"slipperier" poems
Today I took a walk down memory lane
With some people from my past.
Your name never came up
But your shadow haunted every
Turn in conversation and we did our best
To ignore it.
In fact we did our best to pretend
That your existence was not real,
But then someone mentioned,
"Hey remember that time we...."
And flashbacks of suppressed visions
Of things I had hoped to never see again
Simply because they're not important
To who I am now
Flooded my stream of consciousness
And I chose to think of you.
To think of that time in that place
Where we did that thing....
And the more I think about it
The fuzzier it becomes.
I can't quite picture
The people, the room, the music,
The embarrassment, the shame, the guilt,
The utter ridiculousness of it all.
And the harder I try to grasp at the edges
Of the fraying memory
To bring it back into something whole,
Something vivid and full,
The darker and slipperier it gets.
And suddenly it dawns on me
Why it was easy to forget in the first place:
It just doesn't matter.
Who you were, who I was,
What you did, what I did,
Just doesn't matter
So what's the point in remembering?
Today I took a walk down memory lane
But decided it was far more enjoyable
To make a u-turn and walk
Away from you again.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Old one-eyed jack,
old all father
dressed in
****** black,
walking down
a windy path
while Fenris
nibbles on his chains
and the Midgard serpent
goes on searching
the tree of life
for something
like an apple
to sink his fangs
into.
Slipperier than
all his other
trickster friends
Loki
doesn’t make amends
just contends
with puckish trends
acting like a nave,
a slave
to playful
impulses.
And all those
Asier,
Asgardian,
Norsemen,
Reapers
valiant Valkyrie,
well I would concede
gratefully
going to the halls
to drinks some mead
but I am not a warrior
just a very bad bard.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
Replaying what their saying praying they bring light to this white uptight insightful wannabe rapper
Cracking the code attacking the slackers taking wack swings trying to use the Clapper dressed dapper
Like Versace shoestrings singing like ODB making sure my breaths clean, it’s my upbringing two parent
Household got no gold but I make you mind blown rocking rhymes about frog and toad I’m road worn
And born weary love oregon’s rain, dreary love to read Beverly Cleary like Ramona wasn’t cheerleading
A future bare back ******* posing as a children’s reader more like a chicken head feeder yet sweeter
Cold toes in the morning gotta find a slipper pull up my cargo pants, can’t find the zipper feeling like
Jack Tripper …. its slipperier the slope to attacking Iraq with most black troops a whole new set of roots
The truth is uncouth like jerking off in a telephone booth *** shooting on yellow pages gobs coating
Everyones names strangers in cages with rage faces and misplaced hate…fucking ingrates –
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands,
unable to pull in, easily pushing away.
Afraid of what other people will say,
I have evolved this sad display
while lass orifice seems to open, slipperier grows the sand.
What writing on what wall predicted this particular disaster?
My surname in the thick of it and brothers
who practiced not the tricks of others
whose principals life quickly smothers,
drowned in precious oil by some precious oil master.
Another leapfrogging tyrant amid predictable heads and tails;
many of them have been so spoiled;
congressional aspirations foiled.
Temptation around their ankles coiled;
deflecting towards evil gets easier when Good Intention fails.
Just for you an intervention was selected but your unkindly input rankles;
your handles aroused in some an unreasonable alarm,
despite your obvious charisma and peculiar charm,
among rumors of people you had personally harmed;
accusation’s thinnest trousers have fallen down around their ankles.
Crimes against me somehow revolved now were seen as
threats to them.
Acting on omens, reacting with their toys,
fail to realize this intricately grown up boy
no longer indefinitely in longevity’s employ;
this story will stain history before report of my demise
ever gets to them.
Out on the ends of my arms are more handles than hands;
unable to grasp, easily pushed aside.
Still afraid, sometimes I cower and hide,
my scarcity of tricks not already tried;
hourglass orifice seems to open, somehow slipperier
grows the sand.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC