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

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.

You come along... tearing your shirt... yelling about Jesus.
     Where do you get that stuff?
     What do you know about Jesus?
Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few
     bankers and higher-ups among the con men of Jerusalem
     everybody liked to have this Jesus around because
     he never made any fake passes and everything
     he said went and he helped the sick and gave the
     people hope.

You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
     and calling us all **** fools so fierce the froth slobbers
     over your lips... always blabbing we're all
     going to hell straight off and you know all about it.

I've read Jesus' words. I know what he said. You don't
     throw any scare into me. I've got your number. I
     know how much you know about Jesus.
He never came near clean people or ***** people but
     they felt cleaner because he came along. It was your
     crowd of bankers and business men and lawyers
     hired the sluggers and murderers who put Jesus out
     of the running.

I say the same bunch backing you nailed the nails into
     the hands of this Jesus of Nazareth. He had lined
     up against him the same crooks and strong-arm men
     now lined up with you paying your way.

This Jesus was good to look at, smelled good, listened
     good. He threw out something fresh and beautiful
     from the skin of his body and the touch of his hands
     wherever he passed along.
You slimy bunkshooter, you put a **** on every human
     blossom in reach of your rotten breath belching
     about hell-fire and hiccupping about this Man who
     lived a clean life in Galilee.

When are you going to quit making the carpenters build
     emergency hospitals for women and girls driven
     crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about
     Jesus--I put it to you again: Where do you get that
     stuff; what do you know about Jesus?

Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to. Smash
     a whole wagon load of furniture at every performance.
     Turn sixty somersaults and stand on your
     nutty head. If it wasn't for the way you scare the
     women and kids I'd feel sorry for you and pass the hat.
I like to watch a good four-flusher work, but not when
     he starts people puking and calling for the doctors.
I like a man that's got nerve and can pull off a great
     original performance, but you--you're only a bug-
     house peddler of second-hand gospel--you're only
     shoving out a phoney imitation of the goods this
     Jesus wanted free as air and sunlight.

You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to fix it
     up all right with them by giving them mansions in
     the skies after they're dead and the worms have
     eaten 'em.
You tell $6 a week department store girls all they need
     is Jesus; you take a steel trust ***, dead without
     having lived, gray and shrunken at forty years of
     age, and you tell him to look at Jesus on the cross
     and he'll be all right.
You tell poor people they don't need any more money
     on pay day and even if it's fierce to be out of a job,
     Jesus'll fix that up all right, all right--all they gotta
     do is take Jesus the way you say.
I'm telling you Jesus wouldn't stand for the stuff you're
     handing out. Jesus played it different. The bankers
     and lawyers of Jerusalem got their sluggers and
     murderers to go after Jesus just because Jesus
     wouldn't play their game. He didn't sit in with
     the big thieves.

I don't want a lot of gab from a bunkshooter in my religion.
I won't take my religion from any man who never works
     except with his mouth and never cherishes any memory
     except the face of the woman on the American
     silver dollar.

I ask you to come through and show me where you're
     pouring out the blood of your life.

I've been to this suburb of Jerusalem they call Golgotha,
     where they nailed Him, and I know if the story is
     straight it was real blood ran from His hands and
     the nail-holes, and it was real blood spurted in red
     drops where the spear of the Roman soldier rammed
     in between the ribs of this Jesus of Nazareth.

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.

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 :)

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 ******* 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.

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

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Everyone's good
Everybody cares
When they show you the face
Upon which
they want
You to stare
Everyone's nice
Everyone's sweet
Everyone's gentle
Most of all me.

Nobody's bad
No one is evil
Everyone's regal
nobody slobbers
Nobody lusts
No one is greedy
Nobody is needy
Nobody slaughters
Least of all, me.

Sundays, after beatings
He ignites the torrid grill
Browns the butter
Smacks and beats the eggs,
Ick! the shrill of boils in the scramble
Spattering at every turn
When he macerates those yolks;
Chunky bangers begin to scorch
And the tawny smoke that rises from the fry
Sheaths his face.
Greasy sweat drops begin to strain from his enlarged
and scowled pores;
A gooey film of grime and slime
Skims down and plunks into his fry,
Froth around the mouth
He slobbers more and primes his grub one final time.
He crams a pile on to his fork
Without inhaling he swallows and
He gobbles
His jowls are brimming
Will he choke?