan 2017
Dripping sweat, from the days slaving away
Carving, the blood and frustration into a mask

Each chip, which shaves and thins, is paid in flesh
This facade can capture many faces, or no face at all

But when placed upon the brow, the craftsman disappears
For in this tribute to false faces, the true being surfaces

I have never known myself, until I dawned this mask
I breathe air which has never been my own, I am alive.
aviisevil Oct 2014
NOTE: this is a surreal story I'm attempting to write in a disguise of a children's tale but progressively with a darker undertone to it, I want to create a magical but yet confusion world where things don't make sense and then try to decode it, I'm afraid I might lose interest once again if I don't get the motivation, inspiration and right amount of critics to guide me, thank you. ( beginnings are always boring but keep your eyes open)

'THE SOMEWHERE LAND'


{ prologue }

Mister Simons was an old man of eighty four,
A very peculiar personality-
Hung his own impending obituary by the blue door.
He was having these visions lately;
A fat man beating him with his own cane outside the local store,
He wondered if it was merely a dream or if that had happened before.
Quiet frankly, he didn't remember much about his past anymore.
It's fair to say it happens to most of us when we grow old.
He lived at the end of the street,
By a house that was burned to the ground when he was only four.
Some say it is haunted,
Others say ghosts don't exist in the age of modern science anymore.
Whatever the case is-
It's clear that mister Simons never had any problem with his neighbor.
Though one time he did complain about someone breaking his mirror-
But that's maybe the work of mischievous kids living down the street.
They always cause trouble for him with many ***** deeds,
That's why mister Simons respectfully filed a case against them-
But lost and could never make them leave.
There is also a rumored dog that lives in his house but no one has heard or seen him in a while.
Some speculate that he has died.
Though, mister Simons is sometimes caught buying dog food at the local grocery store,
The one's who think mister Simons dog is just an old fancy myth say-
It's him for who it is for.
That's a very nasty charge against mister Simons-
But no one can ever dare to ask him.
Only once in the neighborhood history someone tried to approach mister Simons,
But off-course, he didn't let him in.
Mister Simons has a few problems of his own,
A few plants have began to sprout out of his skin.
He has an allergy to flowers,
so he daily shaves them off from within.
Miss molly down the lane is the only one to have ever spoken to him-
And claims she saw him grin.
Some say it was just a trick of light-
Others have a more horrid view and claim she is lying,
And she'll go to hell for this sin.
Mister Simons father built that house around the time he was born,
No one's really sure of who he is because everyone came there after-
A construction company started building homes.
There are stories that unicorns and dinosaurs roamed the land-
They were on a friendly terms with mister Simons,
Since he was the only man-
But the construction company men killed them one by one and it was real ugly.
They said it doesn't makes up for an ideal place to raise a family.
Some say mister Simons retreated in the deepest corner inside of him-
After this tragedy.
Others say it's all a lie and there is no construction company in reality.
Those houses were made by little magical dwarfs,
Who have been cursed by the evil witch to provide comfortable homes to humanity.
She eats their babies if they don't comply with the curse-
So, they'll keep on building and serving humans till eternity.
It's a topic of much debate amongst the residents of this street,
No one is really sure of where the other end of their street leads.
It's barricaded by mister Simons house at one corner,
And the screaming lake at the other end.
The history of the lake is also as much in speculation as mister Simons himself.
Some say it was made by the tears of mister Simons,
As he watched the men slaughter his friends and couldn't help.
Others say it was made by the tears of mister Simons,
When he watched his father die in a drought with a thirst he couldn't quell.
One can hear the screams in the dead of every other night,
It is speculated by some that the screams are of the creatures killed by the men screaming still in fright.
It is very difficult to be precise about who is right,
But one thing is for sure-
The lake makes up for a very beautiful sight.


Chapter: 1 - introduction

[I will be your narrator for the rest of the story,
Guiding you through this wonderful adventure with all of its-
Heart-break and glory.]


--

Everything in somewhere land had always been a little strange as far as I could tell,
The lamp-posts by the streets seemed like they were carved out of trees but weren't exactly wood but something entirely else.
Every house except mister Simons house was a bit too pointy in my opinion and were smaller than the other houses I've ever had been in.
It rained everyday sharply at 3'o clock in the daytime and again 3'o clock in the night-time.
The strangest of all were the residents of this peculiar street,
There were ten houses, four of them on one side and four of them on the other side and then there was mister Simons house at the end of the street right next to the burned haunted house.

Mister Richard and misses Molly lived with their only son svain in the house with the placard no. 1 at the beginning of the street. Mister Richard was big and bulky with black hair and blue eyes, he had a very simple face - the kind you can't recognize when you haven't met that person for a long period of time. He was the manager at the local grocery store and proud owner of a brand new double rocket tractor.
Misses Molly too had black hair and blue eyes, she was even taller than her husband and very pale. She was a very beautiful lady with an aura of sophistication around her but was very polite. Oh.. And she didn't knew how to cook.
Svain was an 12 year old with black hair and blue eyes. he wasn't that tall but was skinny which made him look taller than he was. he always wore red color and was moderately popular in school. Some say it was due to the fact he could eat and swim at the same time, an ability passed down generation to generation in his family.

Grandma frey lived with her dog penny in the house with placard no. 2, she was sixty seven years old but looked even older because of a tragic life in which she had to raise twenty children
- one of her own, two from her husband's marriage before, three of her sister who died with her husband when they both ate the poisonous golden plant at the superficial forest, four more were adopted when she took a trip to afro-icca, five more were adopted from a church in some other part of the world when she came across their 'take-a-child and help-the-lord' campaign. She also raised six of her children's - children but sadly one of them died when it tried to sing and eat at the same time.


Mister and misses Hailey lived in the house with placard no. 3. They were a family of four completed by their son owkwarld and daughter shinying. Owkwarld was fourteen and was speculated to be a bully at the local school, he was big and fat like all the other bullies ever lived and maintained his diet by stolen lunches. He had blonde hair and dark eyes with some freckles around his nose and always wore a cap no matter how windy it was. Shinying was eleven and tiny and cute and caring. She cared for everyone and was ready to help anyone in need. She too had blonde hair and blue eyes but a milky smooth complexion and always wore a smile on her face no matter how windy it could get. She was also a thief when it came to shiny things.


Mister bubbles and misses soapy lived in the house with placard no. 4, they pretty much kept to themselves. They had no social lives as of yet because they had no children and children are must to have a decent social lives in somewhere land unless you are old, dying or out-going and friendly.


Uncle paperazi lived in the house with the placard no. 5, he had white hair and a white beard, he was thin and always wore a black lab coat. He always kept to himself and made things made of paper - like paper beds and paper tables, paper cushions and paper toothbrushes. He couldn't sell a single item all of these years because they came with no guarantee or warranty whatsoever.


Darc and Ulla were the latest residents of the house with placard no. Six, they moved in after the yolo family left after feeling they weren't really important. Darc was tall and Ulla was short, Darc wore a smile and Ulla wore a frown. Darc had a job and Ulla stayed at home. Darc ate the food and Ulla cooked the food. Darc made jokes and Ulla washed the clothes. Darc was a man and Ulla was a woman.


Cofeetea and barcandy moved to the house with placard no. 7 around the time 'Dracula' was released all across the country with much hype and was proved to be a disaster. Cofeetea was sweet and barcandy even sweeter though the excess of them could really make anyone dizzy.


Dhornie - a singleton, lived by herself in the house with placard no. 8 for a long time now, she was a middle-aged twenty nine year old woman who had moved to the street when she was only eighteen to find the one true love of her life, some say she has a crush on Dracula
Notes (optional)
Tim Knight Jan 2014
for Beginners*

imagine a disposable razor
on the oldest face you know,
deteriorated and dropped,
the sun's shadow in the cropped crowd

               we forget he's there sometimes, they'll say.
               he always shaves on a Sunday, they'll pray.
               the dog died not long back, some'll whisper.

imagine a week's worth of beard
down a plug hole, some bits black
some bits gray,
some bits there 'cos he pressed a little hard that day

                              we forgot he was there, they'll say.
                              he always shaved on a Sunday, they'll pray.
                              only a week ago he went, some'll whisper.

imagine no one holding your hand
down the stairs, across the road, into
cheap 24 hour corner shops,
imagine no one holding your hand when it matters,

                                               or mattered.
www.coffeeshoppoems.com
Akemi Jul 2013
Boneless city
How did I never see you waver in my youth?
Ignorant of the tilt and the blows dealt on day-to-day walks
Stepping into bruises, slamming into ****** grit

Boneless street
You bring my head all the closer to the ground
All the further from the clouds
From all your round about; circular, ocean mouth
Shark-toothed belly ache
You find yourself insatiate

Quaint, the flesh of a dying city
The concrete simmer, the metallic retreat
The dust in lieu of blanket smog
No fractures with all struts gone
Only a once inflation, reduced flat
A stranger finding himself within
Wading liquid glass that shaves off chunks
Of everything, but the lack
11:00pm, July 11th 2013

Why fill me with such expectations in my childhood? Some obligatory naivety, formed from brittle struts-white lies and improbable dreams.
THIS MUSIC HEALS THE WORLD

LIKE THERE ARE PEOPLE STABBING ONE ANOTHER

THAT IS SO ****** WRONG

THERE ARE PEOPLE BUYING GUNS TO TORTURE CAFES

THERE ARE PROBLEMS PEOPLE HAVE WITH OTHER PEOPLE IN THE MALL

THERE ARE SO MANY SCHOOLS BEING RAMRAIDED AND KIDS LOSING
THEIR LIVES

HEAL THE WORLD, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE

WE DON'T WANT FACTORIES GETTING BURNT

OR PEOPLE FIGHTING IN BARS, OR GOING INTO CAFES

OR BLASTED, TERRORIST ATTACKS, NO ASSONISTS

HEAL THE WORLD BETTER FOR YOU AND FOR ME

TO MEND EACJ BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS

OH YEAH I WANT PEOPLE TO RESPECT AS BUDDHA TELLS YA

YA SEE, PEOPLE BLAME THE PROBLEMS ON RELIGION

BUT BUDDHISM ISN'T A RELIGION, IT'S A WAY OF SAYING

MEND OUR BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATERS TO MEND EACH BLADE OF GRASS

TOO MANY WRONGDOERS

PEOPLE KILLING INNOCENT CHILDREN, CAUSE THEY HAVE ***
AND CAN'T CONTROL THEM, SO THEY **** THEM

THAT IS SO WRONG,

HEAL THE WORLD, PLEASE BUDDHA, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE
FOR EARTH AND THE COSMIC WORLD, YEAH THE ENTIRE

HUMAN RACE, DEAD OR ALIVE

PEOPLE DIE, BUT THEY DON'T END THEIR LIFE

THE SUFFERING HAS LEFT THEIR BODY, MAN FOR ME AND FOR YOU

UMMMMMM   STOP PEOPLE TORTURING FACTORIES

UMMMMMM STOP PEOPLE GETTING ******* WITH PEOPLE BY STABBING EACH OTHER




UMMMMMMMM  HELP PEOPLE UNDERSTAND PEACE NOT WAR IN ANY RELIGION

UMMMMMMMM SEND RAIN TO ANY FIRE IN EACH CONTINENT ON EARTH

UMMMMMMM   LET PEOPLE UNDERSTAND BEING NICE CAN COME AT A PRICE
CAUSE UNFORTUNATELY NICE COMES AT A PRICE OF LOSING LOVED ONES

HERE'S TO YOU MR BARRY ALLAN, YOU WERE A GOOD FATHER
SO CRONUS WHO IS ME, MADE JIMMY BARNES YOUR GRANDFATHER
UMMMMMMM TAKE DADS OLD FOGIE OFF THE STREETS, UNLESS, IT IS
THE NICE LOVING OLD FOGIE THAT DAD WAS

CAUSE THE WORLD NEEDS

HEAL THE WORLD, MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE
FOR YOU AND ME AND THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE
DON'T WORRY ABOUT PEOPLE TEASING
JUST TAKE IT LIKE A MAN, BUDDY
HEAL THE WORLD FOR YOU AND FOR ME

BRIGHT EYES, BURNING LIKE FIRE
WAS A SCHOOL CHUMS FAVE SONG, GIVES ME MEMORIES OF SCHOOL
I TEASED PETER MACLACHLAN CAUSE HE LISTENED TO THE
TEACHERS SAYING HIT SECONG
HITTING SECOND CAN GET YOU INTO HOT WATER
I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT
BUT HE LIKED THE SONG BRIGHT EYES, NOTHING WRONG
THAT'S WHY I KNOW I AM GREAME THORNE AND PATRICK DUNBAR
BOTH KILLED AT 8, I ALWAYS KNEW THAT I HAD TO BE CAREFUL
BUT TEASING PETER MACLACHLAN ABOUT LISTENING TO TEACHERS
WAS FUN, BUT HE LIKED BRIGHT EYES, I LIKE THAT SONG TOO
BUT HE WAS A REAL REAL GEEK

I AM A COMPUTER GEEK, THAT IS MY ONLY GEEK
I AM AN ARTIST AND WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER

I BELIEVE IN BUDDHISM AND REINCARNATION

HEAL THE WORLD STOP ALL THE VIOLENCE YEAH
AND MAKE EVERYONE A VERY HAPPY SOUL
HEAL THE WORLD
UNLEASH THE PEACE
GET RID OF RIGHT WING GOVERNMENTS WHO INFLICT VIOLENCE
WITHOUT KNOWING,
MAKE THE EARTH A PEACEFUL PLACE FOR YOU AND FOR ME

I DON'T WANNA END UP IN A GRAVE,
I WANNA BE A MAN WHO VERY SELDOM SHAVES

GO WITH THAT WORLD
Lucius Furius Jul 2017
Death!
seems y've won;
body's resistance,
all worn down.
  
Flirted in Oberlin ('68):
frozen in headlights;
jump left --
or right?
  
West Virginia.
Kinda teased ya:
One-brake bike on
truck-filled highway ('71).
  
Asleep at wheel
('77, Tennessee),
drove off road --
pillar or cliff . . .
woulda been dead.
  
Suicidal,
love-hope lost.
Asking for
oblivious embrace --
you scorned me
('79, Illinois).
  
Full of cancer
(hospital, now).
Ready for cold kiss,
end-pain.
You're a knockout!
Let's dance.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_033_shaves.MP3 .
Onoma Jun 2018
city heat in hard

black attire, superconductive

glow of a serpent chasing

its tail.

asphalted lay of holy land--

whose bedraggled pulse snorts

in ****** laughter.

roadside augurs fester while

tying the laces of traffic, through

passed out archways.

bird's beaks are broken open,

in mad waterless monologues.

as the nucleus of this wizened apple,

casts oblique shadows... for curly cue-ing worms

flirtatious doom.

sped billboards imminently flattening the world,

under a Columbus-blue sky.

going, going...gone!

ice cream trucks mangle dueling theme

songs, sloughed off by sensational tides of kids.

distraction's lustful lick, an informationless

tombstone busy with curves.

here, whole-body shaves of renouncement...

and steady showers of salt, will make

worthy the truest Himalayan meditation.

— The End —