"slathering" poems
You make me sick
Slathering Splenda sweetness
On, all slimy and thick
It is fake like your nails
your hair
your skin
And especially -
Your claim to enlightenment
Enlightened ones
feed not on attention -
but on living & giving
Sharing your thoughts
to spread happiness
Cause beauty blooms
In the garden of the mind
So stop sharing your body
the only thing it pleases
is many, many a *****
You exclaim love is your guidance
But internally you shout disgust
Disgust for yourself
Disgust, for all those girls
Whose men you claimed
With your filthy cat claws
Your heart is an empty hole
And pitch black is the color
Of your ever whimpering soul
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
Contemplating the versatility of Mayo
And all that can be done with it
From the slathering on whilst sun bathing
To globbing it on my bologna sandwich
I find it tantalizing to the tastebuds
And it sure does sizzle in the sun
I once applied to much and set my toes on fire
Lucky for me I lost only one
Thank goodness I was near the water
When my foot went up in flames
I guess that's why God gives us ten toes
In case we lose any along the way
As with anything you can even get bored with Mayonnaise
That's why I strive for different ideas
So I put my brain juices into overdrive
And came up with this amazing list
Instead of milk in a shake you can use Mayo
Please wait till the end for all the applause
I'm still having trouble dealing with thickness
And have yet to get it through the straw
Perhaps if I leave out the ice cream
And just add Mayo, milk chocolate, and ice
I guess I'll just keep on experimenting
When it's ready you can be the first in line
And who doesn't like mayonnaise on anchovie pizza
The perfect combination at best
Even better than peanut butter and jelly
If only I can figure out how to package it
Mayonnaise is also the perfect conditioner
You could leave it in your hair for days I suppose
But try to avoid to much time in the sun
After all...remember the toes
I'm going back to my room for more ideas now
Or as I like to call it..."The Mayo Think Tank"
I know my family thinks I'm a genius
Cause they always leave me in there for days
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Wave
after wave
Of chilly fresh air
Washes over me,
Slathering me
Smothering me
In your intoxicating natural perfume,
Wafting in from the door you just waltzed through.
Confident,
Assured,
You silently entice me;
Quietly luring me into the spider's web
To devour me mercilessly ,
A wiling sacrifice to the hedonist gods.
Wrapped in your firm embrace,
I melt,
Overcome with the sensations of ecstasy and elation,
As your warm fingers wind through my hair,
Pulling -
tugging-
Bending me to the passions of the moment,
Where I exhale my simple reality,
And sink deeper into the fantasy that you lend me;
A dark and sumptuous world
Full
Of bare skin glistening in moonlight-
Writhing,
And shining
In our our titanic efforts to go to new places,
To attain new highs.
Melding-
We drink in the sultry air
As if it were the wine of the heavens,
Each breath,
a prayer to a distant god
Each sigh,
an escaping gasp of praise to the distant stars,
Bestowing their blessing upon our arching forms.
A place of exquisite torture
Where we waver in wanton abandon,
Unaware of
And without care for
the fleeting worlds around us.
We exist,
In bliss,
In utter ecstatic pleasure,
Making monuments meant to be remembered
And worshipped;
And as our sweet comedown lays us prone,
Gasping
Struggling to make sense of the sensual chaos
That just ensued
With blank minds that threaten to shut down all together
My fingers hold yours,
Locked in
And intertwined with a strong link-
Like a life raft
To carry me over
these waves of bliss.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
1
The surging water threw strange shapes,
Waiting crows with stabbing beaks
In the sky and in the drowned souls,
Festering in the swell.
The huge irrepressible waves
Spread wings flattening houses with a single downward swipe.
It was a sudden death,
They died screaming-avidly watched by millions nestling before TV sets
Unmoved if sympathetic.
They had watched enough CGI
Not to be bothered by such drama.
2.
The girl quietly combed her hair,
Bitter black in the lamplight,
Watching the snarling fox shoot from its lair
Slathering with fright.
As she lifted her arm again
The salt spray struck her, flattening her face
The wave soothed where her smile had been
Her limbs acquiring a greater grace.
It ****** in cars and houses, gulping down
The unresistant landscape with unforgiving speed,
Turning the living green into regurgitated brown
Digesting the landscape with ******** greed
It drew her little body back into the equalising sea
Just another bit of debris.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Out there with the shingled road
shimmering in the white sun
squinting into the periphery,
burnt ragged and raw retinas
dilation
out there in the slathering of sky
sleeps your soul
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
A countless headed monster
rampaged through the village yesterday
smashing everything in its wake
befouling the water
and devouring my whole family
in its slathering jaws.
It really was no consolation
that it brushed its teeth afterwards.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
Your heart is the same shape and size
as a fist
But don’t use it like one
because hearts
they aren’t metaphors like a fist
they cannot be healed with stitches and a band-aid
The ability to touch does not mean the ability to feel
and waiting for your heart to heal
it’s a hell of a lot more than antiseptic
My fury for you
I threw some punches
I tried to break open that prison that holds your heart captive
but I guess my voice just wasn’t the right frequency because it’s still in tact
and yes,
when the world went quiet for a moment
I could hear the gears of the universe turning inside of you and I loved the sound of it
but that’s my fault
You told me I was too young and I don’t see the way that the real world works
and that’s because I view the world in metaphors but life
is not poetry
I knew the woman at the beauty supply store had never had her heart broken
when she kicked me out of the hair isle for slathering shampoo on my chest
because I was hoping the suds would seep in through my skin and
find their way to my heart
The label on the bottle read anti-breakage
I just couldn’t resist to try
The librarian was confused when I returned the dictionary that smelled like peroxide and was covered in band-aids
Maybe she had never been hurt by words or maybe
life is not poetry
I told you that kissing you was like waking up right before seeing the sun rise
after the apocalypse
You didn’t understand
I told you that I wanted to string the stars from your bedroom ceiling so you would always have something to count on and again you didn’t understand
I told you my heart was a quilt of mixed-matched fabric with flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions
You still didn’t understand even though our internal wounds are stitched up using the same thread
Because life is not poetry
Life is real and I am so **** good at letting people love me
it scared me to see my joy sitting in your hands
slipping through the creases of your fingers like sand
I stopped saying your name when it started sounding real to me
So I guess this is how it ends
With the realization that I could shatter and leave my broken pieces under your pillow
and you still would not dream of me
So don’t
use your heart like a fist
because life is not poetry
I am not a metaphor
I’m not a phrase
an expression or an exclamation
I’m not a simile and I’m certainly not a hyperbole
But I’d rather have ink on my hands than blood
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
I built it
Brick by brick
Slathering mortar
Rebar pierced
Lines off center
Foundation firm
Concrete faults
Cemented sadness
Tall as it is wide
I built it
Contracted of stupidity
Designed in self-absorption
Blue prints of folded sorrow
Erected by a fool
No cranes needed
Drawn in teardrops
Fallen from your eyes
Collected puddles of my deceit
I built it…this wall
That keeps you from me
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Pressure to be pretty in the unearthly hours of the morning
Eyes pulled down by bags, bloated and yawning
Eyeliner and lipgloss and concealer thick and fast
Covering the callouses, praying it'll last
looking good and smelling good and in the peak of health
Its all an uphill struggle to better your fine self
Judged by a jury of unexperienced youths
Panicing at lunchtime, retouching in the loos.
Hair and eyes and lips and cheeks and clothing and skin
Bottle after bottle, empty in the bin
Scraping and slathering, plucking and plastering.
The never ending problem, thats actually, within.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
on january 1st midnight sharp
i thought i heard the voice of new year's harp
fireworks banging
champagne bottles clanking
a new story, a new life, a new chapter to begin
a new year, a new me is ready to come in
or so we all thought...
it came out of nowhere
it started in the east
all cities were flooded with peace
the west still living in utopia
not afraid of the soon to come phobia
fast forward to march - the last big gathering
all forced to stay home and work online
the green spiky ball slathering
the numbers are climbing, what do we do?
wear a mask, keep 1.5 meters distance, don't meet people
otherwise you'll get the new flu
wait, stop, don't drink bleach!
don't trust that blonde, orange-skinned peach!
listen to your doctor and nurses at the front
like a war without guns or tanks
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 6:08 PM UTC
Sometimes I've had about enough
All these ******* buttercups
Puckering up
At the first scent of gruff
It's disruptive
To my mustering
I mean
Must we
Smother trouble out of ****
Must we malfunction
Into a skit
A script
Skipp-ed
To laugh tracks
Pre-writ
Until the last laughs
Where the curtains close
To fading claps
All the cards
Are all on the floor
Little adorable torturers
Peering through the doors
Afforded by our tor-mentors
Over it
We will get
Even get on with it
Cuz all of this
This is that and that is this
Is ******* ridiculous
Is worthless
It is foulness in its stench
The bowels of our regret
Unkempt and ******
It's ******** soaked in ****
Where the credits never roll
And the patrons only stroll
On outta here for a beer
And a night on the town
And all this
Flapping of the gums
And slathering of spit
Is glossing over my ****
And it's all we will ever get
If we would just submit
Wipe the sand from our *****
And remove the ******* sticks
We might find
We have loosened up a bit
Just don't be such a little *****
And other inflammatory ****
[That's it]
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
We queue up like
indentured servants
grateful as ripe fruit for
the opportunity to
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
do I need to survive
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
We line up like
Hoovervillites
eager as dogs for
the opportunity to
plunge our paws into
scalding pots of wondering
how many coins
how many beds
how many children
must I offer to subsist
in a world that spins
out of reach like the apples
of the world's tallest tree
We row up rank and file like
slaves
servile as a Christmas and Easter parishioner's lips slathering for
the opportunity to
kiss the papal ring imagining
how many hours
how many loves
how many lives
will be lost to languish
in a world that ossifies
like Gluttony's cast off carcasses
left by the world's fattest corporate cat
We queue up like
indentured servants
dolorous as dying vines from
the bonds and bridles that
bend our back in an
eternal question asking
how few grains
how few beans
how few drops
will I have left
after they've taken the sweater
after they've taken the apple
after they've taken the scraps
in a world that fits
like the abandoned sweater
of the world's tallest man
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
I knew the woman at the Shopper's Drug Mart had never had her heart broken when she kicked me out of the hair aisle for slathering shampoo onto my chest for I was hoping that the suds would seep into my skin and find their way to my heart.
The label on the bottle read "anti breakage" and I just couldn't resist a try.
It didn't work however.
Possibly because the skin that stretches across my rib cage is no longer flesh, but scar tissue.
Or maybe its because I see the world in metaphors.
I am a Chinese flower *** and my cracks are full of gold.
My heart is a quilt made of mix-matched fabric of flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions.
I am the paradox of the bumblebee who hurts herself way more to sting than to stay.
But I am too complicated to me a metaphor.
I am a human, flawed and fabulous, still trying to find out why I'm here and too naive to see I'll never know.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
A man rips
apart my house
bite by bite
with teeth holding
rotted wood chips
like toothpicks
after a meal of
summer corn
roasted in spring green husks
and
strands of butter silk
A man rips
apart my house
bite by bite
with brilliant teeth
in a mouth that
speaks in tongues
that my heart knows even
as it slips through my mind
slick as coconut oil
to pool in my wordless
mouth
A man rips
apart my house
bite by bite
A man rips
apart my house
lupine jowls slathering
as his chain saw teeth make
dust of where I live
dust of what I've done and been
ashes of my name
A man rips
apart my house
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
a one dimensional
*** ***** brain
in a three dimensional hologram of consciousness
i am a dumb wind
a slouching mongrel soul
carved in corpusles
its twenty six dimensions stupid!
mind like a radish in a **** slum
inhabiting a no return winter
of hollow helled mountains
soon to be dead
like disappearing smoke
i hear my voice
trying to count its molecules
with a slathering tongue
needle numb
and a brocaded Vox throat of tears
while eyes plead floating
like cataract clouds
no
Shadrach Meshach and Abednego
shinning baptism ufo's
god ***** shimmering in space
no
no reality quotient here
in a fitted sim built blood machine
of flimsy bone locomotion's
looking for time slips
tormented
by lifes prodding night stick
in a distortion field
i turn the wheel of shapeless shadows
in Satan's mill
waiting dormant
****** and muzzled
in a 666 cosmic zip code
im just another
****** **** ***** Jew
************ ******
apple bend over
living to pay the ******* rent
in a house fallen before its built
panting staccato deja vu's
in a no return winter
of pandemonium
in this knot of blotting screams
i try desperately to levitate
from this spittoon of ascending ***** matter
here gold turns to chalk
and i'm always doing gods work
with the devils pride
like a bug in the grass
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
Melancholia
is not mine
but a fruit that I chew upon
slowly at first
nippling the bud at the tip
******* the juice from the tip
baby,
just
a little bite
creating trenches
in skin, tiny crooked marks,
the footprints of the biter,
the mark of treasure hidden.
And you look so tangerine sour,
baby, doesn't matter
it's a dream of my own
mine only
and i'll watch as
salvia lingers off your skin
slathering upon the constellations on that that is lanky and pure
and the hairy forestation of your past discretions
stretching wide from fingertip to fingertop
see x marks the spot
that bitemark there--
is the foible my strength.
bootlegged and stolen through
a many tear ago.
just hoping to find
moon craters and lagan lollies
once again.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Wrestling My Father
The scent of gasoline and lanoline lingers
mingled with sweat and Old Spice, menthol
Winston’s from back before you gave them up
for good persist in half-life beneath Vitalis
sheen and Listerine, waves of Bengay radiating
off red hot coals of trapezius muscles seized
inside a white V neck tee from Monkey Wards,
thin cotton canvas worked with small fevered hands,
greedy, slathering claim, leaving myself open to
reversal and the pin, sting of ancient rug burn
still gracing my cheek, palms pressed to face inhaling
what little I can of you by lung full.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
My life is like quicksand,
I continuously sink slowly,
Kick and drag myself up high enough just to gulp at air.
Then follows the slow descent.
I'm unsure of what's at the bottom
But my toes have tickled it a few times
Then the beast bellows and laughs,
Sending tsunami waves through the sand;
I roll like a ship about to be taken under by fierce swell.
Sometimes I think the quicksand is encased in my skull...
Sometimes I think the depths of the quicksand settle on the top of my spinal cord.
Sometimes I think I'm numb from the corrosive vibrations of the sludgy water-sand mix:
Jamming my nervous system, rusting it over.
But then the memory of pressure of your hand around my neck
Makes me forget the metaphor of the sand
And the make-believe depression.
And the blood in my nose, that drips and drys and repeats itself daily
Exists because you forced my head against the wall so many times.
Razors are not a comfort they are a fear and I still cough them up from my lungs.
I realise you are not terrifying
I realise that you do not own my life
You do not decide that I am real or fake or suffering.
I realise that you are only a scar
That I am slathering oils and remedies over
In order to make the red fade.
I realise that I am so *******
H A P P Y
One year on;
And I have overcome your disease,
Dislodged your putrid fangs,
Rebuilt myself,
Healed, cured myself...
Found a real person
Who knows how to love me
And teach me to love me.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
I’m often afraid
Of what I can’t always say
Not knowing is sure to make fear
Multiply upon itself until I cannot
Breathe and my heart races as if it
Can run away despite my body’s
Stillness
Frozen like a rabbit hides from
Slathering wolves
But my wolf is not so solid, its sharp
Teeth and ember eyes change into
Something with which I cannot
Reason
Maybe it is nothing I fear
Dark branches stretching out
Into night drenched
Solitude
Headlights my only solace from the
Dizzy roads and inky stars
What are they hiding, those
Branches
Perhaps wolves, perhaps nothing
I prefer the wolves
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 1:35 AM UTC
Wannabe novelist,
Slumming it slathering rhymes,
Awful prose and verse.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
Let's have some fun! Let's go to the Gynae!
If you bleed a lot or have a tickly *****
Or if you have more spots down there
Than the walls in your local Indian restaurant
Or if you pong like a smoked salmon sandwich
It's off to the Gynae! Off to the Gynae!
The Gynae will ask a lot of personal questions
But he's not a pervert really (usually)
He's only doing his job but always bear in mind
He chose this specialisation out of many and
You have every right to wonder why
Anyone would ever do such an odd thing...
Strip off your clothes, put on a hospital gown,
(but be suspicious if it has a "see through" rear
or is of the Lithuanian "open crutch" design);
Then relax on an examination table
And hum along to Abba on the Musak,
Then get your feet up on the jolly stirrups.
Now open your legs so that the quack
Can get a total eyeful of your love-crack;
Don't be shy, he's seen hundred like yours
And some in worse condition too (I expect!);
You may ask to cover your feet with a sheet
If you feel they are too smelly for modesty's sake.
On with the surgical gloves, out with the speculum
And a liberal slathering of K-Y
And we're into the good old Gynae action!
Now lie back and enjoy two gloved fingers
Groping you like Crazy Frog on ******
He's hunting for lumps and bumps, yee-ha!
Don't feel embarrassed, oh no, oh no,
Why not ask your boyfriend or hubby
(or girlfriend if you're a hairy ****
To sit in with you for the occasion?
Wow! With a bit of luck, just a little bit,
You might end up with a hot swinging session.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
MAD
slathering
slobbering
MAD
jowls hanging
saliva spray
MAD
growls become words
biting at my neck
MAD
MAD dog
MAD dog forcing me in a cage
wait
dad?
is that you?
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
Slathering down with margarine
Making it easier to slip and slide
As I do my very best
To squeeze my way through life
At the start of each day, pull out the Parkay
In the 5 pound economy tub
I used to butter up with a stick of Country Crock
But in the thick of life that's clearly not enough
Plus margarine is less fattening
I've read the statistics of what's going on
And believe you me when it comes to the squeeze
A fella's gotta watch his form
That's why margarine gets a 10 out of 10
When it comes to the slip and slide
As I do my best in my quest
To squeeze my way through life
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
There’s a part of me that say’s I’m jealous
Another thinks my golfing friends just zealous,
Whilst I crave fresh air and healthy motion
They’re busy slathering on the lotion
Before they mount some little cart
That with intent they simply point to dart
At breakneck speed from hole to hole
The putting of that little ball the goal.
Then there’s the clubs, that myriad bunch
The choice of which for them the crunch,
To make the shot or fail once more
Blaming each for that bad score.
Tortured, ruffled, discontent,
They soon repair to that drinks tent
To then replay the whole long game
Masterful excuses quickly turning lame.
But here’s the crunch and my dilemma
The doubt that heightens my antenna,
What are they hiding, sharing not a bit
Of why such torture never makes them quit,
Instead they plan and scheme each waking hour
For that free day the calendar they scour,
When they once more may hold that special club
With surging will some dainty green to stub.
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 10:08 AM UTC