"slobbers" poems
Listen
I know I'm not
What most would see to be sane
But you see
I don't see
How faking a love of romance and passion
And beautiful things
Can truly be so bad
If it's the only way he'll stay
Best Friend of my universe
The only person
I couldn't imagine a world without
When he laughed
And then nearly cried
"I don't love you anymore"
I saw the pools of hurt arise
I knew right then his words, all lies
And knew that this was my last
Chance
To keep him in my life
And as I'm selfishly afraid
Of being alone again
I took it
"I was afraid"
I swallow my self loathing away
"Because I love you"
The hope swells, he smiles wide
Laughing, he grabs my hands
"I knew you loved me"
Pang, I shut off my emotions
As he grasps my *******
And slobbers his lips on my own
Boom, my head beats in disgust
Goosebumps rising in panic
My every nerve ending wanting to run
I smile at him when he says
"Tell me you love me"
I feel bile rise, why do I do this?
Is flinging my clothes to the floor
As he leads me to my bed
The necessity to keep my last Friend?
**** why do I do this
Again and again?
Self destruction behavior, big surprise
Right?
But I swear I've never stooped so low
But I've never felt so alone
But I can't recall loving a man
But I've never rejected lust
But with him the touch is rough
But now I'm 3 months pregnant
But it's with a person I choose
But he thinks all this touching is normal
But I can't seem to ever say no
"I love you too"
I refuse to loose you my friend
Not ever again
No matter the cost
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
That instinct
You have
When you're this depressed
And
Every time
You're in the
Stainless Steel kitchen
And your mom
Is stirring soup at the stove,
And a dribble of
Tomato basil
Slobbers down the side
Of the black pan.
And there's still
A knife out
From when
Tomato intestines
Sprawled across a cutting board,
Which is now in the
Soap-water sink.
You feel it,
In that second.
Instinct.
Need, really.
To take it
And slice open your wrists,
Or maybe just one,
If you're having a good day.
You seriously consider it.
It isn't just a thought.
It can
Scare you, really.
You want-
And one day, might need-
To pick up that knife
And do bad things.
Things that good girls
Wouldn't dream of.
But you don't do it,
And you won't do it,
Because your mom is right there
Stirring soup
And ignoring tomato drool.
And it's such short notice,
You haven't written your note yet.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
there are holes in the sand because of the hermit *****
but the hermits aren’t nearly as beautiful as these
my very solitude is a beauty
but i’m the beast
i will lay upon this rock at the end of the beach
until the shore ***** up and touches me
even if the gods above want to scare me with a little water
even if the claws pinch me
even if the sol water stings me
wash my footsteps away
evidence of my existance is obsolete
i’m but a ghost
spiriting amidst the contemporaneity of it all
shred my skin away
leave them like bones
bones after an apocalypse
i’m their epilogue
the sea is a dog
it barks upon the shore
it pulls you into a tide of glee
it slobbers love in the contours of your face
it invites you in, and doesn’t let go.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Baby-hood is sunflowers, water-painted,
because Daddys love yellow.
Big Eyes never stop staring,
when they see you miss your father.
Baby-hood is candy in a pocket.
Big teeth have a soft voice,
when they kiss your cheek gently,
and beg you to stop crying.
Baby-hood is a rocking chair,
and you feel the to, and fro.
Big hands fit in the smallest places,
when the wolf slobbers over your baby-hood.
Dec 25, 2009
Dec 25, 2009 at 2:28 PM UTC
I have this dog, a huge great pooch,
Just like the one, on Turner and *****
He really is a big orange lump,
Dare I say how much he dumps,
He shreds and ruins my favourite stuff,
Covering the floor, in loads of fluff,
TV remotes, he's chewed them up,
He costs a bomb, my naughty pup,
His snoring rattles the gates of hell,
And when he farts, my gawd, the smell!,
Don't let's forget, he loves his food,
Face in your cup, slurp slurp, how rude,
What's yours is his, he takes the ****
I dare you say the word, "biscuit"
He slobbers shoestrings, from his chops,
Each room has a rag, for him to mop,
But that aside, he has my heart,
His crinkly face, and stinky farts,
Rolling in fox mess on his daily stroll,
Sniffing crotches, of those who call,
I kiss his face off every day,
I could never love a man this way,
He has a face you want to snog,
I really, really love this dog :)
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
In my youth I'd often slip
and milk or juice would slop and drip.
"You're all thumbs" my Mother'd quip.
And I'd be sent right back to bed.
Little would stay in my cup.
I spent my days just wiping up
The slobbers that I'd often make.
"You're all thumbs" my Mom'd berate.
One dark morn my mother said
You're all thumbs! Go back to bed!
(I dropped a rock right on her head.)
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 1:04 AM UTC
Sammy wants to brush my
hair, but it's an excuse to eat
it. Hands surprisingly large for
his age, he leans fully into me, puts
his entire face into my hair, breathes deeply and takes it into his mouth. "Eeew," the other children squeal. "He's eating your hair! He's leaving slobbers!" I remind him not to eat
my hair. "But it tastes so good!" he says as he takes in another mouthful. He eats only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cookies, Cheerios, and drinks milk or apple juice. His new friend, who goes to the same school
in the morning but is brought on a different bus to my house at noon, is more limited in his food choices. Brian only eats dry Cheerios and plain flour tortillas. I remind myself to buy a family size box of Cheerios the next time I go to the store. Brian always holds two rocks in his hands, doesn't speak, but does scream loud frequently. When I wash his hands, I wash the rocks lovingly before I give them back to him. Sammy stops running through the yard, tapping everything with the yellow Little Tykes hammer I've been meaning to throw away daily, long enough to put his
arm around Brian, says, "What's wrong, little buddy?" before he begins tapping wildly again with the hammer. He taps the 14 year old Persian cat, who looks more than irritated as he moves quickly through the yard. He taps my arm, heads in the direction of my car, I steer him in a different direction. His father arrives to pick him up, asks, "Did he have a good day?" I lie, say, "Yes!" Brian screams more loudly when he sees Sammy is leaving. I remind him he still has his rocks in his hands. I pick up the Little Tykes hammer, make my way around the yard tapping on everything, listening to the different sounds it makes, so new to my ears.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
The Slobber Mouth lives deep down south,
hunting the Ner' do wells.
with candy canes and wooden trains,
with buzzers and with bells.
With fur of green, that's never clean,
and eyes so big and red.
Four filthy paws with unclipped claws,
he fills the woods with dread.
Spiked tail and horns and teeth like thorns,
fixed in a scarey smile.
A big black nose and ragged clothes,
make up his unique style.
Baiting his traps with midday naps,
false promises and lies.
with wasted hours and April showers,
and soft spoke lullabyes.
Dust bunnies hop but never stop,
and never are they caught.
For they are wise to slobbers lies,
and all the gifts he's brought.
The Mites and Motes in winter coats,
so quickly scurry by.
for they too know never to go,
where Slobbers presents lie.
The feather bed floats over head,
the carpet thick with fluff.
He stamps his feet knowing he's beat
and screams enoughs enough.
He packs his sock and checks the clock,
so soon the house will rise.
Stomping away to sleep all day,
and hide from prying eyes.
Beneath your bed this sleepy head,
sits down to scheme and plan.
Tomorrow night if all goes right,
I'll catch the Bogeyman.
On tippy toes in bedtime clothes,
his teddy in his hand.
He waves goodnight to all in sight,
and leaves for faery lands.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Maria
kisses
like she wants
to take your head off.
The top lip
is an umbrella
all the way to the bridge of the nose.
The bottom
slobbers
the
cleft-chin.
When I kiss her,
I want to push her away
and
tell her
"quit that ****
but she's green.
she's never been with a dude
the way that I want
to be with her.
And so,
the kissing
I tolerate.
The way she takes her tongue
to every black surface
that the shadow of her mouth
creates.
I shake it off.
Or
how sugary my mouth gets
with all the extra saliva
she wets my teeth
with.
I'm cool with it.
But one night,
she gets down
on all fours on her
sofa-bed.
Her skin:
patchy black
and white
from the moon coming in
and scattering
against the leaves
of an oak
outside the window.
Her jaw
working
in square motions
as she swallows
down
all that extra
saliva,
from all that
extra kissing.
And she said to me,
her eyes
placid,
glassy
and black
as leather,
**** me like those **** girls."
Ever have one of those moments,
where nothing is beautiful
about anything you're looking at?
A taste in your mouth,
gets sour
like you've been chewing copper
and
nothing is beautiful.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 11:00 PM UTC
I don't want to be a writer.
I would like to be a book.
I want to sit on a shelf in a library,
and be plucked by a loving hand,
and held by a window as the rain slips down it, nuzzled in blankets
and dripped on by apple juice that has run down the chin of
some scabby-kneed kid, perched on the arm of a tree
and I want to be dog-eared and remembered
and I want to be the place to turn to, the only one to turn to
where someone whispers, "how did you know? how did you know just how I felt?"
and I want to have been gone through once, passionately quickly,
so quick I gave you a paper cut and you get a little blood on my page, but I don't mind so much, because you love me,
and then
lingered on, and re-read because maybe there was something
that you missed before
and I want to have seen so many things,
probably the best things,
and meet absolutely fascinating people
because it is only the most interesting people
who read
and I want someone to bury their nose in my pages as they morph from shadowed white to afternoon wheat,
and I want to be covered in words, and coffee, and saliva from the finger of the teacher who slobbers on every corner, and grime, and salty tears and jasmine bath soaps and ink that has leaked from your favorite pen in your bag
and I want to be ***** and held and tossed and spilled on and marked up and I want my binding to be loose, but still intact,
and I want the professors to speak about me
and I want the youth to think about me
and I don't even really care what anyone thinks I'm saying,
so long as they listen to me speak
and pluck me off the shelf.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
My mom warned me
About the ****** man.
I feared he would come
And find out who I am
And stick his fingers
Right up my own nose
But daddy quickly told me
That’s not the way it goes.
He said your mama has
A kind of impediment
That makes her talk funny
Not say what she meant.
And we were all accustomed
To words mom got wrong.
We seldom made a comment
We’d just nod and go along.
So, I grew up with stories
Of a guy called the Boogerman.
That was the way of childhood
In the neighborhood where I ran.
He was scary and if you failed
To watch out very carefully
He’d sneak up in the night
And grab you quite suddenly.
Some said he would eat you
Like the wolf in fairy stories.
All of the tales were scary
And none of them were glories.
But I never saw or met anyone
Who seemed to fit the description
Until I was grown, recently, and
That was the obvious definition.
He seems to hate everybody
And lives up high behind guards.
He growls and spits and shouts
And uses ugly nasty words.
Boogerman is the only thing
That fits the creep he seems;
The kind of creature found
In ‘wake up screaming’ dreams.
I’m sure when he bakes and eats
The people too dumb to run away
He gobbles and gulps and slobbers
In the most disgusting of ways.
And though some just nod and say
Well, that’s how stuff with him goes,
I am sure that he does it all the while
With his finger up his nose.
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Two ***** Slam Her Slutty Throat
As Alt **** Kat Monroe Slobbers
& Gags On ***** the newest wannabe
superstar hood-rat throat destroyed,
Charley Chase throat ****** roughly;
Lyla Storm used as **** meat pukes
on 2 ***** [new) 2 news guys throat
**** Asian **** **** Jeanna Silk...
new first timer Jeanna Silks throated;
Ashely Luvbug's throat & *****
****** hard; **** **** Martina
throat used & degraded;
new puke ***** Sade Sparx
back to back w/
19 year old ***** Sephora
degraded by ***** *** **** Vannah Sterling
creamed after rough **** & throat
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
so, he's there whistling through
his missing front teeth,
he slobbers and pretends to stutter,
but he still manages to call
me papa smurf...
why the **** am i papa smurf?
so i ask him...
he replies saying,
you seen yourself in the mirror lately?
why aren't you shaving
that ****** off?
oh right... the ****
can't be bothered,
saving up on razors and what not...
conversation soon changes
and i'm out of the picture of
interest...
papa smurf... **** me...
next time he'll be brining
the grizzly bear metaphor:
to be honest, kids below
the benchmark of 1m tall
find bearded men fascinating,
they shy away hiding behind
their parents' legs,
but they still peer at the *****
phenomenon: yeah, i know,
my face doesn't exactly look
like a **** good luck
trying to sort out your puberty
conondrum years later
having tested this ugly mug.
well, last time i was buying beer
i was winking
and making 4 ****** expression
per second while suggesting
i was hallucinating looking
at this blonde haired boy...
wh'ah? wh'ah?
you heard me! he kept looking
at me!
so i kept flicking the switch
and asking for the nervous
eyelid twitch to match
a donkey he might recognise...
i guess it worked,
minus the lightbulb moment:
either side of the equation;
guess that means:
win win;
ah, the magnetism of
the correlated both of: young, & old;
i sometimes wish
i impregnated a *****
that could have appreciated me
as fulfilling the role of daddy...
oh well...
better laugh, better cry,
than finding the everyday mundane
reality of the thought
of: what could have been.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 7:03 PM UTC
Fad leis seo a thagadh cairde agus lucht gaoil an té a bhí ag imeacht chun na coigrithe. B'anseo an scaradh. Seo Droichead na nDeor
Family and friends of the person leaving for foreign lands would come this far. Here was the separation. This is the Bridge of Tears
so let us go to Falcarragh
where I kiss you by the corner
with salt on the lips
and a mouthful of chips
where my ma wants me home
by eleven at the latest
and the neighbour’s dog slobbers
its love against our cheeks
where we meet on the beach
with braids of seaweed by our feet
and the wind begins to jive
through the tangles of your hair
where we share a drink (or three)
and sláinte (more than once)
on the crossroads of yesterday
and the rest to come
say goodbye by the bridge
with my hands in your pockets
our tears specks of memories
we scrunch hard to keep in
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:12 PM UTC
The country is a vicious dog
So feed it what it wants
De Pfeffel looks on gleefully
The mongrel slobbers as it chomps
The mutts were not to know
As they proudly wolfed It down
The chocolate lies now sickly
The dog has been put down
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC