"sloane" poems
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
At Camp Sloane,
After waterfront,
They came for Moose.
"Your mother is sick,"
They told him.
"She's going to die."
Moose went home.
We went to campcraft.
My mother died next winter,
After a long illness.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
I met Banksy at an
AA meeting during
Covid lockdown he
Was no different to
Any of the rest of
Us, wearing a mask.
He was anonymous,
I recognised him at
The end, when he
Said ‘’who you see
Here, what you hear
Here, when you leave
Here, let it stay here’’.
It was Pont Street
In London, then he
Headed off towards
Beau Champ Place
But he knew he was
Being tailed, he gave
Me the slip, a sly one
Up at Sloane Square.
Aug 11, 2024
Aug 11, 2024 at 3:39 AM UTC
No barons down in Earls court and no Surrey in the quays
the underground's a mess if names are things that please
in Raynors lane there's rain again
in Catford there are mice
in Epping it is epic and I think that's awful nice,
In Battersea there is no sea
in Clapham they don't clap
at shooters hill they don't shoot guns
and Network East's a trap.
In Stepney there are several steps
in deptford they sink under debts
nothing gets me on my way than to pass through Green lanes, Harringay, now I don't know many gays down there but I'm friends with some
up in Sloane square
no Knights in Knightsbridge anymore
no Kings at Kingly court
Bradford's not in Bingley either
neither here nor there nor in Trafalgar Square will you see any ships
But the underground's a fabulous place for going out on trips.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
She is nature and the world itself. Sloane
There is a quiet thunder to the way she walks, and a heavy rainfall when she leaves. She treads water trying to reach islands that will house her but cannot reach the shore before her hurricane mind carries her away to new homes, homes she finds in people, and often the wrong people. But she is strong and stands like the tallest oak, letting gale force winds bend her branches so that she may feel what is to live, but never has she broken. Her voice is the sound of birds in the spring with all the melodies and lullabies of the early morning, she has a light in her that is both the sun and the fireflies and it will illuminate your heart should you ever let her in. Sometimes she is wilted but even beautiful roses have thorns and she draws blood if you try to pick her petals. She is the earth and the wind and the sky and though her roots are strong she is not always smiling, but just like a flower she grows from the ground up and all will gather to awe at her beauty when she sees it within herself.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I mis-kicked it
got on the District
It
is not the Circle line train
******* up
being chewed up
by the miles of
steel track
and when I'm restless
I see less
become more irritable
until the situation gets
intolerable and I
am plain horrible
I haven't got the patience
to play patience
too impatient and
it's not important
is it?
Now at the Temple
and there's a pain
in my temples,
it's a migraine
on a train
on the District line
what a fine time
I'm having.
Wait a minute
this is the circle line
it must be
I'm at Westminster,
I feel less pain
still getting a migraine
but
I'm on the right line
having a fine time
except for the migraine.
Now at Victoria and
heading to Sloane square
one had better beware
there's pickpockets
that operate
down
in Sloane square.
when I get to High street Ken'
I'll be almost done
touch in at
the design museum
just to see 'em,
the designs I mean
and see the Sun
I missed
getting ****** off
for absolutely no reason
except for the reasons
I was.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
The tube terminates at Kennington which is nice but it's not Wimbledon and it's not as bad as Paddington,
the bear will bear me out on this.
Say your goodbyes at Kensal Rise because at Warwick Avenue they'll ****** love you unlike West Ham where they don't give a ****
Little Venice, Hampstead and St. John's Wood are all very good, Sloane square for the toff, Knightsbridge where they'll rip you off and
Brixton station where gentrification has changed the atmosphere,
the map tells me
'You are here'
but I can't see you.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC