"slopped" poems
Harsh light falls on my fearful face
She stop thumped against my heart
Gliding night on crinkled tights
She worked and quirked her way in to me
Shoulders clinched as she spun her drift
She stomped trod on my soul
Set aloft in the ***** air
My eyes slopped their tears
Wet down her hair as she clenched
Lips dragged drug down my neck
Lamp lit light flung down and low
Fearful thoughts because I’ll crawl back
Fearsome thoughts as she works again.
cc1210
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands
and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust
his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,
to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,
sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something
for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care
"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -
then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;
"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"
alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound
["Hey hey talk to I -"]
["If there's pain is there gain -"]
["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]
#FLASH!#
the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -
serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.
AJ
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
Zinging the zen-zone I was in
A zany request zig-zagged my way.
Princess Zinnia from the Zuider-Zee
Required a zippy line or two
To paint the zeitgeist of our times.
With the strength of a Zamboni-
With the power of a Zeus-
And an uncommon zeal I set out
To zap the doubt that slowed me.
With the flair of a Florenz Ziegfeld
And his zoftig choir of beauties,
I morphed into a zealot
Gamboling in the zephyrs
That wafted in from Zurich and Zaire,
Not to mention Zanzibar.
I felt like a Zacharias
When my zealous work went bust.
The writing turned into a zonk-
The accolades were zilch.
I felt like I’d been zippered up
Like a zebra in a zoo.
I lost my zest for going on
And slopped around in old Zoris,
Listening to zydeco’s beat
And feeling like a zit.
But then the Zodiac-
My zinging-singing sign
Came to my rescue
And I was marching off to Zion.
I was one wowie-zowie-zucchini
As I zipped across the pages
And zoomed from one idea
To an even zippier one.
So here, Sunprincess, is your verse
I’ve used up every letter zee
And gone from very bad to worse
But of this challenge, I am free.
ljm
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 12:58 AM UTC
Brown-Eyed Girl-
they say she is the weakest link
gone and sprung amuck
through clouded fields of poppy seeds
and cottony ****** they say she is a sprain
of chortling pain in the dumpling
maker's yeasting wrist.
brown-eyed girl seeing powdered
blues of glass-stained eyes,
he wore a plaid shirt, nip-and-tucked,
rat-a-tat-tat, and a silly looking bow-tie
slopped slightly off-kilter and to the right,
a frenchie little pear of a man. he said he liked her-
tie-dye thighs. she said, he said, she liked his
dumpling hands - and flakey chest.
they say she is that button-down clad-
sunflowers-printed kind-of, sad.
memories tainted, she said, he said,
she's the kind of girl you've got to love every night,
my kind of a woman. my salted oils, fried
and phat-
brown-eyed girl.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
His fingers wrap tightly around his cup,
shaking, tingling, raising it to his lips often,
the white frothy coffee drink steaming
while his tongue ignores the intense heat.
She plays with straw and the cardboard cup,
letting the heat of the black coffee
ease the tension between her fingertips
and seep down to each of her toes.
She smiled at him, observing each detail
that she loved about his appearance.
He sincerely laughed at every word she said,
looking deeply into her ocean eyes at every chance.
His white drink remained in his cup
as he carefully took sips to relax his nervouseness,
but she slopped her dark grinds, spilling them
over the edge and permanently staining the white.
The cups, at first sight, seemed to describe their personalities.
And yet, at a deeper second look, described their demeanor.
On the outer appearance, he was put together and cautious,
with a plan for his entire future,
while she was messy and without a care for what's next,
oblivious to her own wreckage.
But on the insides, both were bitter-sweet coffees,
happy to finally see eachother after so long,
but nervous because of their unresolved last encounter.
He was pure, curious white. She was dark, mysterious black.
Totally opposite and yet perfectly compatible.
Neither admitted one missed the other,
yet they promised to meet every summer and winter forever.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
i see technicolour but mostly violet
slopped across the walls in polygon inlays as
the bulb from above casts a glare across bare walls
like a nuclear winter, i huddle beneath the coverless duvet
trying to breathe life into sentence fragments as a
freight train tears up the blackened skyline and
with morning, this will be a memory too
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
I stare at her across the bar, between the bottles covering the worn out stained oak
varnish tarnished, wood soaked
from years
of ashed out cigarettes and spilt beers
slopped spirits from over zealous cheers
she's younger than I imagined, aged as a fine wine
her eyes locked on mine
I see the solar system, galaxies
surrounding the
pupils blacker than the abyss of the outer reaches of space
a lovely contrast to the lightness of her face
I pull up a seat beside her trying to spark a conversation
on life, nature, hopes for modern civilization or even space exploration
she says "quiet now my son, patience"
you're to focused on what you're saying
without hearing what you're conveying
her hand pressed to my heart and she said 43 beats I remember
39 when you sleep, but 84 when you're tempered
I asked her the significance
she said it's all about the difference
how my world is at peace when I am asleep
but pointless rage forces the increase
this life can go no faster
and you will know no master
so focused on breaking the mold, or shattering the plaster
when we really need the subtle hand to make the cast first
she said you see me all in your own ways
I saw her as a woman, soft eyes with a caring face
for no man knows the subtle intricacies and nuances that make living worth the fight
I met god in a bar, she walked me home in the beautiful night
we spoke of love, happiness and the pursuit of this life...
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
I wonder if people feel the same,
questioning, pondering,
not knowing in nature,
I wonder if the masses as they walk the streets,
tiny ants carrying a thousand times they're defeat,
see the light refract and carry back,
images form and recollect,
cellulose film with a story to tell,
I wonder if the girl that gives me the smile,
had depth in wondering the same,
had she known the butterflies that ran through my skin,
a feeling of jumping from a formidable cliff,
not for hate, degradation, abhorrence, malevolence or animosity,
but just the opposite,
to show the love we carry
in the arms of adoration,
hydraulic hearts
pumping fidelity, fondness, and friendship,
fueled by breaths of fresh air,
in that smile we shared,
I wonder if the ones who hate,
can also love,
does the man covered in mud,
slopped in filth, mayhem and blithe,
lye by choice,
or is it easier said than done,
would a good man cover himself in blood,
if honest true and to the point,
so I'll sit on this bench,
birds chirp as the children play,
dogs off leashes,
running amuck,
but who can place blame,
as being put on a leash,
restricts our breath,
causing no smile,
not to breath our fresh air,
to pump our hearts,
giving us love,
so I lastly wonder,
had I had the nerves,
to just say hi,
would you have stopped
or just said good bye,
will I be the man I wish,
or am I the man in filth?
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
Threads get darker
when wet
with tears, salty sweat,
spilled water on a date,
beer slopped, slurred state.
Color is characteristic,
evidence, not mystic,
of time and results
of the feelings from insults
not spoken.
Here is a token
to show you
this is your cue.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
My tongue sharpened today
Angles fell off it like classroom fancies
Rationalised to a point, its first act
Was to knock out my fangs from behind.
I stumbled about the house
Slopped through the bathroom door
And foamed at the toilet seat, a
Wave broken over a rim of briny coral.
My salt winked about the walls, around the tap, between the wiped tiles
In the shower head of porous sponge
The seaweed in the pipes crawled up
And drowned me in the sickly sweet.
Downstairs smelt the same, logically the sea dumped down
Underwater fish glided past my window, all with the same
Grim face against the mirrors, aping the ocean
With me trapped inside.
I turned on the same song, fifteen times,
The sound tried to reach me with such ambition
But it floated to the top, belly up in its bubbles
Ridiculous, I scratched the date on the seafloor and entered the kitchen.
Drips everywhere, grease stalactites, from the tiles, the yawning oven, the spatulas
A Cretaceous museum where savagery is kept
In little plastic boxes, with clear peelable lids
A fresh, messy ****
In the hall the grey light descends through slit windows
Colour settling at the bottom like grit, all the greys so tall
Give the narrow rectangle an aftertaste of dust
Just one keeper before me
It devours my key, hacking as it gobbles
But it does not anticipate my twist
I gut it from inside, it spits its meal back at me
And I swing its limp, dead frame 90 degrees.
Stepping out feels like a moonwalk, with Houston's neutral formulas
Unheeded in my ear, finally I can greet the clouds, that probably escaped,
Like me, fumes from the chimney
Pale and fading away from lack of auspicious sun.
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
"Write a poem"
those three words are all it takes
and before I know it
everything i've ever known
all that i've ever experienced
is wretched from inside of me
and taped (clumsily)
aligned (crookedly)
and stapled (loosely)
to this signpost we call hellopoetry
maybe someone will notice
most will pass it by
but little do they know that it's not my words that are dripping with angst on the pole
it's me
because my words are me
they filter through my brain, my gut
my love, my hate, my biases, prejudices, hurts, scars, fears,
ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams and most definitely
most importantly
my heart
so remember as you read these words
and their words
you're not just reading poems
you're not just glancing at some scribbles on a page
slopped together to mean nothing
and consumed,
like a 50 cent burger at a diner.
you're reading expression
true, raw, human, expression
and you need to pay attention
because that expression
can sometimes
but more often then not
mean everything.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
In the bottom of the world, where the eye can’t trace,
There is a world. Far from worlds of all kinds, there’s a maze.
It’s slopped down and valleyed to the edge of the earth. From earth it rises
and flashes like an army of ants. Mutinying army ants in hermit clothes praises.
Little huts made of clay. Ants clay-model rants they philosophize the earth. Planet of hearth.
mutineers of hard work, far from working life and politics. Licks the Saturdays to Sunday dirge.
Your sorrow will be gone morrow,
Your silence will be force of horror.
We will help you seek your justice.
All you need to do is now is close your eyes and wait for precipice.
It will bear the name of your Victor. Traitors and victory echoless.
You can rise again, stitch the rashes for Phoenix,
Fluttering to the dewy meadow of blue above. Rise above the sky this time.
Close your eyes and fly this time. Never another time to rise, close and soar but this time.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 5:36 AM UTC
Mummy,
Happy birth-mothersday
Throw ya toast out the window
Feed it to the dog
Kiss me with your laughing eyes
Kiss me kindly with your lips
Touch my cheek with your smooth brown hands
Not one more time
But forever more times please Mum
Let's get ***** growing potatoes
Let's get paint on the carpet
Let's write love notes on the walls
Like all normal people do
Tell me to make you a cuppa tea.
(I'm turning into you mum.)
Sing my songs to me mummy
Tell me about Rindacella again
please tell me how she slopped her dripper on the stairs
Can you hear the morepork Mummy? Listen with me
Did you see that shootin' star?
Are you smelling these trees?
Wrap me up in itchy woollen cardies
Put my odd socks on
Puddle jumpin' in my gummies
In a land called Honalee
I'll climb into bed with you tonight
Lace bedspread catching my toes
Curl up in the nest of the crook of your knees
It's cold, sleep back-to-back
Dance in front of my friends if you like
They all think you're cool
Sorry I didn't tell you.
Teenagers ****
Tell me I'm amazing
Adventurous and strong
Your courageous daughter
Smart and beautiful
Remind me I can sail ships through storms
That God is always close
Pray over me and praise with me
Read the bible again to me
Come play piano with Isobel
Or computer games if you like
I think I've killed your Farmville farm
Sorry .
Mummy
Chat with me on Facebook
Ocean's teacher likes Donald Trump
Be outraged with me please
Come with me to the school
I'll hide behind your storm
People aren't afraid of my
Gentle, steady rain
I think I hear my babies stirring
They're amazing Mum
You should see the stuff they do and say
You should see how fierce they are
You should. You should. You should.
Be. Here.
They're creeping round the house now
Making my heart laugh
I better open up my bedroom window
Ready for the toast.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
You texted me this morning
and I know you didn't mean it to,
but that message made my heart,
and my lungs,
and my stomach
all sink to some new foreign place
down past my intestines somewhere.
Like they all slopped out on to the floor.
I was at work when I read it,
and I swear I saw your face
in every customer who walked through the door.
I wanted to reach out and shake you
like it would rattle some twisted wires back into place
but all I could seem to do was count them your change.
So tonight we'll scream over airwaves
two hundred miles apart,
and try to make amends.
You'll tell me you need your freedom
and I'll try to convince you
that this life we've created in the last three and a half years,
has been worth more than broken down cars
and spilled beer.
Like how I need you more than the houses we've made into homes,
more than the three dollar tips from condescending customers
so I can get a drink at the end of the night,
more than lost best friends turned room mates and back again.
We'll take it slow from here
try to rebuild and repair,
but please tell me is a burning house worth saving
after the paint has melted away
and rooms become blackened by smoke,
what about after the rafters fall in?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
We were probably thirteen. I told
my parents I'd be bowling, borrowed
five pounds and you
did the hard part. Asking men out-
side the off-licence to help us.
I tried to make if look like we were old-
er or together but it wasn't
long before we had the bottle
or six of Bacardi Breezer. Prising
each lid off with my keys,
you picked out seats from the dusk
deserted cricket stand.
A couple through, you showed me
how to put my hand in someone's pants
as sticky alcopops slopped
round and down again. I couldn't open
our last nightcap so we stamped
its neck against a brick and doubled up.
We didn't kiss goodbye, just
staggered into swaggers step
by step across the Common.
My mouth fizzed with syrup
residue and blood from broken
glass.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
Clicking heels make an almost deafening sound in the nearly empty front hallway. The bright florescent lights sending glaring light on the ***** linoleum tiles. The trophy case full of empty accomplishments and forgotten triumphs.
The few straggling students stumble in slowly shuffling to the attendance office for a pass. A few stop and ask for the time, what hour to go to, only to realize they have a full day ahead of them.
The gossip type chatter of the counselors drifts into the hallway, and you can sense that they need just as much counseling and bully prevention as the kids. The annoyed pessimistic voices of all the men and women in the office spill out like gusts of wind every time the door is opened.
The cold depressing feeling of this prison haunts, as the real physical cold of the building chills you. A girl crying runs into the counseling office only to be taken back out to talk about her problem in public.
The tisking of the janitor is overpowered by the smell of chemicals just being slopped onto door knobs and sloshed over fountains. The disapproving scowl of the assistant principal is directed at kids drudging through the halls aimlessly, but a voice of guidance is never heard.
The smell of cigarettes marrs not only the kids but the teachers and adults coming back in after going outside. The police officers stand joking by the front entrance.
But its all good, its just another day in Highschool.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
About what ?
//
( ha ha ) LOVE (ha ha )
//
•• ••
He said he loved her but he didn't
But he said it to get laid
•
She knew it but pretended to believe him
Because she too wanted to get laid
Without seeming to be a slutty babe
••
After a while he simply wanted to try
Someone else
She didn't care
She wanted to try someone else too
But she started to cry about being
" broken "
And all that crap
Cause she loved the attention !
•••
It took me awhile to figure this out
And now I too have learned not to give a **** about
Any of the ******** slopped around
Since you all are just a bunch of *** addicts
Trading partners and making up fantasies
Or maybe just a bunch of pervs just ************
And talking to your fingers !
•
Who cares ?
//
How can one care since
Nobody is really out there
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Afflicted souls in
jaded bowls of
bad soup
slopped on spoons
heading for the
ignorant mouth
of an ironic
untamed
un-jolly green
******
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
I walked along the shore,
orchestra of shushes
as water slopped
across my bare toes,
jangle of pebbles
as I placed one foot
in front of the other.
In the distance
the orangeade tang of neon lights
punctuated the view,
electric hyphens
from the arcades
crammed with Irn-Bru-skinned tourists
there for a week
on this comma of coast.
In the winter it is different.
A silver fug that sweeps the streets
like the cocoons of a thousand ghosts,
machine jingles muzzled,
cafes only drip
fed with regulars
from around the corner
coming in to pick the horses
for the 2.10 at Uttoxeter.
The phone quaked in my pocket -
my mother, calling me home.
I passed the sandcastle rubble,
slobber of seaweed
like the drool of a kelpie,
my socks speckled with sand
as I texted back
on my way
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
Our wedding license was
Just a promissory note;
A thing a compulsive
Liar once wrote.
Something Billy Jack
Once said, in short,
"Written so you could
Get out of it in court."
I find myself saying
When it's all said and done
"What are you, anyway,
A secret republican?"
I thought it was just political
But, you devious little cuss,
Your sidewinding ways
Have slopped over into us.
A one-sided marriage
Is what we have now.
I put up with it all this time
But please don't ask me how.
It has been rather like you
Don't know what marriage is for
So write this down someplace:
I'm not gonna take it anymore.
One person by himself
Simply cannot make a pair.
Hey saddest thing of all
Is I doubt did you will care.
A month or two from now
Or maybe further on
You might look up and discover
That half your team is gone.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
Dappled sweat, bile, snot, the quick
Boiled then burst. A flushed anemic,
My body nothing but a seam.
Rag slopped, sodden shot to wick,
Smeared the table thick with sheen,
Rutting reek on things pristine.
Outpours the raw and unhygenic -
Perfection is this bowl swabbed clean.
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 2:21 PM UTC
Inattentive to blackened slopped lashes,
which run coal tributaries land-sliding
from her eyes to her chin, he walks
in direct aim for an exit. She squawks
her “You never loved me,” wailings
to whom she, never loved herself. As frenzy
slams between them, violent collision
of his realization, sparks his next decision
and he stops. One hand in empty pocket,
on empty wallet, he is spun illogically
and holds second palm against door.
Lacquered eye in peephole’s furor,
is batting on other side. He softly makes
his sweet tortured apology, “Sorry.”
You see how for pitiful poor love,
is for pitiful poor, all there to speak of.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 8:15 PM UTC
The pen seeks
A new ink
As we jot
A new thought
And think
What needs to be said
Caught in the web
Of our heads
Spider spun sync
The fly gets caught
And we prey a new plot
Devouring this meal
And the reader
Gets wrapped up in our knot
The pen hungers
A new thought
A new ink
A new jot
So we feed it
To please it
Like a pet peeved
For another meal
And the readers get fat
As the audience gets big
Words fill the pig
And they joyously
Roll in the words slopped
The pen seeks
And it finds
What the readers won't let stop
Hunger
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC