"slinging" poems
Feel the tide.
I am the ship.
I am the captain.
The ocean is a savage
the way it pulls my body,
slinging me around like i'm weightless.
I will not surrender to this beast.
The waves mean nothing to me.
I've been fighting this savage ocean for a century.
100 years of getting carried away across these waters.
Isolation is my home.
It's all I know.
I brought this on myself.
I ran away from land and into the water,
unknowing of the horror it holds.
But I will not surrender
I am the ship.
I will not kiss the ocean goodnight.
I will not fight.
I will float on until the day comes I greet the sea.
My lungs will sting and my head will rush.
Leave my body in isolation.
Let it be a peace offering.
So the ocean wouldn't have to carry away another ship that day.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
My aged mum excitedly points outside
White flowers burst open bright overnight
She says they look like popcorn
I love her metaphor and play along
Flowers white like popcorn bright
Tickled by the heat of the micro light
Mum speaks of small things in her big age
Sun, rain, wind, hot, cold, quite days
The unrelenting pain in her legs
and memories of things she could once do with ease
She speaks of the coming and going of mischievous monkeys
real monkeys - not metaphors
She tells of how they brazenly steal her fruit
when she is alone at home - teasing her
as they walk backwards out the glass door
slinging their stolen bananas like a colt 44
My mum sits across from me
the sun gently brushes her short silver grey strands of hair
Today she wears a pretty pink dress - patterned bright
with pretty pink and blue flowers - reflection
of the pretty flowers outside
She sits in serenity - she is at peace - inside
My niece pops corn in the microwave
My sisters biryani fills the hungry air
My brother in law awaits his birthday party
I am at home
The pretty white flowers
silently blossom in the yard
I sit across from my metaphor mum
My poet, my muse, my loving bard
Stanley Arumugam
Richards Bay
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
i used to cradle her bleach-cracked hands in mine
and decode the stardust resting within her fingerprints
up until the day that i lost touch with the art of reading braille
and she stopped slinging tall-tales for me to fetch
and rest the plot-twist at her feet
often in the post-script
i'd find my train of thought highjacked by the sunlight illuminating the rainbow of earth-tones ablaze
in her frizz-ridden curls
as if she'd been washing her hair with the damaged case of beer
she'd gotten for half-price at liqour depot
she never did quit drinking
but neither did i
at least we tried
though sometimes
in the middle of the night when nothing was alright
and we'd barely survived another fight
her face would catch my glance
cast aglow by a flood of lava-lamp light
the sea of freckles resting at the crest of her cheeks
rose lips perma-pursed in half tilt
her resting heart-rate so high that i could almost see it
pirouetting within her chest
it was then that i'd love her best
amidst the ruins of who we were
just moments before
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
From the cultured hood of Beverly Hills
Young rich white kid rapping
Blonde hair perfectly combed and trimmed
Blue eyes shaded from California sun
Spitting ghetto slang about unfair pain,
Affirmative action, cultural injustices
Daddy’s allowance, racial profiling
Pimp[le] mobile and spinning rims
Gold plated teeth over pearly whites
Slinging 401k’s and time shares
Baggy pants sagging down past his ***
Tugging at his crotch
His hand permanently attached
To his little white flaccid ****
Trying to keep from tripping
While he’s running from the police
Wanted for questioning
On insider trading
And insurance scams
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
sometimes i feel like i’m two creatures caught
b
e
n
e
a
t
h
skin
sharing one body.
my tongue rough- sandpaper, broken glass, too many curses
while the lips around it burn with apologies
fleshy brooms sweeping up the messes
of another woman.
i feel like there are two animals
each fighting for their right to shine through
they’re voracious in this battle— it surprises me that their clawstalonssteeth don’t break through the thin expanse of flesh to the outside.
i have two women living within my skull
one wildroughfighting— slinging glasses and insults.
face paint, bones and bottle trees, fire and ash
wet pine needles under bleeding feet.
the biting creature who leaves bruises on the lips of men.
the warrior, Artemis. laughdancing through flames.
a bear, a wolf, a cat, a bird.
animal in nature.
the other fights with words.
elegant, gentle, soft, break able-- everything the other
cannot afford to be.
goddess of the hearth, she feeds her comrades like children
keeps fires stocked with woods
and binds bleeding arms.
this woman carries pitchers of water
writes sweet letters to missing friends
and opens her soul to many lovers.
am I some crude splice of these creatures?
am I a ******* of these mothers— each passionate
one biting, brackish tides, slow moving rivers, still ponds
the other a warm, clean bath?
am I both simultaneously, or am I wearing one face while the other
watches behind mine eyes?
I am the moon—
full and loving, dark and hiding
and something in between.
yeah, that sounds about right.
something in between.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
Take this flat, round, stone
I told my son, and daughter too
Throw it hard, spinning it
Across the stilled pond
Count your big splashes
Watch the ripples grow
First stones they threw
Only singular sets of ripples
Then two, then three, then more
Eventually, their stones, with mine
Easily reached the other shore
Splashes, into ripples galore
Ripples formed by casted rocks
Have they lasting print upon
Hearts of those I've loved
Standing now on faraway shores
Gleefully leaping, dancing, tossing
Skipping stones hid in their pockets
Are my stones, living on in ripples
Marked indelible in memories
Cast in mind's marble and stone
A forever legacy or merely
A dimly lit fading thought
In minds and hearts forlorn
Once, when I was young
I knew, I could ripple the world
Now, I only hope a weary rest
To lay burden upon the shore
Enfeebled arm, for slinging stones
Pond's winter death, comes nigh
A bit of time left, of sweet life
To cast a few more stones
Boulders, to toss into the river
Giving the biggest splash
Heavy to lift, except with help
From other believers in ripples
© 2017 Jim Davis
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
O bartender,
It has been a while
You slinging drinks with a casual smile
Cocktails you throw and stir and shake
And at closing time my heart does break.
O bartender,
What to say, you always know
Crafted words and my excitement grows
Tequila, beer or simply rather
"I'm glad you enjoyed, would you like another?"
O bartender,
You always look after me
Especially when you find me on a spending spree
Thank you bartender for all the great times
For this cocktail now which you call mine.
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 5:47 AM UTC
Hold your breath, girl.
Don't feel.
As he places his shallow love inside of you
Every breath feels like a brick
Pressed against your stomach
Collapsing the walls of your lungs
Until you feel yourself gagging.
Let him talk to you
But your words have become rather expensive
As he plays with your hair
As he touches your waist
As you turn away
Because his fingers cannot feel the rivets in your rib bones.
Your eating disorder makes casual *** a little harder
As does your history with assault.
Sometimes, your PTSD and bulimia want to have an ****
They are the extra lovers you never invited
But as you mount on top of him
Trying to make him forget he doesn't love you
And that you don't love him
It seems they are whispering in your ear
*Why would any man want to **** you?*
He's all you have.
Stop pretending to be good enough.
Try to let these thoughts slip out of your mind
As you slip out of your clothes
Shedding your snake skin.
You kneel there now
His eyes are resting on each inch of your body
But your skin begins to crawl
Your heart begins to shake
You unravel before him
Every end of you is fraying
And he doesn't even know.
What happened to never doing this again?
What happened to getting over it?
Promiscuity smells like stale cigarettes and ***
In the back of a car
With an older man.
Promiscuity tastes like an empty transparent bottle
You can see through it like everyone sees through you.
Like ice cubes
On your fire slinging tongue
From that shot of whiskey a few minutes ago.
How many minutes ago?
Two hours ago.
Yesterday.
Wake up, girl
Detach
Stop holding on to the shards of glass
That break the delicate flesh
On your fingertips.
Put on a mask
Don't let him know you're dead inside.
Your job here is to
Make him believe you're still alive.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
This is to all those misfits
To the Romeo car-washing in Inglewood inlets
To the Hippy selling crystals on the Venice boardwalk
The Magician swallowing 8-balls at the Huntington Beach peer
The Rapper selling CDs in the Ranch Market parking lot
The **** tatting in a makeshift garage
The Poet slinging chapbooks at cafes and rec centers…
Not androids pontificating from lecterns
But grimy roots burrowing deep
Seismic rumblings toppling down
Insured ivory towers
Smashing pilled-paradigms beneath Docs
Hustling and slinging
In the forbidden outshacks of civilization
In tents, over barbed-wire, beside shards
Desperate and burning
For neither Truth or Beauty
But for LIFE
They do not tap wrists
No, they thump chests
To feel it beat
To feel it rage
For fugitive fugues
For new eternities
They embrace
********** romance
Graveyard necromance
The holy hunger for change
Defying commercials and charts
Shivering and howling on streets
Waging guerrilla war
Liberating cubicled-hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC
Mother, Father
I am six foot one and I can see over the trees
I can **** mountains and bury my bones in the soil
I am six foot one and I am just tall enough to see the truth
I can look over others but I can't look over myself
My shoulders bend like a bow, waiting to break
And I can feel it all. I can feel it all.
And to you,
May your temporary smile be a golden forever
And your heart existent with or without hope
Let your brain open doors your hands cannot touch
And your chest not collapse when the smoke is too much
To live and to love with you is the grandest adventure
And to cut myself on your edges, bleeds into itself
And to live in your heart, is the biggest place I've ever found
And to kiss you until my hands break and there is no sound
And to all of us,
We're a dark piece of trash
Ribs are a cage and holographic souls sing
Disenchanted by the human experience
We're pretentious and objectify everything
And to all of us,
We're all light, we're all eyes wondering wide
And we all shine bright, some of us cannot hide
May your hands slant, slowly slinging
towards the bells that are slowly ringing
and may you strike a chord in all of us.
May your existence be a temporary forever.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
I used to be a
mortar forker
when I was a kid
working construction,
packing tongs of brick
and slinging cinder blocks
up three levels of scaffold
only to have the block layers
complain about how the mud
was as dry as a camels ****
but the pay was good
and it was drank up every weekend
while the chicks admired my
tanned and buff skinny frame
but shunned my drunken advances.
© 2013
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
No vices, no difference
I have some things to do tomorrow,
I think I’ll just take the wagon
I’m just waiting for something to happen
to help me make up my mind
I always imagine tragic
someone dies and they’re so close
I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls,
but I don’t even want to write their names
for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel
or maybe we’re all just an election away from
anarchic warring states,
where I must defend my beans and cucumbers
from slugs and marauders
If we hold it together, red China could invade
so would I rather be a prisoner or dead?
Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl,
where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice,
because the love will be enormous
Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull,
but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue
Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains,
and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles
If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west
bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay
Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave,
and I guess the pay is better anyway
My mind is made up
it’s not something real
It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people
their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem
they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress
they even separate the sick people
I closed my eyes to see what was real,
and saw nothing
There is no waiting room at all
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Oblivion is sweat home in moments of pure hell from restless thinking
Excessively worrying about something that might happen and might never realise
I may not even live that far into the future
Continues unanswered questions fill the space in my head
Over filling it to capacity, the cabinet lady quit
This is not the adult life i envisioned long ago for me
How to make sense of disappointment after disappointment
Slinging you to the mat again and again and again
Relentlessly beating you into submission claiming it is good for you
The life drain from your eyes
Without warning the fire for life flares up and scorch all touching it
Just to die down and simmer under ground
The few moments of freedom lived in oblivion is sacred
Reluctant to leave I have little choice
Dragged back to a life I despise at most
Surrounded by empty vessels
Always wanting never able to give
What a horrible existence it must be to be never able to connect with living souls
Being surrounded by walls impossible to be climbed and no bridges build
Oblivion exist with only open space
Space for the mind to run free over, under and among hills
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
I've been wandering around, like a waltzing matilda.
From Fife in the lowlands, to the cliffs of St. Kilda.
Carrying my life, and all that it wills
Appalachia and plains, to the mighty Black Hills.
Trekking so far, exploring the Earth
Miles away, from the place of my birth.
From the land of the Scots, to the land of the Sioux
From familiar homes, to the places so new.
I'm wandering around, with so much to do.
In the land of the Gaels, to the land of Lakota,
I'm slinging around, like a waltzing matilda.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 12:36 PM UTC
Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves *****
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.
Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
1.7k
I often forget how to write.
Not because I am happy,
and, as they say, happiness writes white.
Nor for any lack of sadness,
for, as I see, sadness is a bottomless ink well.
But for any wild and outrageous feeling,
any like spirit who possesses my hand to start --
with awesome, judging faces sliding on the ceiling,
icons of the mother and god-child
dripping down eternal blue and martyr red,
like arms hanging, waking, pinning!
"Woman, behold your son!"
Behold me, my THC and psilo-sin life,
an endlessly whirling maelstrom of emotion!
flanked by monstrous, winged choirs of Motown
slinging fiery spears, gold rays penetrating!
"Oh, oh, God!" The Ecstasy of St. Philip!
Visions of horse-hung hosts and celestial orbs,
Heaven's dynamo, an **** of screws and cogs!
-- are hid.
I too watched the best minds of my generation,
anesthetized by sanity in a bottle
(id est: pills, pills, pills, pills, pills);
mesmerized by patterns of flashing lights
of digital desperation crying, "affirm me, friend me!" -;
drowned in an endless sea under a twilight of information
or else cats, cats, cats, cats, cats;
and ever afeard of mortal judgment.
“Big boys don’t cry” (so poets do in breathy meter).
A generation asleep
- and though in hopeful dream -
We are placid.
We work obedient.
We speak soft.
Because the whole world is medicated now.
Because the whole world is fixed.
And I wonder if there is a Spirit.
I think, if there is,
We have drugged her.
We have ravished her.
We have wasted her.
And the whole world is silent now.
And the whole world is fixed.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:51 AM UTC
Come on everyone don't be
like reluctant children on the
first day of their schooling.
Oh cloudy dark days, its really
not that bad, plenty
more twists in the story.
Lets all join hands stop
swearing tell everyone at
the top we are all together
and not moving.
OK come on,with no doubts lets go,
go Brexit, but then lets paint it
red and not blue.
Wave to Mr Murdoch and say Ha ha to
you, you lost after all.
Let us temper the angered
words dealt snake bit and
venom.
Brutal exchanges like Klitschko
and Joshua now is the time for
the hug right after.
You know when we are all slinging
mud and shouting someone
some where in power is betting.
And they are the only one that will
be winning.
Time now is for us to look in with
rolling hills, roses and blackberry
bushes.
Sandy beaches, prickly thorns and
mystery round circles of stones.
Coated in gentle breezes alike a
kindly uncle the weather protects
us.
And what do I find that sweet soft
tender, holly in the winter and roses
in the summer.
little England
And not something to be ashamed of
but something to be
proud of.
Time is now for us all to be free as there
is always darkness just before a birth.
Like a brave bird breaking free only
the brave seeds make it into a tree.
As not every parent knows what
is right for their child.
But lets not then look for the common
wealth and all its crimes.
let us simply be
Little England
That subtle feeling we hold
As we all know all the answers
live
INSIDE
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
1.5k
The kettle whistles plaintively as if it knows it's time for tea
but the time is only five past three,
far too early
and she's the one who put the kettle on
but
she, went back to sleep
leaving me to keep my ears awake until I rise,get up and make a
brew.
I don't know what to do,
should I make the tea?
would she thank me If I woke her with some toast and tea upon a silver coaster?
I think not.
She's got me wrapped around her little finger,slinging me a crumb or two and leaving me to make the brew.
Sod the kettle
let it whistle on,
she chose the tune,she knows the song,meanwhile
this hungry boy is gone
to get some coffee and a scone, in a diner down the street.
Let her wake and wonder why
the kettle's dry,there is no tea
let her wonder
what became of me
but
she,
will take it in her stride
she's got her pride and that won't slip.
I think this as I sip my drink and wonder if she'd ever think
just how much'brew a man can take
how many tea's a man can make
before he cracks.
I keep my back against the wall
lest she should fall from a great height and beat me senseless,
it would serve me right
but this I do not let her know
I go
to work
whistling.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
Thoughts evolve--
some harden
it's not a restart--
--it's a re-tuneup
like a mitochondrion blast to the brain
unchained and unburdened
burping out old patterns
with unhinged words orbiting
Saturn's Rings
the Summer Breeze
keeps teaching me
and I to her
with burning clarity.
It's feeling silly slinging
cyclical prisons off mental cliffs
singing Hallelujah 'till New Year
in our own time
flying through space in her eyes
electrifying each other when I
sometimes understand arabic.
There's a shift in the desert sands--
feeling rain as I dance on my mind's eye
like waking up from a hallucination
as the water reignites my earthy veins
burning brightly off my tongue
breathing fresh air upon
entering another vertical 27th dimension in space
cause our smiles done gone crazy
like an azurite lightning strike to the brain!
The name whispered in my mind
by the Summer Breeze
cause I cool things down with ease
with my spiraling cyclical George Carlin cynical
thoughts marchin' causing revolution
within ourselves beating hearts bleeding art
singing blues getting lost in the dawn light sun
sparkling in our smiles smoking like a peace pipe
being passed around a campfire.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC
if looks could ****
i'd be slaughtering the masses
and if these walls could talk
they'd probably never stop laughing
but if that ***** of a mattress should crack
and leak the secrets of mine that she keeps in her chest-
like tightly bound metallic coils-
so help me lillith
i'll burn this house to the ground
i'd rather see all that i've built turn into ashes
than to hear her voice rehasing all the whispers i'm slinging whilst fast asleep
or how i cry in bed for weeks
or the way i flinch when the sun crosses my face
like a shadow i can't name
i'm a mess
a natural disaster with whirlwind hair and a lightning strike pulse
in a second-hand dress that doesn't fit right
i'm fine
i'll survive
but should you be the boy i find
and i bring you home tonight
just know that i'm better than alright
know how very much i feel alive
regardless of the subconscious soliloquies you unleash in your half-silence
divulging secrets whilst you slumber
i wake like the waves lapping at a fallen empire's shoreline
and quest to test your lyrical limitations and the possible personification of your breath
and your chest
heaving like the sea himself
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
All the day has happened
And it is always 'goodbye'.
There are salmon swimming
In the sky, again.
I'd go fishing,
If you were here, but
I'm slinging a lonely camera flash
Into the ocean still,
Just waiting for you to bite.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC