"slicked" poems
The barber asked "what would you like?
Quiff?
bun?
Mohawk?
slicked back?
side parting?
centre parting?
greased?
permed?
straightened?
skin head?
bald head?
spiky?
A comb over?
pony tail?
pig tails?
curly?
frizzy?
dyed?
mop top?
French crop?
blue rinse?
purple rinse?
step?
undercut?
shaggy?
dreadlocks?"
"No thanks" I replied
"I'll have a short back and sides and make it messy on top please"
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
I saw him today
He looked just as he did months ago
He hair was all in his face instead of slicked back
His shirt was tucked in and he was wearing a belt
He looked like his old self again
The one who I knew, really knew
I understood his brief sigh, could wrap my mind around his gentle smile
Could wake up to his breathing
I had never loved someone in such a way where it consumed me
He was delicate, fragile, but could stand in his two feet with no effort
And I loved when he was drunk, stumbling into my arms
It was the only time I ever really held him if only for a fleeting moment
I wish I had never known him before the change
It would be easier for my lungs to collect air
If I hadn't tasted his secrets, hadn't washed my hands in his laughter
If I hadn't met the boy who cared so much for the world
He never faltered in his genuine approach, never had to even try to be a light
He just was
I know that in this drought I will have to move on from him
But it is hard to walk away from something you once found such solace in
He was a thunderstorm
Could put me to sleep in troubled times, the sound of his rain
But the echo of his thunder was enough to wake the dead
The destruction he left behind him was merely a walk through an empty hallway
He had no idea what he had done to me and still I think he is oblivious
I do not want to tell him
Do not want him to feel pain or remorse for a girl he swore he'd love forever
I've learned it is easy to believe the things you want to hear
I was deaf to every motive that was not to my liking
I should have seen it coming from the moment he said he was just too busy
Hectic schedules are likely dry seasons and the sand of our hourglass had run out
Time had slipped off of my fingers like rain drops off the window of a car speeding down the highway
Flying by but moving ever so slowly
Evaporating had never seemed so malicious and
I saw him today
He looked just as he did months ago
He hair was all in his face instead of slicked back
His shirt was tucked in and he was wearing a belt
He looked like his old self again
The one who I knew, really knew
But I don't know him anymore
And he
Does not know me either
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
ching, ching
Two men walk into a local cafe.
A city boy, and a Townsman
The cityboy sports
Slicked up hair.
Blue button up shirt,
Grey slacks.
Dress shoes.
The townsman simpler.
Brown hair.
Orange T-shirt,
cargo pants.
Work boots.
"Hey there!" Says the city boy.
walking up to the counter.
"Do you ladies have different roasts of coffee?
Or do you have just one kind?"
The Register girl looks at him sideways.
"What are you talking about?"
"I want a black light roast if you have it. Also, two shots over ice."
He hands her his travel mug.
"What's this for?"
The girl fondles the travel mug.
"I'd like my coffee in that please."
The manager puts a hand to the girls shoulder.
"The house coffee is a light roast doll, give him that."
"Cream and sugar?" Asks the register girl.
"Oh god, please no." Laughs the city boy "Thank you."
Handing over a credit card.
The register girl does not understand
what is so funny about cream and sugar.
"Cash?" Says the manager.
"Is there an atm? I can only offer this, but I know how to change that if you point me in the right direction."
"No ATM. We just Offer a discount for cash, we'll take your card." Says the manager.
The city boy waits for his drinks.
The townsman, walks up and says
"Coffee, please"
The manager hands him a paper cup with coffee, cream, and sugar.
He pays them in cash.
smiles, nods. Says: "Thank you"
Then waits for the city boy.
"Here's your sippy cup."
Says the register girl.
Handing over his travel mug.
The city boy stands there waiting patiently.
"Are you waiting for something?"
"Yes. my two shots over ice?"
"Oh I put it in there."
"Could I have two shots over ice please? I'll pay for it again if you forgot."
"Oh we don't have an espresso machine.
Our shots are like a syrup."
"Oh... Is there syrup in here?
I just wanted two shots over ice."
"Well like... I mean our prices are so low anyway, it's no big deal, but we don't have an espresso machine so..."
"Sorry" says the manager.
"Thank you ladies." Says the townsman.
The cityboy grabs the townsmans hand.
They leave the Cafe.
The city boy sips his
Botched coffee.
"I've had good, bad, and know what I want.
I don't want to be seen as difficult because I'm educated."
He tolerates it.
The townsman sips his
Familiar Coffee.
"Sometimes ignorance is bliss."
He enjoys it.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
I sat across from a man made of millions.
From his shiny black patent shoes to his dolphin patterned socks,
and his slicked back gray blonde hair, a color so elusive
Midas himself would find fault with designating blame,
I saw treachery.
If character were based on dress I would assign worth every time.
But people don't work that way: you must listen to what they say.
When he mentioned God and fate in the same breath as commissions and unlimited potential financially,
I went back to the socks.
Imagining the dolphins desperately trying to find someone else's socks,
someone less driven by green pieces of paper easily set aflame by
a deranged individual, someone like me,
who would not be so ludicrous, but entertained the notion,
would have more idealistic pure thought framing.
While the world runs in bounding strides to freedom from debt, from loans, from taxes, and money....stuff,
so that every "thing" materializes as a personal possession
and retirement happens at the unseemly age of 35,
but who will provide a home for the dolphins?
I would not throw my socks away as soon as the threads began to bare.
I would find some cerulean blue thread and weave in the ocean.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
water-slicked concrete
won't deter the idiots
from Snapchat selfies
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 8:34 PM UTC
No more lords.
No more rules.
Dictated by cloud headed fools.
Dogmatic commands issued
from chairs in the sky.
Telling those without wings:
How we cannot live,
And terms when we die
Speaking endless promises
yet speaking in riddles,
circles, and lies.
Life is a game
Of slicked palmed
councils on clouds
Telling us,
Work hard enough!
Aspire high enough!
And you can earn your wings*
(*of feathers and wax)
All your hard work
Will be rewarded at last!
So, work hard today
and pay us our taxes.
Perhaps tomorrow,
you get your wings.
All lies.
We toil today.
We toil tomorrow.
We toil until our loved ones
Gather in shared sorrow.
Buried with unfulfilled dreams
Of flying
Tomorrow.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
seven pages
of carefully picked words
arranged and placed
where they'll get the biggest bang for your buck
because
you never leave the house
without a goal
no, I wasn't astounded to
find that when you cut away the hair
that used to cover your ears
you were even more deaf, than before
your great you know
that charm, it shows
a smile and slicked
back hair style
and you make the rounds
safe and sound
behind the sunshine image
that you've questionably earned
but I made sure
to go light on the accessories tonight
and there is nothing to stop
the clairvoyance that fights its way to my mind
hidden behind my eyes
brown and smiling
long exiling thoughts of you
being like this
but you didnt hear a word i said
no point in discussing your retention
I'll ask although
I already know
have you ever not been
the center of attention
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
I keep coming across these guys
on the bus
walking the streets
they’re just about everywhere
I am.
Sitting across from one of ’em
on the city bus
spooks me down to my core.
They’ve got slicked back
greasy hair
that’s turning gray,
tanned skin from walking in the sun
too much.
Old-style tattoos up and down
their arms
that are blurry and faded green
women’s names are no longer legible
in the little banner around
a simple heart tattoo.
I always wonder where
their women went
cause they never have one
next to them.
Sitting across from this guy,
he takes a good look at me too.
My slicked back, greasy hair, pale skin, and new old-style tattoos.
It’s like he’s lookin’ back
and I’m lookin’ forward
to a future that just might end up
being my own.
I see these men
down & out,
rolling ****** Top Tobacco cigarettes
with brown & yellow fingertips
pregnant little toothpick smokes
with loose ends that spill tobacco
all over their laps
on their faded grey-used-to-be-black
rustler jeans
the cheap kind from K-Mart.
I see these men
and it terrifies me
to think
that could be me and my future.
It could be me.
If I don’t get my **** together.
Cause
right now
today
as I get ready to pull this sheet
from the typewriter and catch the
2:48 p.m. bus
I am going nowhere
Fast.
**** me.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
My boyfriend told me
that
he thinks I am the sexiest
(blushes)
when I just come out of the shower
(blushes)
and my hair is slicked back.
I think its nice because
I think I am the ugliest
when
I just come out of of the shower
(blushes)
and my hair is slicked back
and he doesn't even know
that
(blushes)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Gauze and gargle,
clots and codeine.
No straws!
No scotch!
Where wounds heal,
craters remain.
Months pass,
violence fills the void.
A call,
a message,
a beacon of hope.
A crown for the headless king,
asleep in the depths of his saliva slicked cave.
Clasping and grasping,
an imposter of the highest caliber.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
I spent my boyhood avoiding
the disgrace of my differences.
Creating alternate empires that
I ruled with stoic passion.
I gave out negative vibrations, as a boy,
to control the level of association.
Built walls and lived within them,
perfectly encased in sarcastic wisdom.
Does not take too long to understand
that being yourself is not suggested.
Eager advocates educate the boy that his
differences must be suppressed.
Be the same. Be the same. Be the same.
Moulded and conformed, unaware
of the boyhood desiring to think for self.
I spent my boyhood reading books
that opened libraries of imagination.
Absorbing the solitary creations
of so many magnificent lives. They presented
me with echoes of alternatives.
I never have understood the slicked back
membrane of uncentred filters.
Solitary self-confinement made so
much more tickled sense to me.
I passed out scented cigars of me
to ear-drums inclined to not listen.
They agreed to, and supported,
the numbness of not thinking.
Letting the self-declared prophets
dictate how we must believe.
I spent my boyhood being the boy
that did not fit the paper model.
Set it on fire. Set it on fire. Let the
message always be that a man
must indicate his own set of standards.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Forty days and Forty nights
Kachina dolls danced
pounding deer skin drums
rattling snake gourds
whistling circles of
flustered chicken feathers and totem poles
around the drooping firmament
here and there wisps of
sunken chested, shrunken breasted
castrated clouds dragging their empty
rain barrels could be seen straggling
across heat infested waves
at times I swear I could hear the wind
cussing through dry crackling branches
Pine wearing wide brimmed straw hats
squabbling with over bleached blond Palms
How we languished and thirsted for the
dulcet, pure, pellucid taste of Your crystal kisses
lavender squeaky clean smell of rain-bells
oh! to feel those torrents gushing down our
upturned faces, slicked back hair,
engulfing our flowering *****
drenching us to the bone
then this morning we heard an unfamiliar sound
fairy feet tap-dancing on rooftops
excited I ran outside
crowing the Gayatri mantra
flapping prema pink wings
waddling like a duck in slap happy puddles
Yes, Dear God
a grateful, thankful swan,
gossamer reflection
glistening fervently up at You
from diaphanous depths
inexhaustible wellspring
diamond spa of Your Love
Hari Om
Visit my author's page:
https://www.facebook.com/sairapture
amazon.com/author/sonyatomlinson
and my website:
sairapture.com
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
My father is a lion with his mane cut
and slicked back, learning to walk
on hind legs, back arched high.
~
My mother has a wolf in her chest
howling for light, for the
lantern hanging in the sky.
~
My brother has a cage
for ribs
but so do I.
~
I am a wild safari:
a bathing elephant, a sleeping
tiger, a brilliant peacock fanning its
feathers, waiting to
**** its head and release
a warrior cry.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
Punk Sandwich
there he is walking down the street
slicked back hair and a thin mustache
high rise collar on his button down shirt
sparkle in his eye and always talkin trash
he loved his Italian beef on pumpernickel rye
he loved his mama and his brothers too
he wasn't your ordinary everyday punk
there was more and you knew he knew
fear for him does not exist or so he claims
quicker than a bolting flash of light
behind you with a jagged edge of blade
he is no one to challenge to a fight
he has connections to all the right ones
the ones you need to know for security
or to make some annoyance disappear
his word is golden shinning with a purety
a perfect friend intelligent curteous and brave
but these can all change to weapons of death
if you are so disposed to challange his way
it just might be your very last breath
after dropping you in a pool of disguise
he will tip his fadora with playful grace
back on his brow and cigarella between his lips
and that same old smirk upon his face
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 8:23 AM UTC
Gasping, whispering, teasing wind
billowing my clothes, messing my hair.
Calm and still before the world is
deafened by the groaning cries of incoming
thunder rolling across the sky.
We watch the storm blow in
wind scattering angry tear drops to the ground
from rich purple clouds crowding the horizon.
I run one step behind you
dodging hail that pelts the soft earth.
By the time we reach shelter
my hair is slicked down, stuck to my skin.
Safe inside from the ever stronger wind
in dim light we wait for our clothes to dry
I’m wishing you would stay the night.
Rattling windows sing in chorus
with my clattering bones
and your deep, soothing voice.
Wind shakes the stucco house
your steady breath becomes my lullaby.
The morning comes with dew
bright light touching down from the sky.
Still steaming ground smells of petrichor
strewn with branches
the only hint of last night’s wind.
Clear blue skies in morning light
hide the storm that was so angry last night
stillness concealing violent winds.
{177 words}
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Light cerulean ribbon contrasts my light curled blonde hair
You take my hand and lead me down the forbidden path
In your honorable suit and slicked dark hair
I feel like a little girl in my peasant azure dress
Tiny red ribbon strangling a perfect salient rose
The love has fled you eyes as they scour my body
I silently hide myself but you wrench me in
Forcing me to trust that maybe I will be ok
Under my light cerulean ribbon I fade
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 6:33 PM UTC
Laughter
Laughter explosions
Diabolic cruelty
That crude red carving
The grinning maw
Of the purity devouring beast
Know best for his face
His maliciously insane
Irrational thought patterns
He laughs at a two word phrase
As he caves in a woman's face
Sprays bleach and mace
from a fake flower on his chest
Lobs hand grenades recklessly
Muttering jokes that only he fully understands
Minions bent to his twisted humor
Severed limbs and organs sent
With personally crafted limericks
Fourteen inch barrel
.44 Magnum revolver
Crash a clown car into rush hour traffic
Feed the mayors poodle
To a pack of hyenas
Grease paint white face
Toxic green locks, slicked back
Red Cheshire cat grin
Ear to ear
Like the mouth of a demon of madness
Do not ponder why he laughs
He laughs because he must.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
The Marines
The Few, The Proud
The Brave, the Courageous
Disciplined, Proper
From Paris Island Soldiers to Vietnam Vets
Its a position for freedom
a job for the fearless
Protecting our country day in and day out
1992 to 1994
Dads unit secured naval ships
sweat, tears and will power
guns blazing with 875 rounds a minute
1966 to 1968
His dad served in Vietnam
blood, gore and gunshots
flack jackets, an honored purple heart
learn to **** and not get killed
and never proffer anything less than the best
you’re there to out stand and defend
to honor, to provide
One day I’ll be standing here, in my dress blues
with my hair neatly slicked back, tight in a bun
I’ll have stories to tell my children
and I’ll watch the Military channel with my father
but first
I’ll learn to disregard the fear
of death staring you in the face
or the sudden urge to run
then I’ll wonder,
putting up my gun, aiming, and shooting for my dreams
of being an American Marine
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
you look good in corduroy
but it looks better at the foot of the bed
you bring me so much joy
3 years deep, in our connection we invest
you look good slicked with sweat
make you work for what you get
you bring me so much strife
3 days, is that all I have left?
Aug 14, 2023
Aug 14, 2023 at 7:05 AM UTC
Gripping. Your hands,
slicked with sweat. But I had
to hold it (hold it) tighter.
Heights aren't scary.
but
I've dropped your
porcelain
skin one time too many.
Left me wary.
No more scars for us.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
I felt your skin
strip away from me-
you said you’d be right back-
as you slipped into foreign bodies,
lips soft with easy dinners,
who forgot the lightbulb burning out,
the lid left rattling on the counter,
a suit of pots dented, stacked,
steam lifting from a rust-ringed drain.
That studio in the Texas Riviera
was never meant to last-
brown carpet, AC rattling,
bass beating through drywall,
neon from the Whataburger sign
bleeding through blinds.
We were two beautiful accidents
in a month-to-month, always paid late,
your sweat a spell pressed into my skin,
ankles grinding on parking lot gravel,
the road outside a forgotten promise.
And when you smiled I held you
like a chipped glass,
rim still sharp enough to cut.
The ember died against porcelain,
the glitter was swept with the crumbs.
Your armor slumped in the pantry corner,
rusted tins, lids unfastened.
You walked away, naked and ordinary,
the light left buzzing in the kitchen-
outside, asphalt slicked with oil-sheen,
my body, also, dissolved
into the shimmer of the road.
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 10:51 PM UTC
The Marines
The Few, The Proud
The Brave, the Courageous
Disciplined, Proper
From Paris Island Soldiers to Vietnam Vets
Its a position for freedom
a job for the fearless
Protecting our country day in and day out
1992 to 1994
Dads unit secured naval ships
sweat, tears and will power
guns blazing with 875 rounds a minute
1966 to 1968
His dad served in Vietnam
blood, gore and gunshots
flack jackets, an honored purple heart
learn to **** and not get killed
and never proffer anything less than the best
you’re there to out stand and defend
to honor, to provide
One day I’ll be standing here, in my dress blues
with my hair neatly slicked back, tight in a bun
I’ll have stories to tell my children
and I’ll watch the Military channel with my father
but first
I’ll learn to disregard the fear
of death staring you in the face
or the sudden urge to run
then I’ll wonder,
putting up my gun, aiming, and shooting for my dreams
of being an American Marine
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
It could have been the cigarette hanging from your perfect lips that have me goosebumps or it could have been your jet black hair slicked back in a pompadour style only hipster kids have these days... Not sure really but it sent shivers down my body.
You were the type of boy who liked to drink whiskey and had neck tattoos & I was the type of girl who was more awkward than a turtle.
You had this mystery about you under those dark sunglasses and you were so tall & sleek in that red flannel and black jeans... You were so ... hot
I had this problem where I would just stare until you looked over, which you did, and in turn I would look away blushing with shame.
I took one glance back as I started to walk away and saw you grinning this huge grin with your pearly white teeth and septum ring touching your upper lip.. Pretty sure my heart melted.
You were the guy I had dreamed about at night and I didn't even know your name of course.
Who was I kidding? We would never see each other again.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
We the gentle
Are meant for
Sentimental
For charcoal pencil thumb-smudged skies
Over lamplit rented rooms on the Seine
Moonlight gauzey glamoured eyes
Grimy hands that write paint spin, throw clay,
that grab our grandfather’s violin at all hours of the day and play.
Mad with passion,
starving, raving, gorged on lush love-struck life abundant,
on rain-slicked splendor.
We the gentle
Bend toward each other in salvation as sunflowers turn inward in the absence of sunlight.
Salvation.
It’s all wrong
We do not belong do not belong.
Bloodletting stardust into the vents
Hearts rent and free bleeding
Feeding the over fed
No page or paint, no violin
No romance, no gods here
But Death and Dread.
We the gentle
Get no roses but see red red red with arms outstretched,
Fighting the tide
Soft bodies open minds
Not weak but kind
Once fruit, now rind
We aren’t meant for these times.
Clear eyed and noncompliant,
We who know the essence of Love Defiant,
Truth in muck, truth in starlight,
We feel the press on all ******* sides
To run, to hide
And instead sing, paint, play
Write.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 7:31 AM UTC