"slathers" poems
To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
***** spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.
I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.
A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight. The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:57 AM UTC
Walls, colored like vanilla,
melt against the ribbons of gray
that the cinnamon red flames breathe.
slowly, each exhale works as the tempo.
one-two-three-four-five
slow slow quick-quick slow
get on step, J, you're off again.
b r e a t h e
I taste freedom as I spin,
the air burns like alcohol,
it tells me
"pick your poison, J,
choose wisely,
and we'll show you who you are."
but I'm so tired of being
them.
so I'll sway until the traits
slither down my body,
curling around my ankle
before sneaking into never again.
I'll mix my being with the acid
gripping onto the shadows as I tilt back,
demons will nip at my neck when my
hair brushes the floor,
with my body bent,
hands clutching Hades' shoulders,
I let out a cry.
He tells me I'll get better.
we'll spin
like lies, rumors, thoughts,
we'll ****** our feet, and stomp out the pain,
the flickering will shade,
and there will be nothing but the sound
of my dancing
protesting, landing, ordering
against, on, to
the ground,
demanding to be seen, heard, known.
I'll leap across,
pressing my body close enough to Death
that I can tell you
She's just as lovely as Lust,
and She'll twirl me
until the radiation I've encountered
slathers the wall.
I'll heave until I collapse,
becoming nothing but
a heap of avoidance.
part one of
my tango.
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC
I have always been a thrill-seeker.
Always happily anticipating the next climb
the drop that follows
the subtle dip at the bottom before
the next climb
and the calming effect
caused by their succession.
Now life is a roller-coaster.
Up
down
cool wind...
Up
down again.
It scares me
but not the kind
that slathers my face
with a smile
the kind
that makes me want
to cry.
Yet, even as I currently sit
I know that
deep down
I love this roller-coaster
most of all.
It's just like the other kind
only...
This is the most
extreme
roller-coaster
in the world.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 3:34 PM UTC
She is unhappy
She feels so scarred
She feels so ugly
She feels so large
She looks so tired
She looks so trapped
She seems so sad
So broken, so snapped
She doesn't cry like an angel
Her eyes are puffy and her face is a mess
She gives silent heaves and wipes at her nose
And she knows she as ugly as everyone says
She ***** in her cheeks
Pinches her nose
Pulls up her brows
Then drops the pose
She changes her clothes
She fixes her nails
She cuts her hair
And no one cares
She slathers on foundation
Stains her lips with rouge
Conceals every imperfection
Stills her hair with mousse
She still feels ugly
She still feels overweight
She still won't eat a bite of food
Until she feels she looks great
But that day isn't coming
She is judged everyday
By that mirror and that scale
And the model on the front page
She's fat, she knows it
She's not in perfect shape
There's no thigh gap
There's no one that likes her face
And she's staring at the mirror
Seeing her reality
She wants to look better
She wants to be pretty
She's staring at the mirror
She's waiting for the image to change
She's waiting for her work to pay off
She checking every single day
And she's staring in the mirror
It's been years and she still doesn't fit
And she's staring at the mirror
But never once has she liked the image
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
I read the thoughts of others; in but a line I can feel the pain. It radiates through the text, the author's intent-
It slathers through your heart, leaving nothing the same
The passion filled sadness of every word, creates an indent: the anxiety of silence that can be heard echos through your head
The stories of love, heart break and death
Register in your soul - the ache , the chasm like depth
'Someone help me- someone save me from myself" is but a plea that we ignore with the silence we speak ourselves.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
I am sick and tired of you talking about other girls
Calling them weird and ugly and fake
When it is you who slathers on the makeup
Hiding behind false beauty
I am tired of overhearing you calling a girl fat
Because she is not a size two
When it is you who starved yourself
To look as you do today
I am done with you walking like you have a stick up your ***
Pretentiously scavenging the halls for your next target
When it is you who has been the target as of late
And you pay no mind
I am appalled by your arrogance
Telling professionals they have no right to tell you how to live
When they can see where you are heading
For you are not as original as you seem
I am sorry for how sad you must be
Constantly looking inward
When all you find is an empty abyss
Peering back at you
I am apologetic for what you have to go through
Constantly fighting battles that are far beyond your years
When they are far bigger then you
And anything you can do
Most of all
I am content
That we are not longer friends
No longer yearning for
When all you could tell me
Was how bad I was.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
My brother's wife is dying,
diagnosed three months
prior to my spouse
they have had almost
three years.
I am happy to have been first,
for now I know how to be
that older brother
never there for him before.
It is peaceful on the farm
the cycles present themselves
as nature instructs,
together they bury the beloved
in the garden.
My dear ones fashion markers from
bark, agates, photographs
and feelings.
I watched them laugh
in the heat of the brutal
southern summer
hosing each other cool
naked as jays in their fifties,
humor comes without
a date of expiration.
My brother is the family
genealogist, he knows every
detail of our heritage,
knows his black neighbor
is our relative,
when they fish they are uncle
and cousin.
Laura prepares them sandwiches
from the garden, curses the raccoons
for eating all but the last tomatoes,
she slathers them with mayo
for the boys on the plantation's
levy.
Bob takes her for chemo at 6am
all year long.
They read each copy of Prism
in the cubicle
while Laura is tethered,
making mental notes
of my perceptions
for accuracy.
Soon I will get the call
I will be up even though
it is 2am.
What we say to one another
will be private but only for
a time.
Life is designed to be shared,
it is not a secret hell
to be endured.
We will likely walk again
on the rich soil Laura
called "Green Acres."
He will see her planting
cukes and maters in spring
grateful for the strength
of wreckless youth
which drove her from the Bronx
at 17 determined not to be
the butterfly of New York class
with all its dreadful
opportunities.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
She is soft buttery goodness
Her golden curls embalm her in Heavenly light
She slathers on her goodness and brightens the darkness
Her sticky drawl is a hymn
She is a warm, familiar sweetness
She is home
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
My head against your neck, I am breathing you in. I am breathing
you
in
and I feel transported to somewhere that isn’t where we are, your shapes welded into my memory as though building a house where each brick is another moment. A moment. That shimmers when light slathers its face, that quivers with a sound when we speak of things that nobody else needs to know. Doorbell rings, dog bark, jangle of rain on the roof. Our spider web of memories a pearly glisten. It’s nice to be an ours and not a theirs. Sunflower voice on my lip. This is a private matter, a fragment in the shadows where we play play play. You are my shadow. My shadow. Magic dust, body of the night. Touching you is like a snowflake wickedly intricate in my palm. Look at you in my midday dreams, a spicy smirk, bringing your own brand of pandemonium. Bloodshot eye red, a day on fire. You don’t know you do this, no no, ain’t that the way. I still breathe you in. Ain’t that the way. Inhale, inhale, I say your name as if its clockwork, regular and there, my seconds, my hours.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Psychodynamic Catalyses commencing in 3... 2... 1...
Trial I:
Subject A's standing still, a perfect vacuous slate-
Oh wait - time: 10 - the twitching has begun
Something's been boiling beneath its skin:
Repressed, internalized emotions
Pleading - please - to leave the mind,
But no! It forgets, ignore the fractured bleeds
Inside,
Wipes clean the bursting mind anew.
Trial II;
Both Subjects have stumbled in, eyes met,
I reckon just one second left until the first
Wipes grimy doubts from seeping pores
And slathers some on its wincing guest.
Oh yes!
The most perfect Projection of self yet!
Proceed.
Trial III;,
Already introduced - the love pheromones -
And Subject A is completely induced
In love.
Distance, deliberations, and anguished moans
Hearken in the Pyrrhic self-preservation:
Subject A has maimed B in love-hate!
Reaction Formation a huge success.
Trial IV,
Gaslight interrogations have rendered
Subject A blind to all its repercussions,
For now the whole world's wrong if time
Can't prove its Rationalizations right,
No, not right, but fundamental to its very
Life!
Trial V
Hourly pedal electric shocks have Displaced
All the color of passion from the Subject's eyes -
Pale white!
And now in pathetic ploy to gain some joy
Leads it to bite, and gnaw, and destroy!
Everything!
Trial VI.
An injection of liquid memories
Of torment and trauma and rejected
Dreams,
And now the Subject has curled up
And shrunken backwards in time!
A little Regressed, teetering toddler,
And now a suckling infant safe
By its mothers side.
Trial VII...
Something... unusual has occurred,
But do not fret or pull the funds!
Nothing but a standard deviation from the norm:
Our Subject has taken all its desires and cries
And transformed it into a radiant
Cloud.
Now, this Sublimation of the mind
Has left no pain, no suffering!
The Subject - I regret to inform - is fine.
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC