"slicken" poems
You roll on
You gel on
No matter what the reason
You have a beautiful aroma
You gel on
You slicken propagation
You have a beautiful aroma
You make the senses burgeon with new life
You slicken propagation
Across the nation spreads, the cooling sensation
You make the senses burgeon with new life
You stop sweaty pits rife with strife
Across the nation spreads the cooling sensation
Cool underarms allow for a vigorous standing ovation
You stop sweaty pits rife with strife
You deserve an award for saving many-a social life
Cool underarms allow for vigorous standing ovation
So applause to you Deodorant
You deserve an award for saving many-a social life
You bring us together- no matter the weather- in a tank or in a sweater
So applause to you Deodorant
You bring us together- no matter the weather- in a tank or in a sweater
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:24 PM UTC
I am but a leech, desecrating in lilly glossed waters;
Clotting beautiful beads, like bracelets, across wet flesh.
Desire is a horseman in this world, coming to close the curtains on the day.
Why stop? For lashes from the scepter that was to guide us?
Fractured and rotten; yet we still cling for a taste of a crumb of the life once held within it's dead trunk.
Death. But an old friend and a forgotten enemy greedily tickling this slicken frame.
Fingers float tempting whispers to my every nerve and I long for my senses to set ablaze in those writhing clutches
Screaming from inside for release that teases and tingles like the ****** that never comes. Shaken and slightly shrunken
Light blazes at the doors, searing and scorching the very flesh that holds a withered frame
No longer seeking escape,
I slither back to the darkness I seem to have forgotten was home once before
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 7:07 AM UTC
You drink
You drive
And ruthlessly try
To have a good time
Down slicken oil streets
Pavement like a pistol
To my temple, meets
The cure to my cancer
And the answer
To my every problem
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 10:41 PM UTC
gooseflesh bulbs on the satin of her skin
like early morning dewfall;
her lips slicken
with blurry, mascara-tinted tributaries
**** it—she can’t even die pretty)
so the wind carries her
like litter,
a years-old newspaper
with no particularly interesting headlines,
from the 12th story window
in the cerulean dress she bought
just for the occasion.
the dead-end city lights bear witness
to her own dead end into five thick inches of concrete.
and with its downtrodden palms
the city blushes her cheeks with abrasions,
shadows her eyes with bruises,
tattoos her lunar body with its worn-out brands;
it takes her in.
and the ****** kid on his paper route finds her there,
and stops,
and stares,
and wonders,
and eventually lifts his sneakers back to the pedals
and keeps on biking,
because there she is, dead on the side of the ********* road,
and what the **** can you do?
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
Rhythmically reducing time
for you
for I.
Coagulation increasingly lessens the beat.
Off-written and wrecked,
We can’t turn home as
Junkies and
Dealers.
This home,
Washed out in familial gossip of relapse and resurge
After our firefights
Against venomous appetites.
Yet here we light this pipe, you and I,
With a reprise of shell-shocked war stories
Reanimating the grind
Of addiction’s battle.
Promise by the world,
A mind’s conviction and a 12-step program
Would naturally manifest in abstinent purity
And after,
Serenity.
Through the itch
Still
We are lumbering on, yet raging.
Violently insisting that these dreams are vouched for and
Stances held
Should leave our slicked soles immobile.
Smooth winds crinkling past twigs
And I with you, my dealer,
Am a lubricated branch on smooth-weathered granite grade.
In descent I tear at the throat with embarrassed tears.
Cries that only slicken the stone.
So of it, I swallow what will fill,
And beg you to do the same.
As fingernails rip from flesh
In grip of a still frame I can hear the 12-step program bid out again.
“Let there be sweat till the clouds run red.
Let trailing beads glisten while
I the blossom
Begin budding in the fall.”
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
stagering in your darkened rain of pain
slicken and soiled from your stains
with the skulls of your past lying in dirt
with these feelings of lonlyness, pain and hurt
as i look into your empty eyes
which show nothing but immortality of hate
stricken by the path of bones from your past
with empty hearts scattered in your trail of blood
i can only see that your only about pain and misery
which your feelings inside only comfort you with hurt
the only time you smile is from the death of a loved one
the times you cry is when no one loves you
why do you do the things that you do
why do you tell me that i love you
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
She’s stealing the friction
the heat I’d spark
if it was my skin
pressed against yours.
She’s stealing my thoughts
my filthy whispers
the ones
I’d breathe
in your ear.
She’s stealing the sweat
that would slicken my chest
if it was my body
sliding along yours.
She’s stealing
but she’s not.
It’s given.
Relinquished.
I bet you beg her
to take you in her mouth.
I bet you beg her
to enter you
again and again.
And that’s what shatters
my ignorant shield
and loathingly grips
my untouched body
with the physical reality:
When she touches you
you touch her too.
Nov 7, 2019
Nov 7, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC