"slopping" poems
The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur--
There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;
And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are ****** high, ****** up,
You are ****** higher and higher, black as stone--
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.
2.8k
You hear those saint fainted swines? Slopping around ****** in muck. For hogs seeking bogs, bespatter the pink with thick mire. Dull sluggish foul smelled trolls, basking a bridges under cove, feasting on distant mare. But old boar’s belly’s’ under grown, he has not self meat to spare. Go elsewhere wise butcher. Go elsewhere. Grieve not thy ******* of purification, instead satisfactory of sales. He has not the soul to touch rare blood of a bessy hung by hook. Sars covered hands, sars drenched the feet. Not here butcher, elsewhere lay menial meat.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
SHORE LEAVE
the sea louder in the dark
throwing off its shackles
walking into town
mystified seagulls
flying over with a caw
a sea no longer there
a tram screeching
on its points
the sea jumps aboard
the sea sat at the bar
somehow getting its vast bulk
perched upon a high stool
the sea enjoying the karaoke
singing along to The Honeydippers
eating bag after bag of peanuts
"Have ye no beds to go home to!"
barks a barman
his belly slopping over his belt
the sea happy
to escape itself
even for the time being
drunk on being
human if only for a while
the sea staggers back to the shore
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
So, it’s three in the morning
and a man in a gorilla suit
is running across my lawn.
Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping.
The light in McKevitt’s window flickers
on then off—he doesn’t see this ****
stumbling and slopping about the dark yard,
pulling at the plush love handles
of his unwieldy suit—its zipper
just visible in blue moonlight.
He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw.
I pace at the window hoping he will leave.
I pace some more and fumble
at the nightstand for a cigarette.
I beat my chest to scare this thing away
and though I feel foolish, I grunt.
I grunt and expect him to listen to reason—
he doesn’t and collapses near the shed.
Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head.
He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue
thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all
and sopped in booze. I get under the cold sheet.
I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning.
I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone.
This has been going on for weeks
I beat my chest and show my teeth.
I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling.
I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun.
I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works—
I can’t shake this monkey from my back.
So excuse me for calling at this odd hour
to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder.
or maybe a bonobo?
(you know, the one that made life with me so hard.)
In any case, he’s my problem now
and tonight he’s knocking at the door
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC
Softly curving slopping
Rounding curving softly
Oh the firm plump softness
I could tell you
You could listen
Of how it causes deep flames to interrupt
Or of how, how...
How I lost my focus
I could tell you
Or you can witness
Two pale beauties dance
Two cherub's cheeks
They make the whole
The creamy moon
I'd bury my face in its bounty
I'd devour its ample sustinance
I want it
But to obtain
That would require a little circumvention
And face to face conversation
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
I can not tell you
when my life became imaginary.
It must have been long ago,
that day I forgot about the Sun.
The walls were closing in tight!
They where all I could think about.
Ever since I have been punished
upon its arrival.
Night and Day.
My white prince sits on that empowering doorstep!
I'm blowing out smoke!
I’m yelling at trees!
On my hands and knees
digging because we are all itchy!
For if I dig long enough I will make it through ground.
"And through is where I am suppose to be."
Singing the most beautiful song you will ever here.
Slopping up soup and forgetting what time it is.
Rolling on the ground again, I am still itchy..
My mother and father and sister who would all forget me!
No they cannot forget me they are imaginary too!
Crying very loudly,
No, I am just laughing.
And then calmness when my prince kicks in,
finally..
Blankness, serenity.
Waking up to see Sunshine.
Is it Summer already?
If I feel long enough he can bring me through winter too.
If I lie long enough…
I,
Oh, God just let me through!
I rest again and wake to see no more Sunshine.
.
.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
I cannot explain all the pathetic measures
my eyes will take to avoid your gaze,
all the paths my legs will journey to avoid bumping into you on my way home.
All the ways I knead my hands to the bone and all the toothpick excuses skewering my tongue.
And I cannot explain the way your presence deflates something inside my chest.
I don't know what to do with all that empty space. It echoes.
I fill it with the thimble's worth of pride that I scrape together,
every meager flake of validation I pick from the floor. I shovel slopping handfuls of sawdust
to try and soak up some of the shadows
but everything dissolves in that oily void, green and hideous.
God, it echoes, and everyone hears it.
I muffle it with my radio silence.
I look at you and I see everything I hate about myself
under a microscope.
Every blemish, every scar, every gaping hole
that you lack.
Stop, look. Here. Wrong.
Hear?
I blind myself with radio silence.
I don’t know how to live with an eternal reminder that I am incomplete.
You, and the place you hollowed without even knowing it.
Green and monstrous.
It echoes and everyone hears it.
I love you, but I cannot explain my radio silence.
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 3:38 PM UTC
Billowed down onto natures bust
a face full of dirt
a mouth full of maggots
corpsing coercion onto frantic plates
slopping up the juicy details
derailing off the tracks
into a new train of nature,
saving only what comes of value
yet, you don't save yourselves.
Lucrative hands slithering softly by
ready to steal your life with just a touch
how much are you worth?
Unfortunately, nothing.
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
Rita packed her camping gear
And set off on a trek!
Behind her house a forest grew
With mighty oaks and elm trees too
And there were lots of berries here
That Rita liked to peck!
Soon she found a little stream
And set about her goal.
She pulled her tent out of the bag,
But as she did, she felt it snag
And there along the pretty seam
She saw a gaping hole!
Rita cried, “Oh dear, oh dear!
What ever shall I do?”
She grabbed the tent and stared at it,
She should have brought a darning kit!
She watched the water flowing near
And wished that it was glue!
Rita’s mind span round and round,
And then a thought took shape!
She gathered leaves and gathered mud
And mixed them up right where she stood,
They made a slopping slurping sound
And looked just like a cake!
Rita gathered up some wood
And lit a little fire;
She smeared the mud cake on the seam
Just like a great big pile of cream!
And as the fire warmed up the mud
It got a little drier;
Pretty soon the mud had set
As hard as fresh concrete!
The tent was fixed with her new patch,
She climbed inside and closed the hatch,
And laying down she soundly slept
And stayed there for a week!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
My black gloves, coat, boots
Make me thick and heavy and slow
I am trudging through this white brick wall
I am tired and dripping.
This snow is ungainly
As it piles on top of the dead
Black, are the silhouettes of branches on drooping trees
Car crash.
Car crash.
Car crash.
I had forgotten that snow makes death unforgotten.
I am a beacon of safety
Inside my warm hut
With my life and my body, attached still.
Snow, sky, same thing.
Both a shocking white,
The color of the white light
Of death, reflected in a black lake
Swallowing everything else whole.
An insulting shade of pale,
Unimaginable in the middle of November.
A white bleached ivory
Your knuckles are that color white,
Bloodless
As they grip the wheel
But your fingertips forget how to drive
Your mind loses all the knowledge
You have gathered over your twenty three years
Your secure little buggy
Is no longer secure
No longer out of harm’s way.
The permafrost inching its way under your wheels
You are a little child learning how to walk,
Slipping and falling,
Reaching for your mama
You really don’t want to go over there
REALLY don’t want to go over there.
Because over there is the ditch.
And you scream “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO”
But who are you yelling at? No one can hear you.
You’re all alone in your little buggy
And the snow muffles you anyway
And you are upside down
god is grabbing you by your ankles and shaking you
Hoping for money to fall out of your pocket
And then you’re right side up
And then upside down
And your brain is sloshing and slopping
All over the upholstery
And the red is all over the windows
Thick paint, splashed over the cracked panes
Your hands are covered in your own gore
Gushing from your thighs and stomach
And you are making so much noise
Why are you yelling?
No one can hear you.
And now you’re dead.
The air in your punctured lungs is frozen.
The blood on the window is turning rusty red crust
And the people in the little buggies next to you
Are watching you as they pass by
Some even fold their hands and pray
But they shouldn’t take their hands off the wheel.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:49 PM UTC
Let me start from the beginning
It is an awful feeling to have to plug your ears and drown out the ocean of noises choking you to have a good meal.
When I say that I can't stand it when I hear you eat
What I really mean is that when you drink
I imagine slugs slopping their way down your gullet
And the sigh of refreshment means the acid has successfully shriveled them to death
The sound of carrots being pulzerized is akin to bones
Every time it is a cacaphony of dinner knives screeching against ribs
It may sound silly but when the saliva transfers with the gum you insist on smacking
Every ounce of fluid in my body wishes it could jump through my skin to the floor
I can't ask you to quit swallowing food
Though every drop that doesn't make it down
Is a reminder that humans are animals
Consuming flesh and constructed chemicals
No, I know you won't take me seriously
But spoons and knives are toys of the glutton
And poison to the one that shed tears
When they hear the dinner bell ring
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 7:06 PM UTC
to put yourself in my shoes
is hard when they have holes
filled with dirt from the heart
These Appalachian souls
we work
from night till morn
These rough calloused hands
so tired and worn
a love like my pillows
after a long day
though do I complain
‘nay
These hills have ears
that I ain’t wishin to disrespect
so I whisper and pray
and hope to connect
to the rolling meadows
and slopping range
my deep roots
who have no desire to change
when times get tough
ill never miss
the land that loved me
that beautiful whiskey kiss
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
An old fort, on top of the slopping hill
sentinel to centuries rolling down still,
from where the sea for the lovers
was a vague dream, perhaps from another life,
this haunt mysteriously lures them again and again,
to be together lost in passion for long hours,
In a time long before on the same spot,
blood, had gushed like river after each fierce duel,
after the mad hiss of swords,
thirsting for the blood of the other, the rival,
the howl of the wind, the salty taste on the lips,
***** love present as wild aggression-
in the explosive proximity of two
full blooded animals, results in the hiss of kissing.
The ethereal bliss is marred suddenly,
by the howl of ghosts, time travelling in to their spirits,
in the throes of death,the vanquished, the other victor,
in shock they both realize the hidden truth.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
_
what women have
birthed man tried
to put asunder
but no more
shall the fires of our
labor be put out by
egotistical men
slopping around
the earth like castrated
pigs covered in their own
filth. what women have birthed
no man shall put asunder.
_
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC
Here, windmills catch the breeze
and wave machines each turning of tides
all to make our bones feel the warmth
green electricity can offer
Except for the fact the windmills are not connected to the grid
while the wave machines are almost abandoned to their fate
slopping about in the sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Across a dry plain,
Heat shimmering,
Blur-ring in my mind...
Lost track of reason, lost my rhyme...
Rhythm gone to plodding,
Clodding on the burning flats,
Dust-deviled and limping over thorns.
Mountains are my only vision,
Forcing aching feet,
Tugging creaking knees,
Coaxing lungs, air parched
To breathe, to wheeze
Toward supernal heights,
Valley-ed torrents rushing
Cool and green and clean....
Beckoned thus, my heavy pace
Lifts lightly up;
The brackish slopping
In my old canteen
Reminds me that the way
Leads on to granite glories:
Woods inhabited,
Cabins warm against the alpine chill...
So I keep walking still.
So I keep walking still.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
Scrambled Eggs in Rainwater
Field Medical Service School
Shivering in the rain, up in the hills
Of Sunny Southern California
Kerosene cookers and their gust-blown smoke
Squid-wet Corpsmen in flying wet slickers
Mess kits held out to sullen, cursing cooks
Slam-slopping glops of sausages and eggs
Cold coffee in aluminum canteen cups
No cover, no shelter for floating food
Or for sergeants bellowing in the dark –
And we laughed through it all, for we were young
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
~
Overcome with discomfort
like doing the Truffle Shuffle
on a cold day in the rain
belly exposed and wet
frantically jiggling
as if too much Ambrosia salad was
piled on a silver tray –
green Cool Whip slopping over the side
sticky fingers sliding
until it finally drops
and some new access is granted. /
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 4:39 PM UTC
You open your mouth and fists fly out,
in repetition you let it flap like trout.
Lay your love on a bed of nails,
and gleam with glee the formation of your scales.
Pause your thought for that train has taken you adrift
Pause your dreams for the sleepy ones will not agree
Pause your tongue for its slamming rage has led you from a mothers love.
Freedom found me in my cage
and now like ecstasy
creeps up and down my neck
and the sweat!
The endless sweat!
That drips from my brow as pearls
mocking the tamed and lame children.
Stretching and reaching to feel real,
to descend at last into the manic panic.
To cast off the joy and divinity of youth
and instead commit ourselves to the asylum of living.
To accept the madness and sadness
as necessitates on a quest for love.
Don’t waste your pity on the broken ones,
their cuts are not yours to plaster.
Find solace that life is not a line
that you should act or learn.
It hides in us all that burning, churning,
that sullied broken ground,
that hot slopping metal that covers my chest,
squeezes life from my breast!
How can we draw comfort,
when all artistic talent has left us?
Where do we place our dreams,
when the waking hours are nightmares?
When god is dead,
who holds the keys to heaven?
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
I had never tried honey before,
the sweet tang
slopping along my tongue.
I’d never felt your hand
flowing around my waist
until your wrists connected,
locked me into place.
I took a few mouthfuls,
you’d rattle the spoon
into my mouth
and I’d streak it off,
the viscous orange gloop
like a strange toothpaste.
People use honey
as a term of affection
but we said it’s hackneyed,
a cloying label.
Now whenever I call you
honey I always think
of that time in your kitchen,
the half-empty jar.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
there’s something about
boiling kettle lungs
words slopping from your mouth
like clumps of mashed potato
the way you have this river of dialogue
made from papier-mâché
and haphazard glitter
so easily breakable
it’s best to start afresh
that makes you stop
and place your head against
the cool windowpane
and say you cannot do this
you might but you can’t so no
the umcomfortableness diverted
scribbled over with a Biro
so ignore the sandpaper taste
on your tongue
or the jacket of heat
that smothers your chest
focus on a pinprick of positivity
like a streetlamp in another town
let the steam from the tea
guide you to safety
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC
Am i your pepperoni?
Saucy, cheesy, tasty
and you still need other pizzas for your starving belly?
You hate the crust you think it's doughy
But you kept me for today's dinner watching your favorite football team player
and a glass of coke to make you feel better and ciggarettes as your life saver
You left the last bite
for tomorrow night
And there you go
No more pepperoni slopping your polo
Ha Ha Ha now you eat mayo.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
The club is hopping and the drinks are slopping
and I am doing my very best.
The bodies are swaying and the music is playing
My dance move catalog is put to the test.
But with your eyes rolling, my interest lolling
can you expect me to keep a straight face,
With your constant hating amid the bodies gyrating
I can and will win this race
"Are you gay or just dance this way?"
Irks me, as if I have something to prove
I believe love is love
nothing to do with the way I move.
Cant we just be, keep the mood happy
Make our friendship constant and steady
But your constant taunts and your obvious flaunts
make me scream my checklist,
lips licked, shirt tucked in I'm ready, I'm ready, I am READY
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 12:59 AM UTC
I think that I shall never see
A sight as strange as a flying pig .
A winged pig that snout is sky-wised pushed
Against the earth’ fantastic slopping roundness
A winged pig who may fly all day,
And lifts whimsicality toward higher climes;
A pig that flutters in the icy air
A flap of wings and oinking there ;
Upon whose flight our imagination ascend
Our imitations in inward horizon up-sweeps logic .
Fall guys like me write poems,
But only metaphors like flying pigs
Can rise in ink stained skies and barnstorm
the very gates of eternity with winged couplets.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC