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Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
I

Angry stupors succumb her sternum
                                          --battered cavities
                             and shoulder sockets.
   Mates with shotguns and pitchforks
           snapped femur bones holding to hope,
  cat nap toes struggling
                                            to climb the miserable

  The greatest beasts reverberate
                        --Fathom and Torrential/Alice & Skippy,
                                       & Orwell and Bukowski
   with pit mentality swarming
                            her literature
                            his neck.                   Never be the Republics.

     The wall is wood and bare. Ammonia wet seal--
              
            Alice, with her sweet, clawing voices sees
                          this escape is a prison.
        The dove sent to fetch Peace's growth
                  got stuck                                     in the chimney
                             that Skippy built with his stubbornness.

     Alice touches her tacked on remnants
                       --feeling the double home.
                                  Skippy stands still unless Alice calls
     for him
                  and he runs so fast with heart halves beating
                                                                ­       slow.

   *II


           Skippy looks down the abyss and sees Julius Caesar,
                    Cthulhu, and a black flag
     calling back for ceremony
                                 in honor of facilitating fear
                        holding tears
                                   and hugs with arms of falsehood.

    Providing bread for mothers and fathers,
            captors of our tables of silence.
       Fear--making dead witnesses into no soft music,

                                                         ­  no music.
                                                          ­       No,
                                                             ­  facilitators near the top.
                                              What the minds of men
                                                             ­                have done to him...

III

                            Wet paper skin,
                       flat screen canvases--cute satisfactions
                                  asked mean all the world
      but yet                                nothing              but petty questions
                                                       ­                              that break the camel's back.

   "Do I deserve to do this to you?" Skippy asks,
                  helping Alice remove her other lung.
   "Pages will tell babblers later
                           in history", Alice replies.                   Shrieking

    Skippy quarters Alice, the body, the organism's pillow
                    ink
                    oozes
        ­     and    
                             squirms.
Silence,
               as Skippy does the deed.
Wallowing
          back
into
           the
swamp
            of
obsessive
           perception,                        climatic disintergration
                                                 ­                   makes flint hit steel--making another heir
                                                            ­                                       in her litter. Her name is Pain.


IV

       Loving Alice
                           watches         as she falls,
                                                    crashe­s,
                                                and rises.
She smiles softly.


V


  softly with lips of jasmine, the butterfly conundrum is strapping
            fingers made of chalk and other media to
red bricks,
red bells,
it is but a ghost of a casket. She breathes in this casket--in the belly of a bell, she survives.

                                     It doesn't take her long
            to finish
                          what she has done
         --nails faded back to purple polish.

  Falling through her father's philosophy                         a ladder,
                                                         ­                                    a rope
                                         to strangle the blade of Lady Macbeth's sanity.
          Alice takes one last look
  under jasper eyelids--pulls the rope & becomes lactic.
                                                         ­              A motion film.
Julie Grenness Apr 2017
Here in Oz, they're banning fairy tales,
Indeed, a giggle did not fail,
Children's lit must be correct politically,
Here's the new style ode for thee,
Listen up and you shall see.
Skippy has two mummies,
Their boyfriends spat the dummies,
Now Skippy's mums got preg,
Their boyfriends did renege,
So along came little Skippy,
Hopping off to eat Mr. Whippy,
Yes, totally correct politically,
New fairy tales for the kiddies,
Skippy has two mummies,
Our norms do change, it seems....
Feedback welcome.
Hetti Halloween Oct 2012
I want to save your soul.
This is why I am here.
This is why I'm in this world.

I have no other mission,
But to love You without permission,
Selfishly.

But don't you forget, Skippy,
It's just the moment making me say this,
You are only here for an hour,
Then I turn to something else.

Use your time wisely!
Do not waste it Skippy
Until you are in my heart...
petuniawhiskey Dec 2013
Sweet baby,
split-pea soup.
croissant carbs,
sliced tomato,
onion crisp, and
spinach greens-
ooh avocado,
please!

look out the
kitchen window,
my dog's head in
the compost pit!
"LIBBBBBYY!"
homemade soup on the back-burner

******, scratch it,
there ain't even any
tomatos or onion to
throw on this french
bread!
ohh, but mama,
let's get real,
since when was
there ever any
money for all these
S.Pellegrinos!?

I'm not complaining,
and I know ain't
isn't a word,
but for Christ Sake!
Being home is always
wild.

To sit by the fire,
or to be a free-running
child?

I can't even make lunch
without getting excited,
and documenting my odd
life.

Could have made that Bumble-Bee-
solid white albacore,
or Skippy,
squeeze that Skippy-
it's the skippy you squeeze!
Figured I'd go a little
more home-made today.

How long will it be
'till Mama starts asking
for rent?

All those Doctor bills,
wild insurance-
you slay me!
Mental health,
Hunterdon and Rutland,
you really did me deep.
And to keep paying those
Doctor's with those degrees,
sheesh!

Rode my bike to the TDBank,
to take out the last of what I
had, for Mama.
Talk about hell on two wheels!

So now my choices can be narrowed-
Do I hit the restaurants and do
the night shifts, waitressing in
that filthy grease?
Do I get a portfolio and try to model,
without Mama's approval?
I sure do have one impressive
resume, but this state wants to
take my license away.

My student loans are
in over my head, here
at least there's a futon
and a warm bed.
Chicago means an air mattress and
Vegas screams something I can't really
be too sure about.

I guess it's true, home
is where the heart is.
Home is where my toes
are warm and where my lunch date,
Libby, never leaves my side.

This U-turn situation,
it's not so bad. Yeah, sure,
I was supposed to be in Utah,
canyoneering. And this New Year's,
I would have, should be, could have been
backpacking through Nepal-
a dream.
Sometime I just get a little sad.

So I'll read some books,
watch some films,
give Libby her beef-flavored
pain-killer pills,
and pray for a pretty little
white-christmas miracle.
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
I laid there staring
at the ceiling fan spinning,
grinning about the night before
& thinking
what happens
in L.A.,
stays in L.A.
**** skippy.

I could barely see
through my red,
tasted my Marlboros
like they were liquid,
felt lost in an illusion.

I tried to whistle Dixie
& forget about
the pretty sleeping
pixie
lying next to me,
buck naked
& snoring like a buffalo.

But how could I?
She drove a Mazda
with Andretti-skill
& cooked a mean plate
of spaghetti.

Her lips were Mona Lisa
smirky & she made me crazy
with moves she's said she learned
from reading ****** poetry.

I loved the fact
she loved fine art
& traced her constellations
with my kisses
until she awoke
& loved me again
sinfully.
Scot Powers Jan 2023
The deck is awash
Wind rips the sails
The crying and screaming
The birds and the waves
My senses are reeling
Can this be real
"All hands on deck!"
Old Skippy screams

Wet  rigging is whipping
Can barley grab hold
Cold rain beats down
Chilling my soul
The cries of my mates
Can barely be heard
All know their place
Their tasks are secured

Float as we may
A mere cork on the sea
Holding out hope
Riding the waves
May God have mercy
Upon all our souls
Cried the ships Chaplin
Old Skippy just groaned

A lifetime at sea
More days than on land
The old crusty mariner
Had many a scare
No longer bothered
by things such as fate
Calmly he waited
Claimed by the waves.....
Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
I

          Aspiring to reach the solar rabbit hole eclipse
                  --climbing up the well,
                                            the photon test tube
                                      sodden and crusted on the outside
                  by angsty
                                adults
       snorting obsession
             through The Manhattan Project straw.

                    The pirate boy wanted to be named
                           Skip--so determined Alice named him,
                                    Skippy, conqueror of blueberry mucus
                 --he reminded her of sidewalks
                         she found far in the misty woods
--no one walked
                      the unexpected like                                           him.

          Each placement of a pore: a bat cave
                                                       a depressed skull
                                                       a hollow exploit
                                                       a lame *** joke
                                                       a mildew plop

Almost certainly this cadaver matryoshka doll
would be human by the time
the two runaways
were born again                               Hallelujah! The dish breaker is crowning again
                                                           back to the galleons, rotting awkward candles.

               "Leave what is human                                       in
                                                                                            inhumane
                                                                                            places." the well speaks.
          Skippy tears the corners of his lips
          to his ears. Alice turns her temple to the sharpest part
                                                                            of the monumental
                                                                     test tube
                                and cracks her childhood back to the bottom
                                                                               --back to Euphoria. light poles open
                                                                                  up faces and throw their lights to the ground.
Both of the thrift store
lovers continue to climb--ripping off purchases
                   to the beggar's tin cup.

II*

   Severed hearts beat without metaphor
          as the empty vessels that hold them.
Spines sing of freedom like centipedes
                      facing fan blades.                                Pirate boys mock the smoker's language
                                                                      of mutiny.

Devalued skin,
                                        ***** armor
casted,          
                          lowered,
   teased, by the cadence
            of tumbling blood.  Marking territories other brother's can smell

                  Obediently, we see what
       gods are doing to them. They're paying
for drawing the different suits of God
   on the cave wall.            Hit jobs--vacuum spoils,
                     sucker punch postage stamps
              --revenge from a peaceful creator
  forcing the two to climb/climb/climb
           back to a speck
                   where dandelions grow
      from the revolution fetus and graphite,
& tongues, & lips, & nerves, & veins &
wolf spiders pour down/red matter clusterfucks.
Wake up in the morning, clock says 8:23. Step into the kitchen, feeling that something is missing.
Open the fridge, Outa milk??? How could this beee?! I went to Sam’s Club - he stocked me up extra plenty!!!
I need to make a dash to the store, but if I get on the bus, this could take an hour or more.
So I quickly dress, not at all to impress. Just throw on my clothes and head out the door.
Standing outside in a panic, I start scratching all over my body like an addict.
Cereal and milk, I gots to have it!
Leaving me no other choice, I hop on the bus. My hands are shaking, making me look like a fiend.
Then I notice Bomb-Shell Betty, the ’98 prom queen, sitting in the back not looking so pretty.
I remember when she was going steady with TEDDY GRAHAMS - dude used to give me his answers to all of the math exams.
Sitting in front of me are four ladies who go by the names of FRUITY PEBBLES, COOKIE CRISP, HONEY COMB, and SUGAR SMACKS.
Who are they fooling??? Never skipping a beat, they are always getting their KIX turning TRIX on 126th Street.
They are quite the lovely bunch. I believe their **** is going by the name of CAP’N CRUNCH.
I am feeling kinda desperate today, thinking about spending time with FRUITY PEBBLES, but she only takes cash, and all I have are CHEX.  
My impatience is starting to run thin cause all I can think about is running in the store and grabbing a gallon of milk.
Then the bus stops… Who can it be? Oh, it’s my old neighbor, Tom Foolery.
He has a mouth full of chrome and wears ten pounds of jewelry.  With tattoo-covered arms, he enters with his pal, LUCKY CHARMS.
The two sit next to the 126th crew.  They are spitting game - that is really lame.
They are bragging who is better at shooting hoops. They just sound like a bunch of FRUIT LOOPS.
So I chime in and say, “I can eat more RAISIN BRAN than any other man throughout the entire land without going to the can, and if you don’t believe me, just ask my POPS!”
They look at me with complete shock.  Not a word to be heard, they turn around.  I sit there in silence, feeling like a big nerd.
Bus stops again.  A pale man enters on in.  He is tall and thin, wears a brown suit, and has a funny grin.
He looks kinda scary but seems ever-so-merry with his hands locked with his BOO BERRY.
Finally!! Through the glass I can see the supermarket is slowly approaching, and all I can say is, Yippy Frickin Skippy! Bout time.
Just before the bus stops, I jump out the window and drop to my knees, kiss the ground, and scream, “Hallelujah!!!”    
In the front of the store stands General Mills, recruiting potential cereal box models.  He asks, “How ya doing?”  I mutter, “What’s it to ya?”
I run towards the back where the much-needed milk is shelved.  I grab me a gallon and head to the check-outs.
Aisle one has no one in line, so this is a clear sign that things are starting to turn out just fine.
Then suddenly I see a white sign with black ink stating, Chex not Accepted…..
LIFE can be a *****!
Anybody remember Teddy Graham cereal?
Michael Erdman Sep 2011
WHEN I WAS JUST A LITTLE BOY
I USED TO ASK MY “MUDDA”
DON’T GIVE ME PEAS OR BROCOLLI
JUST BRING ME PEANUT BUTTA

I’D DIP MY FINGER IN THE JAR
AND SCOOP IT IN MY MOUTH
THEN WAIT FOR ABOUT AN HOUR OR SO,
FOR IT TO SLIDE DOWN SOUTH

I USEO TO EAT THE KIND CALLED “SMOOTH”
BUT QUICKLY SWITCHED TO "CHUNKY"
I LIKED THE WAY IT TASTED
SORTA GRITTY, KINDA FUNKY

SKIPPY, JIFF AND PETER PAN
WHERE BRANDS I LIKED THE BEST
I’D OFTEN LINE UP ALL THREE JARS
AND HAVE A TASTE TEST-FEST

BUT CHOOSING BRANDS WAS EASY
FOR MY MOM WHO WAS SO WISE
SHE’D EYE EACH ONE SO CAREFULLY
THEN BUY THE LOWEST “PRICE”

YEA, WITH SOME JAM.. ON WONDERBREAD
OH WHAT A DELICIOUS TREAT!
I REMEMBER ALL THE GOOEY GOODNESS
HOW MUCH FUN IT WAS TO EAT

BUT NOW I’VE GIVEN UP THAT SNACK
MY CHILDHOOD TASTES I’VE TRADED
I’M OLDER AND MY PALATE
HAS BECOME SOPHISTICATED

I NOW EAT FOOD THAT’S LOW IN SALT
AND SATURATED FAT
BUT WHEN I WANT TO CHEAT A BIT?...

“HEY SKIPPY, WHERE YOU AT”!!!!
written back in 1990 as a funny little diddy about food
CLStewart Mar 2015
Whats up knucklehead! Where have you been hiding? What transit did you take to get to 44th and Broadway? We found the petting zoo just fine without you, although the ***** in the Ballroom B Lounge had a few words to say about it. In case you were wondering, Kat and Marissa picked up a shuttle and then onto a cab that later found a flat on the parkway. Yea, they were ****** but made it just the same. Pops called again and asked about the drinking thing, I covered for you and said you be home by sunset. Whats up knucklehead, Where you been hiding?
While the sun is sleeping and the morning dj's too,
The radio news anchor is in to work by three
It's not because we're busy, or we're special..no, no , no
It's because the station trusts us, and besides...we have the key!!

We're on the road, at Dunkin' Donuts,
while the day olds are still fresh
We're in before the DJ's
Because we don't live like Phil Lesh

By the time the DJ's wander in
We've read more, than they will say
We've even cued up the morning intro
We know the songs they all will play

We have our room for research
Actually, two newspapers and a phone
We're not quite Walter Cronkite
But, hey...throw us a bone

The life of a radio anchor
Is not one that's all rosy
We do it 'cause we love it
It's not just because we're nosy

We get the freshest donuts, hottest coffee and the key
And did I neglect to mention, first one in gets donuts free?
The DJ's do their concerts, party hard, are full of soul
And twice a week you'll find them, down at Skippy's Pool and Bowl

We're not all like Les Nessman
Although, there is  a part of me
That would love to have a station
Like old W K R P

The life of the news anchor
Starts out daily in the dark
We dig around for stories
And make up others for a lark

We are in line for more promotions
We're the one that the boss sees
Did I mention, we get donuts
And that the boss gives us the key?
For Chuck Rowe, who challenged me to write one about Radio News Anchors, because he's lonely and felt left out. Here you go Chuck.
Mary Gay Kearns Jan 2018
WIMBLEDON COMMON

Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.

Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.

Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.

Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.

Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.

I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.

In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
how over pretentious of me...
islamophobia and russophobia...
odd bedfellows...

Mатвей Дракон: profile name...
but it's in russian and no one is willing
to stretch a darkening of humour...
to the extent of monty python...
because there's no canned laughter...

and there will never be...
not since i realised...
those four bottles of cider get me
more drunk than half a liter of
ms. amber... because the drinking
is measured and can reveal itself
in the process - rather than wait,
concentrated... and only expand
into more hours of sleep than
i could ever wish for...

but at least the russians speak of
russophobia as a reality -
the evil genius mantra...
which they are...
but there's no sense of: via irrational
arguments we will counter this
irrational fear...

so... the scuttling spiders announce!
and we will have ourselves
an orchestra!

even i thought this was too much,
too pretentious...
it's not a study... it's teasing...

a study in greek, hebrew, cyrillic and possibly sanskrit... because i'm not a monolingual hyper-inflation that will solve a crossword puzzle... when めば (eye-spot) is already... available? In a name there's a name in oh so many other languages... should i rely on relapsing into "gender-neutral" pronouns i'll cite... the noun-status extensions of letters, akin to a' into alpha... o' into omega... etc.

めば (eye-spot): that much is true...
sudoku...
i have made the following circumstance
plain...
there is no chance of me rising above
this already apparent crab-bucket intellectualism...
perhaps...
burden of rhyme...
it's only a "poem" if it rhymes...
rhyme is somehow identifiable with poo'etics...
ask an anne sexton... or perhaps:
no, don't bother...

she to burdens herself with rhymes -
and maybe she doesn't...
but this endless expectation to rhymes...
yes: plural was indicative of
the irony...
sometimes it's not even available...
to look back at this tool we have been given,
perhaps perfected better -
or not - since most of the time i find
myself: without an inch of belief
in catching some oratory / rhetorical
tsunami to... be the crow that croaks
the most and the loudest in this wake...

at least the russians acknowledge russophobia...
oh they're pay privy diligence to it...
they know they're the evil geniuses of this world...
they allow this irrational fear to sink in...
and then they rationalise it...

too bad for islamophobia...
it's not an irrational fear to begin with...
it's... more or less... a rational fear...
i think russophobia is an irrational fear...
after all: Kiev was founded by Vikings...
and apart from crown russia that's still
pretty much in Europe...
the asiatic branch of russia is too far away
to matter for either st. petersburg
of paris...

it's not convincing to be "reassured" while
the "enemy" persists to look bewildered
as if: no event is ever to happen
in the world - or also include him...
muslims? oh no... oh no at almost every turn
it seems...
sacred cows walk the streets of new delhi
while the people starve...

no dire warning: tiresome from the perspective
of a wormhole -
the count and the next count
the measures and what's to be left
dwindling... which is never a spectacle worth
reserving...
like putting on a vinyl and watching
the vinyl on a gramaphone...
or lighting a candle with a sulphur-sparked
match and sitting and "waiting"
watching while the candle burns...
and feeds a schtick of "anorexia"
absorbs all the shadows and stands at
midnight noon: with no wax to burn...

that feeling of having just ****** off
and then... prostate cancer pains
of having to make it absolutely necessary
to take a ****... to clean the ducts...
i still don't know why this "event"
is so precious for the quasi-cenobites...
it's no big deal...
just another genocide done into
the tissue later flushed...
perhaps if i were... shooting eggs
without the yoke it would somehow
matter...
perhaps i am...

but there's no zeitgeist to be had
concerning something that i make synonym
with wiping my *** asking
for nutella... and a skippy crunchy...
because: that's going to be the decade
defining EVENT!

funny... you ******* for no real reason...
nothing procreative...
gym-bro bollocking and that's not even
as much fun as going to a turkish barber
for a shave...
by then: everything concerning your
being - that is not going to be a moral
tool to raise children...
limbo in ego or the ego in limbo -
and that's never self or i...
but after an *******...
the most desperate need to take a ****...
to flush and make the ducts pristine... wiped
with ***** disinfectant...

about as odd as the bass guitar rising above
the drums - the oddity bass "rhyme"
and please... no guitar solos...
no metallica death to the bass
all that i hear is solo and rhythm guitar
and the drums...
they never got over the death of cliff burton...
or: how the rock band killed
the jazz band... focused on the rhythm guitar
and drums... but no trumpets just the vocals...
but still... no better use for bass?

it's always either: all that's music and...
it was always going to be not enough ***...
enough *** or just ***...
i went down the route of playing the brothel
roulette to catch up with the girls...
who i expect will later play bingo...
and we will probably try to age...
and be all romance...
and the man idiotic will still preserve
himself as unable to lie...
and she will... m'eh ah and all that litany
of sighs find the purse and the penguin
dancing the foxtrot from out
of the antarctica of his own ***...

russophobia: yes, an irrational fear -
even the evil geniuses of moscow acknowledge
this burden...
islamophobia... and... what?
milk and honey and yeast
and comatose black gold of ms. saudi of
the dinosaur arabia plucked...
a leaf... a laurel... from the pages of history
of: who's the good dog willing
to aport on call of command?!
into iraq and iran?

i can't hear a counter...
when it comes to it being anything rationalised
equal to the russian monologue...
claustrophobia and... it's irrational to me...
esp. when long winding...
when the cube talked to a field about...
abstract thinking -
at least claustrophobia is a metaphor
for abstract thinking - the lesser -

islamophobia is a ***** word...
esp. the -phobia suffix...
it's a perfectly rational fear...
given the mouse-and-leans have the gears
the fuel and the poker and backgammon "rules"...
as someone who might appreciate
a well sung adhan more than
an operatic aria...
well...
what's not to love?

at least for some it's known:
a drowning man will attempt to grip
a razor's edge without hope that it might be
an edge of a floating raft...
and they will always purse their mouth...
and waggle their tongue for
the pennies like sand shrapnel from
the payers for the goods...
an emirat sheikh and... the bore of the world...
if only the lottery of oil...
somehow... landed... in mongolia...

this world is a tiresome place...
given that arabs have the money...
and the chinese have: g.i. joe factories...
it's such a drab place...
such a clone furnace of the numbers
of mandarins...
and oh that niqab cinema...
even if you sell me something swedish
in black & white drab...
or some proto-turkic propaganda movie
to convert the "al-qaq" kurds (qa-eee-d'ah?)

welcome to europe... ghetto west of berlin...
back east there are needles...
walking about on the mountains
of camel humps...
notably in west warsaw coach station...
but the ukranians are always rather:
rowing the boat and the boat is always
heading into the furnace...

crab-bucket intellectualism...
these words are words that should be printed
and left on the northern line tube carriages...
like some free journalism paper wipe-my-***-with-i-wish,
why of course!
the highest i.q. renovations bottom-up to the top
always spreschen rhapsodies in wrap...
wrapping akin to:
i imagine the rappers chasing those...
john moschitta jr. is not a wrapper... rapper...
he's the add guy... and no rap on radio
adverts... when the T&S clauses are stressed...
and the muzak is dead and the lift is... falling...
like a ice-pick on the one dancing foot
of a burning burning with epitome given
the name... malchik trotting trotsky...

otherwise: blah - and endeavours into the bland...
some call it a guillotine...
i call it manglonia in england -
tiresome safe -
i almost pray to feel dangerous having
to acquire a straitjacket -
straitjacket bungee jump into conversation
like a rabid hive of the persona non grata:
of the commentary left-overs a priori
to the: walking onto the stage -
and talking with a gag in the mouth...
to speak a language for moths.
Joseph S C Pope Apr 2013
By the sight of engine blocks
      melted on the frays of mocking birds--the city is mohawked      

          and the large intestine of  betrayed Alice is a flintlock             in the early morning
                  --carnal ***** flooded with music and chardonnay
                                     bruised by the fiery sort haunting the genius drawing
              of       humor--a tumor of gunpowder and splattered cardinals.

                                       We have no kings--just kids
--no queens, just compensation--

                                         and on the hood of a 1969 Chevy Impala
with the American Jolly Roger ablaze
                                         like that of a tick in the sun--wanting Alice carves
                   the cheeks from Skippy's black wound-up drool toy--in his mouth
                                        is the last word to make deities cry sentient lives

          and now you see it, the glint, the ball, the powder, and the breezeway windows
                             carved in the gum line of his mouth in reverse,
                                                        ­            and how she whispers, "Impress me."
Bill murray Aug 2015
Skippy hopper
One leg bopper
The wife's my shopper
Food for grasshoppers!
I will eat like a Piggie
Today when I eat some Piggie
Gonna have to digalig biggie
A hole
For the piggie
Bones
nivek Nov 2014
a kangaroo springs
are envied
No-one jumps like Skippy
and no-one talks like Flipper
J A M Aug 2014
Crackerjack, penny back, living on a dream  
Pencil head, silly Fred, stay til he's mean
Debbie-downer, sit on the counter, can she move on
Howdy there, on a dare, don't be a pawn
Straw hat, kitty cat, I must be gone
Skippy chili, pilly dilly, standing on the lawn
Ritty rat, I'm out of that
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY PART 4




YA SEE, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A LITTLE COOL KID TO THE FAMILY

IN MY MUM AND DADS EYES, AND I USED TO PLAY SHOWS LIKE THE COOPERS

FAMILY, WHICH IS ABOUT RON AND SALLY’S QUEST TO OPEN A FAMILY BUSINESS

IN A HOSPITAL, WHERE THEY HAD A SON, DAVID, AND HE MARRIED RAELEEN

AND THEY HAD A BOY NAMED DON COOPER, AND THEY HAD A DAUGHTER NAMED

SUE COOPER WHO MARRIED BIKIE JOHN PRENDTH, AND HAD A LITTLE BOY NAMED

FRANK PRENDTH, AND I WAS GETTING INSPIRATION FROM MAGAZINES AND TV

ON HOW TO BRING MORE CHARACTERS, LIKE JACK RUNNING THE BAR, JEAN AS THE COOK

AND MARTIN TATE, AS THE AMBULANCE DRIVER, WHO WAS A BIT OF AN ALCOHOLIC

WHO WAS IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH MENTAL HEALTH NURSE, MICHELLE TATE, AND THE

THEME SONG WAS, AIN’T SHE SWEET, SEE HER COMING DOWN THE STREET

I ASK HER VERY CONFIDENTIALLY, AIN’T SHE SWEET, AIN’T SHE NICE

LOOK HER OVER ONCE OR TWICE, I ASK YOU VERY CONFIDENTIALLY AIN’T SHE NICE

JUST CAST AN EYE, IN HER DIRECTION, OH ME OH MY, AIN’T THAT PERFECTION

I REPEAT, I THINK THAT’S KIND OF NEAT, I ASK YOU VERY CONFIDENIALLY AIN’T SHE NICE

AND I PLAYED BEWITCHED, AND MY BROTHER SAID, DO YOU PLAY IT, THAT IS SO STUPID

BUT IF I WANNA PLAY A SHOW, I WILL PLAY A SHOW, I DO WHAT I WANNA DO, IT’S LIKE THIS

WRITING, AND I ENJOYED TWITCHING MY NOSE TRYING TO ZAP MYSELF 1 MILLION DOLLARS

OR TO A REMOTE RESTAURANT IN THE HEART OF TOWN,

MY NEXT SHOW, I PLAYED WAS LIVE STOCK, ABOUT A VET NAMED MARK SARGENT, COMING TO

START A PRACTICE IN CLAXTON HILL, AND EACH EPISODE HE WENT ABOUT HIS ROUNDS AT ALL

THE FARMS IN THE DISTRICT, AND ROBBO’S PUB, WHERE MARK OFTEN WENT FOR FRIDAY AND

SATURDAY NIGHT DRINKS, AND A LOT OF THE KIDS OF CLAXTON HILL, WERE OFTEN GETTING INTO

PROBLEMS, I GOT THIS IDEA, FROM A MIXTURE OF ALL THE SOAPS IN THE 80S AND ALSO THE VET

SHOW, CALLED, ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL, EVERY NEW YEARS EVE, I WILL PLAY A NEW YEARS SHOW

FEATURING THE NEW YEAR TIGER, AND THE CAST OF ALL MY FAKE TELEVISION SHOW CHARACTERS

AND ONCE AT MY GRANDMAS HOUSE, I PLAYED A CHRISTMAS SHOW IN HER BACKYARD AND I WAS A LOUD WILD DUDE

I SANG WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS, WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND SOME KIDS CAME TO ME, AND SAID, CAN YOU SHUT UP, WE WANT YOU TO SHUT UP

THIS WAS BECAUSE, I RAN AWAY FROM TEASERS AS A KID, CAUSE I WAS A TAD SCARED, MY BROTHER WASN’T THOUGH, HE STAYED

WITH THEM, AND THE KIDS SAID WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

CAUSE WE’RE TEASING YOU, YA SEE I THOUGHT I WAS A REAL MANS KID, YA SEE I THOUGHT JUST BECAUSE I WAS A SPORTS WATCHER

IT MEANS I GET LEFT ALONE, IT DOESN’T SILENCE ME, IF I WANT TO PL;AY SHOWS, I WILL DO IT IN MY ROOM, AND ALL THE ADULTS

WERE WORRIED, CAUSE THEIR PERFECT AURA WAS RUINED, AND TO THESE KIDS, I WAS A REAL SHY PERSON, BUT I USED

TO TEASE AT SCHOOL, I NEVER WAGGED UNLESS IT WAS THE LAST DAY AT SCHOOL, BECAUSE, I LIKED MY MATES AT SCHOOL

THEY WERE ALL SO NICE TO ME, I JUST ENJOYED THESE POOR LITTLE KIDDIES, IN THE BACKYARD OF MY GRANNY’S HOUSE

AND I PLAYED AUSSIE RULES IN THE FRONT YARD, YA SEE, I PLAYED MY WEEKLY MAFL TOURNAMENT, AND MY BROTHER PLAYED HIS COMP

YA SEE, WHEN MY BROTHER WAS AT A MATES HOUSE, I DID MY MAFL TOURNAMENT, AND DAD CAME OUT AND SAID, YOU HAVE TO

LIVE IN THE REAL WORLD, BRIAN, CAUSE, THIS ISN’T A FOOTY GROUND, IT’S A FRONT YARD WITH A GARDEN, AND MUMMY WANTS

TO GROW FLOWERS, SO I WILL TAKE YOUR FOOTBALL AND BAN IT FROM YOU, I KNOW YOU ARE A KID, BUT, MUMMY WANTS

TO START A GARDEN, AND I USED TO GET TEASED, BY PEOPLE WALKING PAST, SAYING, I ACT LIKE AN IDIOT OUTSIDE, AND I

SAID, I AM NOT SHY, I LIKE PLAYING FOOTY WITH MY BROTHER OUTSIDE, I PLAYED JAILBIRD AT MY SCHOOL, WHICH IS ABOUT

TWO BIRDS, JAIL BIRD FLIES AROUND THE JAIL CHECKING ON EACH INMATES WELL BEING, AND FREE BIRD, CAPTURES THE

CRIMINALS TO BRING THEM TO JAILBIRD TO BE LOCKED AWAY, AND MY SCHOOL LOOKED AT IT AS ME TALKING TO THE TREES

ME AND MY BROTHER, USED TO PLAY FRONT YARD AND BACKYARD CRICKET, MY COUNTRY WAS MYTH WITH PLAYERS LIKE
DEAN MASSEY, ASHLEY MONDEY, AND MYSELF, MY BROTHERS COUNTRY

WAS ETHIOPIA, WITH PLAYERS LIKE TRINNEN, BOTANY, LAITLAT, AND MANY MORE, AND THE STREET USED TO COME IN AND

PLAY YARD CRICKET WITH US, I ENJOYED THIS, MY MATE LYLE WAS A REALLY WILD BOWLER, I CAN HARDLY HIT ANY OF HIS BOWLS

THEY ARE SO **** FAST, I START TO THINK THAT LYLE WAS A VERY FAST BOWLER IN HIS PREVIOUS LIFE, I ALSO PLAYED

WATER CRICKET IN THE SWIMMING POOL, AND THIS WAS EVER SO FUN, BUT ON A HOT DAY, AND THE BALL WAS HIT OUT

OF THE WATER, IT WAS HARD FOR EACH OF US TO GET OUT OF THE NICE COOL WATER TO FETCH THE BALL,

I PLAYED SPORTS SHOWS WITH MY BROTHER, AND WE GOT IN MANY FIGHTS, LIKE NORMAL KIDS DO, AND

DAD SAT THERE WATCHING TV, SAYING ME AND MUMMY DIDN’T REALISE HAVING KIDS WILL BE THIS HARD

LIKE HE CRAWLED UNDER A ROCK OR SOMETHING, I WATCHED FAMOUS FIVE AND SECRET VALLEY AND

I WATCHED SKIPPY, WHERE KIDS WERE GETTING ******* ALL THE TIME, AND I WATCHED YOU CAN’T DO THAT ON TV

AND SAW KIDS IN A DUNGEON, YEAH HYPED ME OUT, I BOUGHT MAGAZINES, AND PUT TEXTA GAGS ON KIDS MOUTHS

AND TEXTA DRAW ROPE AROUND THOSE KIDS, MY BROTHER SAID TO MELINDA, WE SHOULDN’T TELL OUR PARENTS EVERYTHING

I DANCED TO POISON AND EVERY SATURDAY MORNING I WATCHED THE RAGE TOP 50 ON ABC TV, AND EACH WEEK

I WROTE THE CHART DOWN, LIKE I HAD AUTISM OR SOMETHING, AND AFTER THAT, I WENT TO BOWLING

AND I WATCHED THE CHART WITH MY BROTHER, WHEN HE GOT OUT OF BED, AND WE PARTIED TO THE CHART SHOW EVERY SATURDAY MORNING

THEY STOPPED DOING THAT IN 2008, BUT I LOST INTEREST IN DOING THAT, WHEN I FOUND OUT ALL MY PROBLEMS ARE A RESULT

OF SCHITZOPHRENIA, AND I PRETENDED I WAS A BIG TV MANAGER, GOING FROM PUB TO PUB, WHAT IS ACTUALLY WRONG WITH THAT

BUT I WAS PRETENDING TOO MUCH, 1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC FROM MY FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRENT SITUATION

I AM ON MEDICATION, NOW I AM REFORMED, CAUSE THIS SHOWS THAT I AM A FAMILY PERSON.
Gwen May 2015
I wanted long , thin legs
A skinny waist
And collar bones that stick out.
I wanted to be pretty.

But what I didn't want
Was the price.
Skippy meals,
Using constant excuses.

I wanted to be perfect
But instead,
I was lifeless
and years later I still pay.

I soon reached my goal,
But was the price I paid worth it?
Stephan Sep 2016
.

I remember that old electric guitar,
no name brand, a Fender knockoff,
stripped and painted
to look like an American flag
because Peter Fonda made it cool

That Silvertone amp, volume cranked
reverb, two inputs, tubes, bass, treble,
when Sears was the place where
music dreams came alive
because Dad had a credit card

Out in my parent’s garage,
Skippy on drums and John on bass
Wearing shades in the dark like John Kay
A tape recorder mike hanging from the ceiling
Playing “The Pusher” at all hours

Until the neighbors called my mom
and we had to shut the door
or turn it down, we shut the door
Black light posters, an old couch,
power saws and Christmas decorations

We were gonna be stars, rock stars
Chicks would dig us and guys would envy us
Our hair down to our shoulders
Incense to hide certain smells
Bad *** wasn’t even a term yet, but we were

Patch covered jeans, zig zag
and faded denim jackets,
peace signs and headbands,
Santana and Arlo, “Alice’s Restaurant”
Nothing could stop us

I remember that old electric guitar,
the guys are gone now, not dead, just gone
I can still hear Alvin Lee rocking “I’m coming home”
But somewhere along the line I got old (grew up)
when I wasn’t paying attention I guess

I still wear my hair a little long, a little
and I have nice collection of guitars
But that “Rock Star” dream faded long ago
Now I carry a different instrument,
I carry a pen...

and it’s a name brand pen
Maddy Nov 2022
She walked slowly displaying grace and beauty with her mistress on the boardwalk
Her paws barely touching each plank
She is eighteen years old as of yesterday
Her owner said it was her last walk
A stunning golden angel will grace the Rainbow Bridge soon
Rest and play well beautiful
Hope a handsome Golden Retriever named Skippy greets you

C@rainbowchaser 2023
RIP Beautiful!
insane hatter Nov 2014
Sweet giving
Scared lonely
Giggly skippy
Sad torn
People feel
People show
Theres Difference
Its significant
mouse Dec 2015
i.
to river-
what to pack.
first
line your heart with apathy so that your hands don’t get as ******.
then twenty lullabies your mama sang,
or twelve you found along the way, waiting in the gutter and half inside the oily iris pools
(the songs that see you when it’s dark, and know the curves of your hands.
those. bring those.)
bring your pen. bring a leash, and watch that it doesn’t become a noose. it’s a leash. remember this.
bring a tree. bring a windowsill to sit on and
bring your pile of unsent letters.
bring water.
bring a time piece more accurate than your skippy heartbeat.
the team captain will tell you what to do. how to handle the footprints
and where to go.

ii.
i found receipts on the floor this morning.
receipts for the cost of my ease and peace
in closed eyes and closed palms holding hands.
i still can’t find my chapstick.
i asked you where my chap stick went
please blink back
to at least let me know that you heard.
i am full of everything possible and the bathroom smells like vinegar and fresh paint
brushed along my skin
when will i hear your voice again?
there’s a square of light on my ceiling, a puddle of light on the floor.
is this the lights shining through the windows
or is the sunset reflected in the glass?
i am unsure.
i am waiting.

iii.
from the collection of empty envelopes,
and stamped post cards unwritten,
i can hear your silence roar.
i’m ready.
you sat in the calm eye of my hurricane mind.
she says she doesn’t want me to be tied down to that
but you were my anchor, holding me steady.

iv.
if i could,
i would.
i would speed up the days to skip past the moments that make me who i will be.
i would speed up the days so that the sun streaks across the sky, so that the sun becomes a shooting star, so that i could read all the wishes i don’t bother to make,
but then they can’t break so
it’s okay.
maybe it’d look like the lines on the highway, the yellow ones that have to be broken to let us pass.

v.
sometimes i go out into the night lit artificially from below the surface of a ***** swimming pool.
leaves would float on its surface.
i’d sit on the metal railing, my feet dangling into empty space and i would lick at the smoke curling from my fingertips.
if i held my left hand out just right, i could see the light reflecting and swimming across my skin.
(when will i see your face again?)
there’s a man down on the ground, sitting
on the brick wall holding me in. there’s a shovel in his hand. and a rake. i can see his silhouette by the lantern at his side, like a bright eyed guide. i could hear a radio from somewhere over his shoulder.
i listened to the radio shows with him. the graveled voices talked about death.
i always had the urge to leap down to the ground and walk across the lawn to sit beside him. to tell him stories.
but then i always questioned whether or not he was real.
i sat on my sill.

vi.
do you remember how you drew constellations across my hands?
was it worth the lamp light?
across the fate line and the life line, you would dot
three stars across my palm.
orion’s head at the logic line,
the bases of my fingers became a bow, the tip of my *******, the star.
you liked it when i stuck it up at you. you said you saw stars when i felt something.
orion was a hunter, and my heart is my weapon.

vii.
the team captain looked you hard in the eye and rolled his neck.
our eyes met on the moon.
his teeth was made of bullets.
“my little thing,” you’d speak.
captain, o captain, he’d watch the bus driver drive home alone again.

viii.
i am a UFO.
an unaccompanied floating overture you’ll soon forget about.
an unhappy finished omen swooping in with the Crushing Weight of Reality to smother your dreams.
an unbalanced fumbling orbit, unsure and unsteady.
it’s me.
an unmelted frozen ocean falling.
the trouble with you calling me your snowflake is that i will melt under your gaze and become the water you drown in.
maybe it’s better if you pack
your things and find the captain.
he’ll tell you what to do and
where to go.


**mouse
parts of this are published in lit magazines.
a final.
betterdays Apr 2014
Memories of a father long gone and only just remembered.
"You must remember this a kiss is but a kiss a smile is just a smile...., as time goes by"
sung as my lullaby in a deep low voice.

The smell of cigarette smoke, old spice and brylcreme.

The bone of your knee bouncing my backside as we watched Skippy on TV.
The deisel and oil that darkened your hands.

Barking laughter when you played rough'n'tumble with the boys.
Big gentle, fumbling hands when you came to "afternoon tea ".

The sheepish grin and shoulder shrug when you came home "weathered" from the pub.

Pockets empty except for betting slips.
Too many dinners of two dollars worth of chips please.
Christmas gifts in late February,
sometimes not at all.

The plate of bacon and eggs sliding down the wall,
inches from your head.

Angry shouting when we were meant to be sleeping, door slams followed by broken weeping.
Silence so intense it had us kids creeping round the walls.

Back bumper of a muscle car,
tailights burning red,
tyres sqealing,
suitcases stacked high in the backseat.

Selfish ******* whispered, by my mother,(the first time i ever heard her swear), into the coldnight country air.

As we stood watching and yearning for life to treat us fair.
I was five at the time.
Maddy Mar 5
She will be loyal
She will always be true
She will always be loving and kind
That smile of hers that melts your heart
Even when you know her a short while she stays with you
Joy and kindness personified
She will be greeted at the Rainbowbridge by a handsone Golden Retriever naned Skippy
I can hear him calling her name
Tori  accompanies him and watches over us
We love her forever and always

C@rainbowchaser2024
Tori passed away in February.
Our cousins had to put her down
Her photo is on poetbear.net under blog section
There is no 'Skippy'
no more kangaroo
it was traded as bush meat
so you kids
could eat.

'Flipper got put in cans
sans flippers,
tasted like fresh
kippers,
they tell me.

TV's responsible for
killing our dreams.

but I still see them when I sleep
'Clarence the cross eyed lion'
is there to keep
me company

another safari
one more
'Daktari'

I'm on a different page
'Lady Penelope and
Parker
are all the rage

watching 'Thunderbirds'
seeing Gilligans isle
while Popeye and olive
give me a smile
and I know it's for me


It's on the TV.
Maddy Nov 2020
The gray round belly and happy demeanor made people having a snack stop and take notice
Happy little one, one of Mother Nature's children
Unless she was pregnant, what a jolly little creature
Unafraid of the humans and hoping they would leave a tasty morsel  or treat for her
What a delight while taking a break visiting this lovely zoo
Hopefully Skippy will greet us again
Stay safe little friend

C@rainbowchaser2020
Dedicated to my darling Sunshine,my nephew Leo,
Ken Pepiton Oct 2020
JBP Maps of Meaning, behind the morning, Audible
lifting mental me to a youth long gone. When
my own maternal granddaddy made
pancakes for me, and I listened.
He sang… usually,
"When the role is called up yonder…'' that line
only over and over, as he stirred batter,
long time ago.

My grandsons 8 and 11, inform me
they have finished the series of
Harry Potter, confessing to
using Audible for the last
two. Seven books…

something mythic lurks under knowing some
things are unknowable,
in the reality we share
beyond the palisade, over the wall,
in yonder
systems of motive and act
One based on story the other on out-action,

done deeds, set and sprung… snares and traps

engines to rule the random, change now,
to the now of the next, once the trap
trips and you,
dove
to
the bottom and drownd, as it were, if so
you did die, before, aforethought, after all
previous
dying and carrying on, past Nietzsche and Jung,
slam
bang Jesus- heroic savior is there nothing
we can imagine doing ,
to free me,
not us,
me… listen… If I listen too long, eventually,
I die, disintegrate, lose my self
composure,
my integrity with the otherwise is cut.
-- all this at speed of thought. No time passes.

Ah, pain, the
cutting deeds, do these only if
you know what is done as
the trigger looses the wedge
binding the spring,

all the apriori things in the realm of thought at

the speed of thought, live and learn,
learn and live.
Live in words longer than mortal minds imagine,
break each word down to meaning,
meaning complete knowing of all
that is

at the moment. Nothing missing, nothing broken,

next appears as now, unmasked.
Shabat shalom,
as we make it in my realm.

Life in action in the forum of story, Oh MY
Goodness, if this were not simply true,
it could be shaped into a box.
Subliminally.
We could all agree, the three of us, and place each
a gift with a good state, a meaning and affect
for good when good could be better.

Taking each gift, with no special interest in knowing,
what
if there is a state of lack,
when each thought thing is noticed
used up, taken, gone, done?

How were we to know we may destroy our selves,
the very idea of me, held by me,
dies with me,
the first time?

Then back to the kitchen in Pine Valley,
on a cool, foggy morning late in
harvest season, today or tomorrow, we finish,
just before the latter rain in 2020.

Bisquick pancakes with Skippy and Nutella,
as Gabriel, the younger of the afore mentioned two,
listens as I ask him, what makes the bad guys bad?

He gives me the ****** signal, "does not compute."
What power makes bad guys?
In Pokemon'?, he asks.
Yeah, I reply,
applying pressure on a point I know,
itch can be
set to ask for a scratch
at just the right word,
in the future…

Now, Grandpa, touches the spot.
Bad and good is in the use of the time, we think
we know
but all we know is made up of things
we think
we
know, even we, there needs be a me and a you,
and some

thing-sense between us, some thing
we are we in, within.
Aye, and something we are without,
when we be truly
evil, beyond bad, useless but to **** and steal and destroy.

Like Marshadow, says Gabe.

As an idea,
Mohammad Saif agreees, Grandpa sees.

Magic slate in hand, the Mage's fingers dance a pattern.
FTA - find the answer, what are
"The Ten Most Evil Pokémon"-- {no s, just Pokémon, eh?}
Marshadow is number one.
Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans - {Jungian, nicht vvahr? ;-}
Strange fruit from my 2020 vision tree of knowns

… the shadow knows… since Radio…

Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans
while trying to mimic
their behavior and abilities.
Not only is this creepy,
it shows that Marshadow is a sociopathic ghost
that can follow you
without ever being noticed.
As this Pokémon
improves its ability to imitate its prey,
it becomes stronger until it can overpower them.
Marshadow is based on the ancient Hawaiian night marcher,
a ghost of a fallen warrior who was killed in battle."

From <https://reelrundown.com/animation/Top-10-Most-Evil-Pokemon-till-Date>

Dare me did you, liar? Is there a story being told that disregards
my participation in the grace that granted everything
purpose in working together, for good.

For ever, after all, up to now,
has worked and works
at this moment.

Breathe, two steps, one action leads to life,
non action marks this the end.

Whew. Grandpa-mode is the highest mortal level.
Saturday morning pancakes with literate grandchildren. Who has a better hereafter, I dare ask. Betting no one can even imagine one better.
I’m just gonna say it
And feel about it whatever you will
But if you’re still trying that *******
“let’s go Brandon,”
Like it’s the burn of the century
You can laugh as loud as you want
But the joke is not on me
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
pre-scriptum that's actually a p.s. - shock value: staggering! what? peering into an empty glass, where once pirate ***-one-eye and damsel in distress ms. pepsi once resided! shocking! what now? well... guess that means a refill; ahoy the next glug glug! shave my ***** hair and call me p'ooh bear while you're at it; go on, skippy... MOVE IT!

a lazy ****, lodged up your ***...
suggesting
   itself, ever so slightly as being
present...
  man... the most terrible drinking
companion to date...
   in such moments it's never
much,
    it's not you're going to be *******
out a boa-sized tapeworm...
but you know: the general
discomfort, like wearing female underwear...
and it never is much,
it, just, *is
, there, forcing you
to think about its presence,
and that's more annoying than:
are we there yet? no. are we there yet?
no. are we there yet? no, no, no!
******, take the plunge,
be off with your ******* sloth
dynamic of pretending to be a cute
parisian pastry in the display window
in some parisian bakery!
*******!
  that's what the blank said to me:
write me a funny one...
   less ***... and more:
         the confinements of taking the 2no.
for a stroll, past st. peter's gate
and toward the throne of thrones...
sure thing floating choccie...
     but just:                     imagine!
mmm... stardust and cinnamon...
   my grandfather had this knack of
describing his **** as:
         i was just around the strawberry
fields... oh look! i also found a dozen
plums, and a handful of, cherries!
have those with milk, and that's
            the perfect laxacative, that is.
on a serious note though...
(what's the onomatopoeia for snigger?
that painful kind of laughter?
                don't know? me neither) -
it's hard to think when you
have a "hitchhiker" who has suddenly
outstayed its welcome...
             a bit like the nicotine
"hangover" in the morning...
         **** me the excess of phlegm...
you hark, you bark, you snort backwards,
you spit, you sneeze,
you do everything possible to clear
the cavities...
   after a while you finally reach
the morning bliss of:
  smelling mint next to you...
you obviously water it to make the scent
exfoliate and become more potent...
but on a sober note,
this sunday times magazine
article by india knight got me thinking...
well... not really "thinking"
just bothered...
      she's moaning about loneliness
and the solution: ***-bots...
    she mention ****-boast gabriel -
and the flacid **** when you'd prefer a cuddle...
the sad bit?
       apparently men are the prime
instigators of this "phenomenon"...
   men only need ***-bots, someone tell them
they're loved...
   thanks... next i'll ask a cave to echo back
a hello for me, morphing my voice
into that of adelle's...
   look at my face... it came back in spanish!
biggest turn-off, (how to teen girls write it? ah!)
                                EVA!
sieve the eden eve into it?
    now i know that's funny, but i always write
it assured that it isn't...
sometimes i get it wrong,
   sometimes i even get a laugh for myself...
which brings me to the crucial point...
company?
           well yeah, i have "conundrum" -
the memory of a sober me from 1 hour ago...
    he likes to iron shirts,
  watches female football...
         likes ***** dancing because:
"apparently" - the film with the best soundtrack -
loves cooking, loves taking out the trash,
turns into a menace with his cats...
               no, i'm not buying it...
ah, what's the point of selling myself like that,
it becomes a pretty boring ambition
of getting to mid-life and ******* younger girls...
i always thought that youth guards youth,
but... no... sour note that part...
   well... nothing like turning to the guard
of cenobite invitation...
   and **** me, that ship has... sailed!
   oh look, a pretty moment,
                     a ship on the canvas of where
sky meets sea, and a lonely ship,
           and a sun taken to skinny-dipping!
just like a gay might say with
exact syllable peacocking: mar-ve(h)-loose!
louse? sure dingy-dingity-****
    two sopranos and three ballerinas later...
john? was it john? daaaarling...
   you're my favourite compensation
                                              to arthritis!
seriously? ***-bots are a man's thing?
    so they made their pro-bot movies akin
to ex_machina...
  but do people still remember
    that ***-bot in spielberg modern twist
on pinocchio via the a.i. movie?
   wasn't the ***-bot male?
                        lucky girls...
here with my bone-structured "****" imitation...
who ****** who with a
       flacid soft-pouch-of-a-kangaroo
****? shanta claush? sean... i told you to stop it!
     shorry.
                      shure you are.
ah, **** yeah! ****** joe! -
now that's tacky, we've moved on - now they're
called the teenage mutant turtle...
     teenage.... turtle... mutant... avengers?
whatever:
michael, raphael, gabriel, uriel, saraqael,
    raguel, and remie....
   theology and fame... ah... you probably
heard only the fraction 2/7...
    what part was the part where "lonely"
was implied?
the part where i like my own farts...
    or the part where i find it really, really *******
difficult to even sleep with a cat in the same bed?
or the part that i fall asleep best,
with a lullaby of a horror movie sountrack?
Maddy Dec 2023
A lovely Golden Retriever Puppy barked at me and wanted to play.
Her owner was trying to teach her to walk on a leash so I didn't pet or play with her.
Looked up to the sky and my Skippy was saying Hello and I miss you too.
I almost heard him say I am OK at Rainbow Bridge but whenever you see a Golden walking, I am saying Hello.
When I arrived home looked at his photo and smiled through my tears.

C@Rainbowchaser2024
Maddy Nov 2022
Hiked it without boots
Tore my heel and learned a life lesson
Own hiking shoes now
The almost December Bluebirds greeted me appreciating the quiet
Listening is a very important skill for a writer as well as observing
Frolicking squirrels decided to have an acrobatic performance
Rocky, Skippy, Peanut, Jif and Skye had a great time
Male and female but don"t get close enough to tell
They are all a little different
Keeping a safe distance but when that roasted peanut bag of shelled unsalted nut opens they seem to come around
Some play hide and seek and climb down from their trees when the human is clear
Watching from a distance it is clear what Henry David taught me and my students long ago
When I touched his desk that day at the museum and walked on Walden Pond
I was thrilled to be an educator and to have taught Walden
As a poet, he taught me more about Father Sky and Mother Nature and I am still learning with joy and respect

C@rainbowchaser 2023

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