"slather" poems
I don’t care how
or care what you do
to make it happen;
I just told you
make me shine
so slather me in turpentine.
I want the sun to shrink
and the world turn dark,
when she’ll no longer rise
after she rests her eyes
upon my fiery spark.
I want the moon to swoon
and raise the tides
when he looks for the sun,
but instead
it’s my beauty that he finds.
I want the stars to bow down
and shower me in gold
when I shine brighter
and reach higher
than the stars of old.
I want storms to make
the world stir
when I walk upon
their earth,
no matter what it’ll take.
I don’t care
if it kills me;
just answer my plea.
I just want, so badly,
to shine,
so slather me in turpentine.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
You have had me in every way
Rising mountains and flooded hollers
Gifted with everything, and I have nothing left to offer but this
This treasure of depravity
As you clean the crevices and ***** my mind
Worship, slather, repeat
You delve in fiending for the taste
and with each pass of that silver tongue my thoughts get more tarnished
And you get...all of me
Taken in heat engulfed in passion
Drilled to the core
Filled with rapasciousness
I offered a gift and I was chewed up and swallowed
Consumed fully
Wanton abandon in caveman style of take what is yours
And that...I am
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
***At my feet
Dressed only in me
Worship
and
Slather***
Perfection....
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
should probably eat a banana but i don’t really want to.
how important is potassium ; is it that vital?
where else can i get a healthy amount of it?
do carrots have potassium?
i’m going to eat a whole bowl of baby carrots and slather it in ranch dressing.
oh no, the bananas can see me eating the carrots.
**** well, now you've done it, good job.
i’m so glad no one ever asks what i’m thinking.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 2:16 PM UTC
She was stark naked
I could see her ****
And her boyfriend had
Quite the **** on him.
His meat should have
Made him quite proud
And the lady’s ****
For crying out loud
Were perky and prominent
And quite nice to see.
Both of them seemed
To be pointing at me.
And I seemed to be
Eagerly pointing back.
They both very obviously
Aware of that one fact.
She smiled openly
And the guy broadly winked.
I started asking myself
“Do you think? He did wink!”
So, I winked and smiled
And let them see my bone
And hoped this meant I
Would not be alone.
I hoped they’d invite me
To sit on their beach towel
To slather sunscreen on them
Like a human mortar trowel.
There are not many things
There are few better for me
Than hot mixed couples
Into some fun bisexuality.
I have games for both kinds
And genders of human beings
All based on the stimulus
Of what I’m feeling and seeing.
Generally a single man
Is not lucky at this scene
A common concept that I
Always found to be quite mean.
I understand about jealousy,
An emotion foreign to me
So, I usually keep my distance
And behave circumspectly.
But when I get the go-ahead
I never hesitate very long.
How could something this good
Be considered bad or wrong?
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
What will you have, asked the waitress,
A death sandwich I replied,
Mustard and ketchup, she continued,
Yes and slather the mayo, double the cheese, I answered back politely,
You’re aura is a spiral, she said, whole wheat or white,
White with butter and does it come with final fries, I queried,
Included, she replied
And a new indelicate sugar fix by the pail.
Make mine to go, I suggested.
Want to quantum up and get a piece of plague cake
Maybe **** cookies in a bowl.
What a wonderful time to be alive I remarked,
The only generation to ever eat itself to death she quipped,
We’re special I said and looked away.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
this morning I awoke to find little lettered squares imprinted across the side of my face,
then didst I realize, that cyber space had finally done its number on me
slither slather blither blather slobbering cyber chopper
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak of impetuous heartlessness
stereotyping label blasting categorizing pigeon-holing generalizing
multi tasking bifurcating bloviating palaver, ever clingy maudlin inflamed impassioned souls
trolling the myriad disparate windows looking for some misbegotten stimulus
so invested in their hatred and fear that peace is the most threatening thing they can imagine ------ and me?
the sneering cynical maladroit among the masses of averageness and mediocrity...
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
I’ll trace the lines of a love poem
With the tip of my generous tongue
I’ll bend you over a sonnet
pounding your heart with verse
Until you come
Closer to the slippery edge
Of the highest haiku peak
Pulsing cranes shoot from
Sky following deep swallows
Cascading heat wing
The beat of the sextet
Engorges the plump plum with tantalizing taste
As the surging wind tickles swirling grass meadows
A pirates plunder
unbridled womanly chaste
Riding my large prose with feminine pleasure
Until both writhing bodies are drenched in chicken broth rain
I will slather you in brilliant color
As you vacantly stare ecstatic
Groaning through the augustan age
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
There's a temperamental rainbow
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
it's not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.
He might, he can, win its sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering
medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill
his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,
and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC
How funny it is that when you describe a girl you call her pretty, call her beautiful, call her gorgeous.
Our girls grow up with the only compliments they receive to be ones remarking their bodies and yet we wonder why we can't get them to eat.
They grow up believing wither consciously or unconscious they are judges by the bodies.
That the size of their jeans is their caste.
That if they aren't pretty they are nothing.
Our little girls slather on the makeup and step into their heels smile till the corners of their mouths crack as if life was a beauty pageant and success and happiness were prizes to be won.
When you describe a boy you call his strong, call him tough, call him powerful.
Put the weight of the world in his hands and hope he can handle it.
Our men lead the way and our girls follow.
Why when you see a girl you never call her intelligent, call her resourceful, call her powerful.
Imagine a world where little girls weren't just bodies.
They were the daughters of destiny and the friends of fate.
They could do anything, and they were told that from the second they could listen.
Imagine if our girls could look past their bodies, could pus aside shame and hate and learn to love the vessels.
Imagine if our girls were powerful.
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 3:09 AM UTC
It really matters how you slather
Jelly on the bread
As it must be globed enough
To cover every inch
Of course grapes the jelly go to
No need to question why
Still for me the strawberry
Is always on stand by
And when it comes to peanut butter
The crunchy is a given
If you're in the mood to spread the smooth
I say to you, don't even
The bread I'm not concerned with
It's just there for name sake and handles
Because without bread the above said
Would be a mess and not a sandwich
One thing that almost slipped past me
Can't believe I had forgotten
The jelly always goes on top
And peanut butter on the bottom
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:28 PM UTC
i come home crying
tears slither down my cheeks
i am simply ugly
for my nose is too big, horribly wide and contorted
my eyes are too small, beads of obsidian on my pale face
and my chapped lips are thin like crushed scribbled paper
my forehead is too big, i could write all of this down on it if i wanted to
why must i seek validation from those who will never respect me, even in my purest form
but my purity is not good enough
society gazes upon me with it's large luminous eyes
i am sorry that my hair is not straight enough
or i am flat
and when i look in the mirror my reflection cries, its hands reaching out to me through the fractured glass
yet why must i weep
beauty is in everything,
in the smoldering fire which dimly lights my cold room, sending marmalade sparks across the floor,
in the grimey walls, grout growing in the cracks and spray paint slowly crackling off,
in the failed paintings, where the splotches of cobalt and splashed of marigold are too thick,
in the cheap foundation i slather across my face,
in the maths equations my brain cannot contemplate,
and even in me,
there is beauty
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 6:23 PM UTC
I was hungry, so I went to the deli to eat,
And it wasn’t a far walk, just right down the street.
My stomach was excited, as I threw open the door,
But immediately I thought, “This decision was poor.”
Behind the counter stood a man who looked like a freak,
With pockmarks and moles that made my knees weak.
His mouth was a mess and his teeth, long and mangled,
It’s a mystery that they fit, with the way they were angled.
I was uneasy at first, but decided I’d try,
And maybe It’d turn out he wasn’t a bad guy.
I told him I wanted a BLT:
Bacon, lettuce, tomato, and mayo -- really easy.
Well, this guy turned out to be about as smart as a rock,
He proceeded to ruin my sandwich while I stared in shock.
First he grabs the roll, and cuts it in two,
And the two halves were uneven! What’s wrong with you!?
Then he picks up the mayo knife and starts to slather,
And I realize that this guy didn’t even gather
The fact that there’s ketchup all over the knife that he’s using!
I feel like this guy is starting to find this amusing.
Next for the veggies -- the L and T --
Should be simple, but this guy really worried me.
He slaps on the lettuce which is slimy and brown,
This was now a competitor for “Worst Sandwich in Town.”
Time for tomatoes, and I’m feeling scared…
He takes the nasty white end pieces, and throws them on like, “Who cares?”
Then he wraps up the sandwich that he thinks he’s done makin’,
And he hands it to me even though there’s No Bacon!!
So I looked at him straight, and I spoke him these words,
“You can have that back, since it looks as appealing as turds!”
I stormed out the deli feeling nothing but disgust,
And decided that that was the last time I trust
A deli worker who had teeth that didn’t fit his jaw,
And a face that looked like he kissed a bansaw.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
To my disdain...
Their stare, violent in nature
and here I thought for sure
the papers, the newscasters
(for vultures they are)
would see, would glee
at the ugly underneath
from all the slander and banter
that I could gather to slather
upon the wound of your economy
to cover the scars of your villainy
with boasts of your generous chivalry
and yet, the eyes of the vultures mutter disparagingly
about warfare, murders, and highway robbery
as leaders of the Moons, and the Five Red Stars
lick their lips in harmony at your display
They're ready to clip your wings 'O War Eagle
to ***** the flame 'O Lady of Copper
You must strive to prove your regal
Or soon will be our day of violent upheaval
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
slather my lips more with your salivated
ecstasy.
pry my mouth open
and speak to me in french—kiss and make me
remember that these illusions are safe. perhaps
alter my two realities,
tell me that i am real—you are real. this trip has no
end, i know. but i've never been loved like this.
i would end it if it means i'd get to live again,
but then i'll leave you here
—all alone with no one to hold.
Apr 20, 2023
Apr 20, 2023 at 8:47 AM UTC
Why are we so
Obsessed,
with the liquid paint
that we slather on our
faces-
morning after morning?
We stroll the isles of
Fifty shades of Nudes
to find the shade
that makes us look like
Painted glass
Porcelain dolls,
and Fake.
Why?
Why are we so obsessed with
Maybelline and
Covergirl and
Elf?
The brands that contour
our faces
and create an illusion
a canvas
Over-painted by
Overpriced
Chemicals.
Beauty costs
Money.
Youth.
Clear skin.
But it brings this sense of
false hope that
maybe-
we can accept ourselves
after we put on this paint
and call it beauty.
We see Photoshop,
the blurred lines,
the perfect wing,
and the rosy shade of blush
that seems perfectly
Fake.
Too perfect to be real
Too perfect to be real.
And yet we strive,
for this unattainable beauty.
The **** we see on
Facebook
YouTube
Instagram
drives us crazy
because no matter how hard we try
no matter how much we waste
we can’t seem to get that
contour right
and that wing sharp
and that mascara clump-less
and that lipstick perfect.
And even though
we cannot seem to get it right,
we buy
we strive
to be the perfect shade of perfection.
Because we’re obsessed.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
is seemed the only reasonable option.
i wanted to crawl out of my skin
crawl out of my mind
and even the solace of
a sleeping unconscious
rigidly refuses my pleas
defies me
like everything and everyone else.
hot water
candlelight
the aroma and feel
of lavender and eucalyptus oil
only pull me deeper
into sorrow and despair.
i. can't. do. this.
what next?
i already tried white russians
a sleeping pill
allergy medication
"the privilege of the sword"
i tried thinking hard
and not thinking at all
i try to steel myself again life
become hard
uncaring
i try not to give a ****
but it's all pathetic attempts
to go against my nature.
my nature dictates i cry
that i thrash against this
that i reach out again and again
that i make an utter fool of myself.
i opened the window...maybe the air will help
(it won't.)
i'll put on music to soothe me
(it will do the opposite.)
i will disrobe
slather lotion on myself
i'll climb into my bed
with my stupid purple hair
and cry into my blankets
while sad music plays.
eventually you will find me asleep
among twisted blankets and tears
likely clutching a pillow
for dear life.
i will awake to find
nothing has changed
and use all my strength
to get out of bed.
i'll force myself back
to my desperate searching.
i'll vow not to make a fool of myself this day
and fail.
i will push my pounding heart back
so that it is just a whisper
and just face that fact
that life b l o w s.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Skin cancer isn't funny
so cover up when it is sunny
so slather on all sorts of ointment on your skin
It might just be a rumour
Every skin tag's not a tumour
You don't want to think of what just might have been
If you find you have a pimple
On your back or in your dimple
Go and get it checked out all the same
You don't want to die of cancer
When you could have had the answer
You have to know that cancer's not a game
So, do not be indignant
It might just be malignant
check it out before the nightmare comes to pass
See a doctor if you're worried
Go real fast as if you're hurried
You don't want your name read out in your church mass
I hope you get my meaning
And you know which way I'm leaning
I don't want to hear you died when you should not
Take care and do inspections
Of all your parts and sections
Remember, this is the only life that you have got.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
The new growth on my apple trees is covered in aphids;
the leaves curl and darken under the crawling green foam of their bodies.
My roses broke out in black, dropping yellow leaves,
bearing thick sickly flowers of hope on bare spindly stems.
Now even old hollyhocks have scales, those innocent seeming bumps
multiplying and spreading. And the aphids will go everywhere when they
**** the apple trees dry, they are already migrating
to poppy buds and young tomatoes.
I go to the nursery, resisting the urge to wring and brush off my hands.
She uncovers the facts--my garden got no fertilizer, and water may be insufficient.
So I will try to give my garden what it needs--the nutritious powder, the thorough watering,
the ladybugs in cheesecloth cages, the beneficial microbes, and where I must I will hack the plants away.
My self, meanwhile,
crawls too.
I slather vice on the wound, but the sting always returns.
The world expects me to be stronger than I am. The world is set up
for strong people, and it provides for them.
Once again I am like the short, shy child standing by the counter, overlooked.
But I cannot expect to grow into strength. And the world will only protect me
once I no longer need protection.
At times I sit in a stream of presence. I slather virtue on the wound,
but the sting always returns.
I straddle need and lack,
a gaping wound between my feet. I could sink down that hole,
but it too hurts, it hurts.
I am in the wild--no gardener comes to tend to my hunger or thirst,
or my illness after harsh conditions. Well, one comes--
a harsh gardener comes.
I wring and brush off my hands. I brush off each little invasion,
but there are always more.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC
We shall sit upon our throne
In all its debauched desire.
Tapping beats upon the arm
Inwrought with gold and iron.
The court may sway
Curtains draped askew.
The courtiers façade
Shall fade anew.
Those lips that spewed
Sweet suckled honey dew
Shall slather and harden
As truth comes to view.
It comes not in words
Or sweet music to our ears
But rings from steel,
Sharpened by our fears.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
The sun shoots
Ray drops
Like bullets through
The clouds;
Coming at the speed
Of light,
Bathing our exposed world.
I can't slather lotion
On mountains, lakes and trees,
There's little to prevent the scorch
That's reddening our streets.
We're under hats,
We've covered skin,
The shade from leafs
Is growing thin.
The executioner's leaking in.
We live a greenhouse life
Beneath umbrellas,
On towels on sand;
We're being fried
On the land;
Stirring the ***
With sun-cracked hands.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
I do not much care for poets
We're a touchy bunch indeed
How we validate our feelings
By what other people read
How we dive into our writing
Like a swine into its mud
And we savor every sentence
Like a ruminating cud
How we strike upon the heartstrings
Of the others like ourselves
But we feel so violated
When we're pulled out of our shells
How we make such grand investments
With our twenty dollar words
Toward the inevitability
That our voice will be heard
And we slather on the sentiment
With metaphoric verse
Vindication in our imagery
So beautiful and terse
And I sometimes have to wonder
If the reason we create
Is exclusively attracting
Someone else who can relate
No, I don't much care for poets
Though the blame is not on you
As the simple truth about it
Is that I'm a poet too
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
It is Fall.
Autumn sheds her golden sleeves,
skirts swishing softly
Her sunset stained fingers
slather the world in orange,
clean, crisp lines that capture the
crunch of leaves on canvas,
dabs of brooding blue,
bright, bold strokes for the brick-red
walls where the dormouse scampers.
art and wind;
Art, and wind.
do you hear the seasons
changing?
Dec 14, 2020
Dec 14, 2020 at 3:09 PM UTC
Be careful where you sit your ***
Keep your kids off the grass,
Take a stroll but wear a mask,
Wash your food,
Avoid butter,
While you're at it,
Wash your water.
Slather toxins on our skin
That seep into our soul.
Death is all around us,
Don't say you've not been told.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC